by Majok Tulba
They don’t get to choose to live and I don’t get to choose to kill.
It’s funny. All these people scream and cry and weep, they pray and protest like it’s some great thing. It’s not. It’s cards dealt on the table, it’s good luck and bad luck, and what’s the use of shouting at bad luck? If you let bad luck get to you, you’ll go mad. The only sane thing to do is laugh. So I do. And the way bullets make people’s bodies jump around, like they’re dancing, actually is kind of funny.
I make them dance, and I make them die. I’m a god. If only they knew that People’s Fire, god of destruction, is actually Baboon’s Ass. How could you not laugh at that? It’s a stupid name, yet for the people of this village, if any of them survive, my name is going to haunt their every nightmare. A baboon’s ass is going to follow them around their entire lives. If they knew who I was.
The raid is endless. Perhaps it’s another raid already. Perhaps these are different people. Either way, I hate them – they keep coming, without stopping. They keep existing.
I let the world turn red. The fires roar and my gun roars and just for the hell of it, so do I. ‘Baboon, motherfuckers!’ Nearby, a man is dancing with his hands flailing above his head. Flames engulf him. He’s screaming, but I don’t hear it. Parasite smiles up at me as he pounds into some girl. Her face is contorted, but I can’t hear her cry. Other soldiers hold her arms, slowly peeling off the skin. Her eyes are wide with horror.
I could just shoot all of them. The girl, Parasite, the soldiers. I see the Commander walking through with his pistol in one hand and his favourite, bloodied knife in the other. He slips the knife back into his boot as he saunters off. With a big smile under his beard, he gives me a thumbs-up. If he pisses me off, I can kill him. I’m fast, incredibly accurate. I can kill anyone.
Priest
Priest, my friend Priest, has been taken down with malaria.
He has a high fever and hallucinations. He lies in a cot in a dark room in the barracks, he has been sick for the past week. He can’t eat anything. I boiled leaves and the bark from trees and gave it to him, hoping it would make him better, but it didn’t help. He feels hot and sweaty one minute, and then he complains of feeling cold and not being able to get warm. I fill two buckets, one with hot water and another with cold water. I wipe his body with the warm water when he complains about being cold and then dab his head with the cold water when he tells me he’s hot.
I’m beginning to hallucinate myself. The door seems miles away instead of within reach. Sounds become hollow. I realise Priest is an old man compared to me. An old man who has helped me survive this nightmare, and who now is sick and weak. Maybe I am the old man now. Priest holds my hand and gasps out that he is a fighter who should die on a battlefield, not in a bed. He mutters about his soul and his brother’s life before drifting into a deep sleep. He turns and tosses like he’s fighting a devil in his body.
What if he dies? Who will be my friend then? I don’t even want to think about that. I step outside.
A curved slice of the silver moon hangs on the dark starless sky. I take my gun and jog into the bush and dig for more herbs and cut more bark. I crush them and squeeze their juice out. It’s bitter to the taste but good for malaria and fever. I go back inside and give it to Priest. He drinks it and then vomits, and sleeps.
Eventually he recovers, though he stays weak. When he walks, he looks as fragile as a gazelle. But he is okay. He is a soldier with the heart of a lion.
I stare up and see the yellow ball speeding through the landscape of blue and white. Priest and I go on our first mission together since he got sick. We’re hiding in the bushes, watching a truck speed towards us. A dark dust cloud rises up behind it, like smoke. When it gets close enough, we jump out. ‘Stop the truck! Stop it or I shoot you, right now!’
Brakes squeal and it grinds to a halt against the road pebbles.
‘Out of the truck! Hands in the air! Do it, asshole!’
The driver is shaking as he climbs down. The passengers look like they’re about to cry. We wave our guns and they line up by the side of the road.
‘Don’t shoot us,’ someone pleads. ‘Please, don’t shoot us.’
‘Down on the ground!’ I yell.
‘Please, don’t shoot us,’ he says again.
‘Lie down and I won’t fucking have to, will I?’
They lie down, lacing their fingers behind their heads. I walk along the line of passengers. This one guy has weird ears, so I kick him a few times in the ribs, then hammer him once in the spine with my rifle butt.
