by Majok Tulba
Blood rushes to my face. I want to die. I almost pray for death. But the crashing scorn of the boys crowds out my prayer. In this moment of absolute loss, the shame transforms.
The image of Sittina slouching naked on her pile of blankets makes me sneer. She’s a whore. She has no power. She can’t shame me, and if she tries . . . Something takes shape in my mind and my body responds.
Before she can say anything more, I grab her by the back of her neck with one hand and push her against my cot. Undoing the knot of her sarong I yank it off her. The room falls silent. This woman in men’s territory is naked under my controlling hand. I undo my shorts and let them fall. The position is familiar, I’ve seen enough to know what to do, and my body is ready.
Right there, with the entire barracks watching, I fuck her. It burns, it doesn’t feel like it did with Mouse, but that doesn’t matter. This is not about pleasure, this is about reminding her that she is a whore and I am a soldier. She has no business trying to shame me. Sittina says nothing, makes no sound, and that’s okay. I don’t need her to be afraid, or to enjoy or not enjoy. I just need to show her – to show them all – this thing.
After just a few thrusts, the barracks erupts again, this time in a cheer. Like monkeys howling in the trees. Then someone, maybe Parasite, starts chanting my name, and before I’ve finished they’re all chanting. ‘People’s Fire, People’s Fire, People’s Fire!’ I come, and let out a shout, answering the energy of the boys rather than the rush inside me.
When I let her go, Sittina wraps her sarong around herself and walks quickly out of the barracks, dodging the grabbing hands of the other boys. Even as I’m pulling my shorts back on, soldiers are patting me on the back and giving me little punches on my good shoulder. After a few minutes, I need to get out too.
Outside I see Sittina. She has fixed her sarong and is talking to the Commander. She doesn’t look angry or hurt, but she points at me without making eye contact, then retreats to the hospitality house.
The Commander looks at me, and nods.
I’m back in training the next day.
And at dinner, my dummy rifle is taken and replaced with a real AK-47.
It is a brand-new day.
First Kill
AK-47. The AK-47 is in my blood. I nurture it the way a mother nurtures her child.
Remove magazine. Set on right-hand side. Pull back action, eject loaded round from chamber. Set ejected round next to magazine. Depress top receiver-cover lock. Lift and remove top receiver cover. Set on far left-hand side. Push recoil spring forward. Lift and remove recoil spring. Set on forward-left side. Hold bolt assembly, pull back and remove bolt assembly. Set on left-hand side. Lift gas tube lever. Remove gas tube. Set on far right.
Lubricate trigger axis pin. Set rifle down forward. Cleaning cloth in right hand. Pick up bolt assembly, wipe down with cleaning cloth. Set back on left. Pick up top receiver cover, wipe out with cleaning cloth. Set back on far left. Pick up recoil spring, hold with cleaning cloth. Turn recoil spring through cleaning cloth. Set back on forward left. Pour oil into cleaning cloth. Pick up bolt assembly, wipe down bolt assembly with oiled cloth. Set back on left. Pick up recoil spring. Turn recoil spring through oiled cloth. Set back on forward left.
Set down oiled cloth. Pick up rifle. Pick up gas tube. Set in place, push down. Drop gas tube lever, lock in place. Pick up bolt assembly. Slide forward into place. Pick up recoil spring. Set in place, press forward, push down, lock in place. Pick up top receiver cover. Set forward end in place. Push down, lock in place. Load all rounds into magazine. Slide magazine into magazine well. Pull back action bolt.
My knuckles are white, I’m holding onto the gun so tight. She’s called Crazy Bitch. Her butt slams against me over and over in her terrifyingly fast pace. She’s like a wild animal. I’m just trying to hold on, shouting to release the energy of this moment. The mud wall in front of me bursts again and again with a dozen new small holes. With a click, Crazy Bitch is silent and still.
There’s so much confusion around me that I just focus on following my orders. I fumble the empty magazine from my gun and shove it in my back pocket. Two more are hanging from the belt they threw across my chest in the truck. I’m still fumbling the second clip into the gun when a man and woman come running out of the hut.
