by Majok Tulba
I pull myself up, grinning like an idiot, and stagger back to the hut. In the morning, I will talk to Koko. We’ll come up with a story about how I was shot by the rebels and left for dead. No one has to know about my past, just another victim of their mad violence. Then I can start finding my way back home, back to my village. I’m not even sure, exactly, which direction it is from here. I don’t really know where here is.
A hundred metres from the hut, I freeze.
A light flashes towards the hut. It’s the girl, holding a lantern in front of her as she comes. What is she doing visiting me this late? Or is this normal and my fever has just blocked it out? I see more motion behind her. I peer against the darkness, trying to make out those shapes. People, three or four men, walk behind her.
Uniforms. Guns. Government troops. Shit.
I turn and run.
I’ll find a different village. I’ll tell them my story of running from the rebels. I won’t even have to lie. They attacked my village, I will say. There was an explosion. Why tell them the things in between? They don’t matter. An explosion, and I woke up surrounded by dead bodies. I was wounded and alone. All true. Someone found me and took care of me, but then, one night, I saw men with guns and I ran. Done. Just another refugee, that’s all anyone needs to know.
Off and away, I limp as fast as I can, ignoring the throb in my leg. They’ll want me to take them to the field, and then they’ll kill me. Into the night I flee. In a day, maybe two, I’ll find another village. Right now I just need to get as far away from the government troops as I can.
Night wears on, I’ve no idea about the time.
It doesn’t take long for fatigue to catch up with me. I stumble a bit more, then slow. After a while, I’m dragging my wounded leg.
I lean against a tree, my legs like solid lead, and try to move again, but I don’t have the will. The ground is smooth, not too many rocks. I stagger behind the tree and sit. A rush of relief pours into my legs and I revel in it. A few deep breaths and I’m gone again, back to sleep.
Hands wake me up. Hands on my arms dragging me away from my tree. I struggle, kicking at the ground with my good leg, trying to pull free.
‘I’m not a soldier!’ I shout. ‘I’m not a soldier!’
‘Of course you’re not!’ a voice yells. A terrible voice. ‘You don’t have a gun. Soldiers have guns.’
The men hoist me up onto my feet, twisting my arms around my back. They turn me to face the big green truck idling by the side of the road. Their commanding officer smiles at me like a cat.
‘Where’s your gun?’ Parasite asks. ‘Was it taken from you or did you throw it away when you tried to desert?’
This is real, finally. My second day.
I have seen how they treat deserters, and it is Parasite who holds my life in his hands.
I stare past the soldiers and into the dark jungle. The leaves of the trees whistle in the wind. ‘There were government troops,’ I say with a vague sense that this might spare my life. ‘They were in the village down the road. I ran.’
‘You ran, all right.’
‘I didn’t know where I was —’
‘Aw, People’s Fire, were you trying to come back to us? Or are you stupid? Or do you think I’m stupid?’
‘I don’t understand.’
He whistles and the men drag me towards the truck. I scream and thrash. I can’t go back, I can’t! I’m supposed to be free. A rifle butt smashes into my head. Darkness returns.
I’m already dead when I wake in the truck. There’s no point fighting. It’s better to just lie here. If you give up, they get bored. Boring them is a good way to die faster. So I wait in silence, bound and aching, headed again for the football field.
When we arrive they haul me off the truck. I know every face around me. I’ve shot beside them, killed beside them, ate beside them. They cheered me as I raped young virgins and pulled off long target shots. Now they’re booing and jeering me, shaking fists and spitting. This isn’t the taunting torture we’ve done so often, this is hatred. Real hatred. I’ve betrayed them.
The guys from the truck push everyone away, making a big circle in the middle of the field. Younger boys scramble to pick up the pots of their dinner before the mob tips them over. Parasite pushes me to the centre of the circle. ‘Good luck,’ he says, then pulls me to a stop and whacks the back of my knees with his rifle.
I go down without a grunt, it means nothing to me. Kneeling on that old familiar dirt.