‘Please don’t kill me,’ he whimpers.
I laugh. Idiot! If I was going to kill him, I’d have shot him by now. I kick him because I want to kick him, not as some introduction to death.
‘Please don’t —’
‘Shut up!’
‘Hey,’ Priest yells. ‘You guys bring anything to eat?’
‘Yes, yes!’ the driver stutters. ‘It’s all in the back.’
We jump up into the truck and, sure enough, groundnuts, peanut butter, sweet potatoes and fried chicken. Actual fried chicken. I haven’t seen that in ages. What day is it?
‘We can give you —’ a passenger starts saying, but Priest cuts him off.
‘I feel like writing a song,’ he says. ‘I’ll come up with some words,’ he tells the passengers, ‘and you come up with a melody. And someone needs to do the drums. Just with your mouth is fine, I’m not expecting a masterpiece, just something we can dance to.’
Silence.
‘Come on!’ he says. ‘Dance!’
A couple jump up. The others only hesitate for a second. They dance like crazed monkeys.
‘Where’s the music?’ Priest says. ‘I need music before I can write my words.’
A couple of men start drumming beats. The others try to make up tunes on the spot. I shoot at their feet.
‘Dance!’ I yell. ‘Dance!’ I shoot. ‘Dance!’ After a minute, I tell them to stop. Priest is laughing too hard to give them orders now.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘The truck’s ours, but you are all free to go. Quick now, fuck off!’
Like scared animals they flee, kicking up their own dust. Burn the road, little rabbits. Burn it all up. Run, because I am the Fire! I’m the —
I open my eyes. The evening light is swiftly dying. I’m tired, and I’m not sure where I am. A wildflower is dancing with the breeze, next to my head. Above, vultures spin in a high circle. ‘Get out of here!’ I shout. But my voice chokes, too gruff.
One of the guys from my squad sits between the giant roots of a tree, sleeping soundly. From here the tree looks like an enormous mushroom. A big plate spider slides down its string and lands on his head, crawling down his face and onto the tree roots. That’s a soldier, sleeping right through a spider like that. Tough as fucking nails.
An army of insects work on the other side of the tree, carrying food back to wherever they take food. Just thinking about them feels like a hundred phantom bugs crawling across my forehead. I wipe the imaginary critters away. My hands are wet and sticky. I look and they’re covered in blood. Blood is something so familiar that I’ve forgotten where it comes from, then panic hits. Where are we? What happened? Oh, shit, that kid against the tree isn’t moving.
I’m digging through my mind for a clue.
I hear a groan. I pull myself up and look around. It’s Priest. He’s lying on his back, eyes to heaven. His uniform is covered in blood. He groans again. At first I think he’s half buried in foliage, but then I realise his leg is gone.
It was an RPG, a rocket-propelled grenade. I see pieces surrounding me. Government troops. I look over and there’s the truck, a burnt husk. A fucking trap!
‘Priest!’ I yell, crawling through the green. ‘I’m coming for you!’ When I try to get up, my leg screams. A chunk of metal hangs out of my thigh. Everything’s coming slowly. The area is covered with new recruits. Little kids lying dead with their dummy rifles. Two of them died holding each oth
er.
My gun is still on my back. I crawl closer to Priest. ‘We are in deep shit, man!’
Priest looks at me, and for a second it seems he doesn’t remember me. ‘Am I dead?’ he says.
‘No, no way.’
‘I think I’ve lost a bit of blood.’
‘Hey, you’re fine. You’re cool. You’re going to be okay.’
He’s lying in a pool of blood. ‘Liar,’ Priest says. ‘Liars go to hell.’ He chuckles. ‘I’ve always dreamed of that world beyond ours. There are songs, beautiful angel songs. Choirs of angels . . . stretching out . . . until you can’t see.’ His eyes close.
‘Come on, Priest!’ I grab his hand. ‘Can you hear me?’ I’ve already saved him once, so I feel like it’s my choice whether he lives or dies. I squeeze his hand. ‘We’ll get you some help soon.’
‘Help?’ He smiles. ‘There’s no help coming. Bastards finished us off. Just look around.’