The man only gets a few metres before he jumps repeatedly, a handful of holes bursting open his chest. The woman slides and falls. She scrambles back up on her feet and runs the other way, catching two in the back. She drops to her knees and lands face first in the mud.
Somewhere in there, I’d stopped moving. In the brief quiet, I start working at the clip again, sliding it up and in. It locks in place and I pull back the cocking pin. That takes some work, it’s like there’s a one-tonne weight at the end of it. A naked girl stumbles out of the hut and I raise Crazy Bitch, pointing right at her. We make eye contact. Silently, she pleads with me. She’s maybe twelve and her dark eyes are huge. Don’t kill me, they say. All around us is the roar of gunfire. The girl suddenly steps back, doubling over and collapsing. One round to the gut.
I whip around to see who shot her. Parasite stands with his rifle slung across his back, shoving his smoking sidearm back in its holster. He holds a bowie knife in his other hand, a cigarette balanced on his lip and a dead girl at his feet.
‘I told you, People’s Fire,’ Parasite says, grabbing the dead girl by the hair. ‘Show no mercy.’ He cuts off a couple of her braids with the knife. ‘Beautiful.’ He shoves the braids into his jacket pocket. ‘I see you getting all cuddly out here again, I’ll put a bullet in you.’
‘Fuck you,’ I reply.
He whips out his sidearm and fires. I jump back before I see it isn’t pointed at me. The naked girl’s body jumps once more as he takes a head shot.
‘Yeah,’ Parasite says. ‘Fuck me.’
Once, this village had a name. Not any more, not since we came. Now it’s just chaos. The soldiers shoot and the people run in every direction. Not that it matters which direction. Everywhere, huts are on fire. The flames of fires warp the horizon on all sides.
‘Clear that hut,’ Parasite orders me. He’s not an officer, but because he’s been in battle before, he is in charge of me. ‘Kill everyone. These people are Ja’alin,’ he says, repeating some of the speech in the truck. ‘To cleanse our nation of the president’s corruption, we must cleanse it of his people.’
I move slowly, terrified of what I’ll find. A woman lies dead on the floor, her throat ripped open on one side. Did I kill her, through the wall? I don’t think I’ve shot anyone, but you don’t know. She holds a baby tightly in her arms. The baby is moving. Alive! Letting my gun hang at my side, I move towards the baby. But then stop. Maybe the mother is alive and just pretending to be dead. I leave the baby there. That’s all I can do. There are no mothers in the camp.
When I come out, the Commander is standing there. If he goes into the hut, he’ll find the baby – but he doesn’t. Instead, with all the fire and the shouting and the shooting around us, he points his pistol straight at me. Perhaps this is what he’s been waiting for – he can kill me in battle, and no one will know.
‘People’s Fire,’ he says, low, but somehow I can still hear him. ‘My cub. I want to see what you’ve learnt. I want to see you kill.’
Almost without taking his eyes from me, the Commander shoots a young man in the thigh as he’s running between the huts. The young man drops to the ground, skids to a stop, although his legs keep moving for a moment or two.
‘Your prey is wounded, People’s Fire.’ The Commander is pointing his pistol back at me. ‘Your kill.’
I’m sitting on the ground, surrounded by many people. A billy-goat is tethered close by. He scratches the ground with his hooves, trying to move, but the rope around his neck stretches and stretches without breaking.
Grandpa anoints a rooster on my head three times – my sins will pass onto the chicken, its blood will wash my dirt and the blood off my hands.
He ch
ants.
People cheer. Grandpa raises the rooster to his mouth and bites the chicken head off in an instant. He holds the rooster upside down. Warm blood drips onto my head. He throws the dead rooster down and beckons Papa. In a swift move, Papa seizes the forelegs of the billygoat. Another man grabs its hind legs and they turn the goat on its back. The goat struggles, it kicks and cries.
Grandpa thrusts a spear into its chest and cuts the goat in half. The insides spill, the smell hits my nostrils.
Grandpa thrusts the spear into my hands and I hold it on my palms.
‘This spear will bring you home. It will help you defeat the devil,’ he says.
The crowd cheers.
He grabs a cup and scoops up the goat’s blood from on the ground and holds it to my mouth. I sip the warm blood and spit to the left and to the right and then downwards, on my chest and to the sky.
The crowd cheers even louder.
Dark clouds gather overhead and heavy gusts of wind sweep over the land and shake the trees. I watch the sky. The sun sinks into the thick clouds. The light splashes, thunder claps and the rain starts falling. Slow big drops make thudding sounds as they hit the ground, the dust rises. People clap. I stretch out my arm into the falling rain but it stops.
People stop clapping. The air is calm. Above, in the heavens, the clouds look frozen. I crane my head and see Mama crying like a child, hiding her face in her hands.
My grandpa chants while spinning like a madman, calling the gods, the spirit of his land and beyond, the spirits of the wind and the trees and the fire. My eyes spin with him. I close them.
I open my eyes and am in the middle of the dancers. They spin and sing and wave their hands over me. They seem a hundred metres tall and their hands wave in my face. The chanting is in their eyes, it shines out at me. An arm wraps around my wrist and Grandpa pulls me into the centre. The people shout the song to heaven and earth. They always have the hope of heaven.
Grandpa lifts his spear to the sky. ‘This spear is the way!’ he declares and the people cheer. ‘The truth!’ Another cheer. ‘The life.’
I hear ululation from a woman. Grandpa spins and throws the spear. It hits the chicken that was just pecking in the yard, pinning it to the ground. The chicken flaps its wings. The crowd cheers and the rain starts falling again. Mama smiles.
I hold my hand out to the rain, cupping it until it has a little water in it, and then drink. The wind blows the rain into my face and washes the chicken blood down my eyes. I cry blood.
My mind goes blank until the bang. I open my eyes and see a gaping skull. Matted hair, unwashed for days or weeks. A hole blooms hideous, dark and red. A hole where it shouldn’t be. A body where there should be a man. My hands tremble, but the gun is so heavy it barely moves. My loose grip, slick with sweat, rattles against it.
A chant of revolution rises up. I look up and see Parasite pumping his rifle in the air, singing the revolutionary slogan. He’s looking at me as he does it. He smirks.
Return to Paradise
Guns are strange things.
When I was just a recruit, carrying around my dummy rifle, it was no more than a dead weight. The real guns that the soldiers carried were a constant, mostly silent terror. I hated them and dreamed of my gunless village, where fear was darkness and distant storms. Fear at home was invisible and warded off by the rituals of hand-washing, strong fences, and knowing where your father slept.
In the camp, fear was guns and anyone taller than me.
Then they handed me Crazy Bitch. They taught me to shoot her, and to clean her. They told me I’d be shot if I went anywhere without her. I was a soldier and soldiers carried guns. If I wasn’t a soldier, I was a civilian. Civilians in the camp were treated as spies and shot. It was simple, and I understood.
Holding her, feeling her weight, knowing her power, I never wanted to let the gun go. When I was bored I’d roll the bullets between my fingers. I practised loading and unloading the magazine, pushing the bullets in and popping them out until my thumb had a callous. The way the gun banged gently on my back when I walked made me feel strong. The million terrors of the camp slunk away. Crazy Bitch was a substitute for courage.
Standing over that young man’s body, gore blooming from the back of his head, my hand shaking around the gun that killed him, I know that the thing that makes me secure is a wild animal, sleeping again in my hands. I’ve held its leash as it barked and bit, but I also know it might turn on me at any time.
They’re sending me back to the camp with wounded soldiers and a couple of officers who are going to bring back reinforcement soldiers to the battlefield. I’m allowed a rest. I’ve killed, and so I’m one of them. I’ve become a man.
When we get back it’s dark. I go straight to the barracks, put my gun next to my cot, and roll over to face away from it.
I can’t sleep. I get up and head for Priest’s hut, to get away from Crazy Bitch and what she’s done for a while. What I have done.
When my eyes adjust to the deeper dark inside his door, the first thing I see is the pistol pointed at me, afterwards Priest holding it, in bed. He puts the pistol away when he recognises me.
‘What are you doing up at this hour?’ he asks.
‘I can’t sleep.’
He sits up and moves to one side so that I can sit.
‘With my eyes closed, I can hear the voices,’ I say.