The vultures squawk and beat their wings above us. A couple drop below the canopy and land on some bodies. Cocking their heads and taking rapid, testing pecks, they begin to feast.
‘Don’t let me die like this,’ Priest continues. He’s not smiling now. It looks like he might cry. I’ve never seen him cry.
‘You aren’t going to die. Just hold on.’ I look up. ‘Help!’ I yell at empty air. ‘Help!’ My voice bounces back at me from the trees.
‘Shoot me,’ Priest says, calm again.
‘What?’
‘I don’t want the birds eating me alive. Just shoot me.’
‘No. No way. Come on, Priest, I can’t do that.’
‘One last mercy. Remember? Head shot. They’re already dead. Might as well make it fast. Come on.’
I start crying. I didn’t know I could still do that.
‘Hey, don’t be a pussy.’
I’m surrounded by dead bodies. I’m surrounded by dead bodies.
‘I hate this,’ I say.
Priest tries to speak, but the words won’t come. My vision blurs through the tears and my mouth pulls back like I’m a kid again.
‘It was an honour to fight . . . alongside you,’ Priest whispers.
He’s breathing sharp and fast.
‘Stay with me, Priest!’
One last sharp breath and he stops.
‘You can’t leave me here!’
I see the change. He is gone. Priest is gone. I look at his face and no longer see my friend. I am alone. Alone with the body of my dead friend. Priest is dead. Priest. Priest is dead. And I am alone.
I slide off my heels and sit heavily on the ground. I am alone.
I’ve seen death before. The death of other soldiers. I have been death. I am death, it has become me and my gun and my world. I saw my father die. I sat in a tree while a frightened child with a machete chopped off his head, and I watched it with horror. How many times have I been that child? How many, but without fear?
Yet never have I seen this death. This is a death I want recalled. I want Priest back. I wanted my father back and I want Priest back.
Oh God, I am a devil. I was dragged to hell and they made me into a devil. Somehow, they made me forget. Forget the pain of seeing my father die, watching his head roll in the dust. Those damned devils made me one of them. How can I be saved?
I jump forward, clawing at Priest’s body, looking for his bible. I need it now. God, where is it? Can you hear me? Do you hear the prayers of demons? It’s gone. It’s not here. Damn you, Priest, where is your bible?
I was tricked! God, they tricked me! I was a child, God! I spoke as a child and I thought as a child and I understood as a child. How could I know what they were making me into? All I knew was fear and death. I was trying to get away. The damned devil bastard motherfuckers are all death and fear! If I could escape death, if I could live, I’d escape them. If I could outrun fear, if I could be brave, I’d outrun them. But I haven’t got anywhere. It’s made me one of them.
Am I brave? The boy with the gun walking among the flaming huts. Cock, aim, squeeze, bang, bang, bang, reload. Is that boy brave? I did not kill because I was brave. I killed because I feared the devils behind me, that slept next to me, that slopped soup into my bowl. It’s just like Mouse said. We were all scared, all terrified, so we fought and killed. We waved our guns and sang our songs because we were afraid.
A million flat photographs now come to life. Every burning hut, every dying silhouette, every wooden being I fired at in the darkness, those unreal other things that were not me and were not half so real as the rifle butt against my shoulder – they all come alive. They were homes and people and human beings. They were families and lovers and memories upon memories. The cords of their lives were in my hands and I cut them. Slashed every one of them and told myself it was mercy. Better one cord cut than two. Better two than three. Better ninety-nine than a hundred.
But Priest’s blood is on my hands and under my fingernails, and his cord has been severed. I told myself that those cords would be cut by me or another. It didn’t matter who, because it was going to happen. We were mere instruments of fate, we soldiers. All those people were shot and would have been shot and were the walking, running, screaming dead, but it matters that I killed them. The cup must be passed and the poison must be drunk, but that doesn’t mean you have to drink it. The cup was in my hands and I could have cast it back in their faces and died. That would have been better. Oh God, that would have been better. But I drank it. And I passed it and I took the communion of devils. What kind of God would listen to my prayers? Not in this field, not among the blood of devils. I have lived. I have been spared. There’s still time to escape.