‘What the eye has seen, it’s hard for the heart to forget,’ he says. He wasn’t on the mission, but knows what happened. It had to have happened, otherwise I wouldn’t be here. It would have been me lying in the dust, dead.
‘Do you hear the voices too?’ I ask.
‘I do.’
‘Maybe that’s why they need us to kill, so that we have the same fears as them. So that we can never be free,’ I say.
‘Yes. But even in those shadows there is hope.’ All I can see is Priest’s eyes, in the dim light of the moon coming in through the door.
Priest is crazy. Instead of that, though, I say, ‘Priest, you are a dreamer.’
‘We are the angels of mercy. These people are all condemned to death by evil men. The best we can do is give them the mercy of a quick death, keep them from suffering. So, aim for the head. That is what will save you.’
‘Has it saved you?’
‘I do this for love. So must you, Obinna.’
Perhaps love is what I feel for Priest. At least in his company I can endure. I sleep in his cot.
Priest has gone by the time I wake up. Normally one or two officers stay behind during missions, but this time the last few have been called away somewhere, so there are no drills.
The wounded rest in the sick tent, next to the hospitality house. Mouse and her girls change bandages. Plenty of soldiers walk around, guarding the camp, taking shifts on lookout.
‘Hey,’ Priest calls out as I’m walking back to the barracks.
I give a combination wave/salute.
He smiles. ‘We got some guinea fowl while you were sleeping in. How about getting your lazy butt into the kitchen and making lunch?’
I’m grateful for the task, something to occupy my mind. I go straight to the kitchen tent. The birds hang from a cold cooking frame. The kitchen tent is a few tarps tied up to block wind and rain. Short metal arches are dug in every metre or so, eight in all. Two rows. Each little arch has a different-sized pot hanging from it over a shallow fire pit.
The hospitality girls have already been cooking, so there’s water in one of the buckets. I grab a pot and drop it in the water, then bring it over to the fire pit. A few boxes of matches are near the water. They’re only allowed in the kitchen tent. The people who smoke use lighters looted from government towns and villages, their war mementoes. If the Mobile Force catch you with matches out of the kitchen tent, they beat you and then get extra portions at dinner. I think they plant matches on people more often than anyone tries to steal them.
The firewood pile is low. I’ll have to cut down more in th
e evening. Something else to do. I take most of what’s left of the firewood and start my cooking fire. While the water is boiling I pluck the fowl. Yanking out handfuls of feathers, I feel like I’m back in my village. Everything was taller than me there, and the birds were bigger. Mama used to take the long feathers and stick them in her hair, then pretend she was a lion coming to steal my birds.
My long combat knife is always on my belt, so I pull it out and set to cleaning the plucked birds, just as the water starts to boil. I plonk the first bird in. Then boom! Loud and close. The shock knocks me over and the bursting roars of gunfire erupt outside the camp.
Government soldiers. The lookout either hasn’t seen them or has been killed before he could sound an alarm.
I jump up and run. Without my rifle I’m useless. I curse myself.
But maybe I can surrender and get out of here. Maybe the Commander will come back and think I’m dead. I can explain what’s happened, and the government men will set me free.
As I run from the kitchen, my foot catches on the pot and I tip the boiling water in front of me. Momentum carries my feet into the scalding mud and I try to hop out, dancing burning steps as I stumble and fall out into the main field.
People are running like crazy, a few turn and fire. Government troops storm up the path, shooting anything that moves. One camp soldier throws down his gun and falls to his knees, hands in the air. The troops shoot him in the head. I scramble to my feet and run straight. More explosions shake the buildings. The hospitality girls tear into the jungle. The wounded fly out of their tent, shooting with bandaged arms. As the barracks loom, I can’t decide whether I should get my gun. If I get it, perhaps I can protect myself. If I don’t, maybe they’ll listen to me before shooting.
Boys are running out of the barracks and one pushes me aside. I spin and see the government troops mowing down the wounded. I keep running. Now no one is shooting back. We’re running away from the troops. The gunfire barks, followed by the occasional mosquito sound of a bullet flying close to your ear. A boy next to me falls. I keep running.