I tear strips of cloth from my jacket, long bands of stained green. The first I tie as tight as I can above the chunk of metal hanging out of my leg. I take a deep breath and pull. Oh, fuck . . . For a second, I can’t even see. I take the other strip and tie it tight over the oozing wound. I hoist myself up, my gun as a crutch. Blood rushes from my head and I teeter. Black spots bloom in my vision, fade away. I wish they hadn’t.
The field of death is laid open to me. These little devils around me, they were moulded by fear, the same as me. Now the birds are feasting on them, tearing away their flesh. The birds savage them, but not me. I roar. My gun is in my hands and I’m roaring and it’s roaring and the birds take flight and I follow them with my invisible line of death.
‘Fly!’ I scream over the sound of gunfire. ‘Fly, you bastards!’
Click. Click. Click.
The last of the sunset breaks through the trees. I drop my empty weapon and limp towards the road. Alone. Down the empty road I walk. I have no idea where I’m going and it doesn’t matter, I just keep walking and walking. I’m bloody, thirsty and weak. And I cry. There are no tears and I have no voice, but I weep. The dusk gathers.
When darkness is complete, my burden seems lighter. We always did our worst deeds in the night, so this is where they belong. God, let me leave them here. Let me take off this burden and leave the deeds of night to the darkness.
Thunder cracks above me, like the shout of an angry god. Lightning flashes in the distance, his fist striking the earth. Rain falls. Needle-sharp drops hit my bare skin like the slash of a knife, cold as ice. My joints get stiffer as the cold seeps into my bones. My legs turn to wood.
The rain tears at my hands and bites my face. Then the wind. A bitter cold that blows through me. I stumble and hit the ground, rolling into the frozen grass. The fury of the storm falls on me. I am stung and bitten and pierced. Frozen and battered. God growls from high heaven.
I Am Not a Soldier
Darkness slowly gives way to light. Light without shape or colour, tones of nothing brighter than dark. I blink against the light and shade as they emerge from the blur. I feel dead. Part of me wishes I was. What a freedom that would be.
‘And you brought him home?’ a harsh voice says in the quiet distance.
‘I couldn’t leave him out there to die!’ replies another, his voic
e quiet too.
‘He’s a rebel!’ the harsh one whispers. ‘They probably shot him up with heroin before he went out. When he wakes up he’s going to be crazy from withdrawal.’
‘He was going to die out there, Father! How could I leave him? And look at him. He’s a boy.’
The shapes form around me. Sunlight stings my eyes. I recoil, letting out a small moan. I see faces. The place reeks of smoke. How have I come here? Bracing myself, I open my eyes again. They still can’t focus. Two figures standing near me. One old, one young.
The young one reaches out and touches my arm. ‘You’re going to be all right now.’
‘Don’t touch him,’ says his father. ‘He’s going to snap and kill you any minute.’
More blinking through the pain, willing my eyes to adjust. The older man has a cloth tied around his waist. His hair is wild and bristly, his brow furrows deeply. The younger man crouches close by me. I can see his round face and red dirt stains on his clothing.
I fight against the extreme dryness in my throat to speak. ‘Where am I?’ My voice crackles.
‘You are a soldier, right?’ he asks.
I’m not sure how to answer. Had we attacked their village? Am I a prisoner? Did the old man scowl at me for raping his daughters and burning his house? The younger man looks concerned, like he’s worried I might die. Or maybe he’s worried I’ll answer yes. Or maybe that I’ll answer no.
I try to turn over onto my back, but a sharp pain rips through my torso. My lungs constrict and I fall into a coughing fit, my body heaving against the hard surface. I taste blood. The young man’s hand slides under my head and tilts it forward, helping me swallow something that oozes down my throat.
‘You’re going to be all right,’ he says. ‘My name’s Koko. What’s yours?’
‘Baboon,’ I cough out, not thinking.
‘Baboon? Like the monkey?’
I don’t have my gun. So I’m not a soldier, I’m not People’s Fire. Maybe I can get away. Once, the thought of escape had always been at the edge of my mind. Now the idea that I’ve gotten away, that I’m really free, is too strange to believe. I dig through my memory, searching for something that has been buried a long time.