I hear his heavy boots tromping through the crowd. He’s followed by a low whimpering sound. I look up and the bastard has Christmas. It hasn’t occurred to me that she would be involved in this.
They bring Christmas to my side, her hands bound behind her. They don’t bother tying us to trees. Kneeling before the assembled army, there’s no chance for escape. The Commander stands away from us, shielding a match from the wind as he lights a cigar. He takes two quick drags so it will draw. He blows a bloom of smoke up into the air.
‘People’s Fire,’ he drawls, looking at the ash end of his cigar. ‘You know, I really thought you would die before we got to camp.’ He’s several metres away, speaking for everyone to hear.
‘Some of you may not remember when People’s Fire joined our ranks. He was so homesick and afraid that he threw up on the drive here from his village. I’ve seen a lot of boys come through our ranks. A lot are sick. Some of them, it’s the sight of blood. That, I understand. Because when you see blood, you know that death lives in this world. You know that you are mortal and that death will come for you, in time. There’s no shame in fearing death, it’s a good thing. That is a fear that makes you fight. It makes you push yourself to be strong so that you can master death. That way, when old dry bones Mr Death comes for you, you punch him in the face and piss in his mouth!’
A cheer erupts, mixed with laughter. Some hoot. Some mime pissing.
‘I understand fearing a gun. Fuck, I depend on it!’ More laughter. ‘Guns are scary when you aren’t holding one. Just that metal click makes civilians wet their pants and flee. People’s Fire, though, he saw death and blood and guns, and I’m sure he was afraid. Everyone’s afraid on their first walk through the minefield. Most are afraid when they leave their villages to join our ranks. They tremble at the uncertainty, the unknown. All men fear the unknown. People’s Fire, though, that’s not what he was afraid of.
‘People’s Fire was afraid of himself. He was afraid that he couldn’t be a man. He was a dreamer. He was weak. I couldn’t believe how weak he was. He was afraid for his dreams.
‘We beat him and we beat him hard. I named him Baboon’s Ass that day, and as we walked through the minefield I kept expecting him to get all moon-eyed and wander right onto a mine. Kaboom! But he didn’t. He lived. I starved him, but he lived. I broke his body, but he lived. I broke his mind, but he lived. And every day he got stronger. Then, I put a gun in his hand and he shot a little boy right where we’re standing. He didn’t puke then. I made him into one hell of a soldier.
‘I’ve seen that boy walk through with the devil’s laugh in his throat and a blazing gun in his hands. I watched Satan himself walk the earth in that boy’s body. Mission after mission after mission, he survived. Barely even got scratched. And I thought, That boy is fucking invincible. We give our soldiers strong names, names of death and power. I gave him a name of shit and it made him stronger than any other soldier I’ve seen. I made him People’s Fire.
‘I broke him, and I made him. So I always knew that no matter how bulletproof and fireproof he was, I could always kill him. And I thought – foolishly, I’ll admit – I thought he knew that too. I thought a strong soldier was a good soldier, and a good soldier falls in. But I didn’t know how strong the dream was. I didn’t know how stupid it could make him. I left him alone with a house full of whores and he walked right by them and straight for my wife.’
A fresh chorus of boos and curses erupt.
‘So, maggot, I’ll ask you now, d
o you think you’re stronger than me?’
No cheers. No boos. No curses.
I remember the minefield, my first day. I watched that boy, his name long forgotten, shredded by the swiftly rising earth of an explosion. I then led the walk. That line, with the Commander himself far in the back. And I had smiled.
Kneeling on the football field, I almost chuckle at the memory. This man has been trying to kill me since the day we met. Yet here I am.
‘Well?’ the Commander bellows again, his voice cracking just a little. ‘Do you think you’re stronger than me?’
Our eyes meet, mine and the Commander’s. I smile. I hear a strange beating sound in the distance, like ancient drums. Drums of war calling from the sky, they beat the rhythm of Grandfather’s songs. Songs of courage and protection, songs for those about to die.
The Commander pulls the cigar from his mouth and gestures at me. He growls like a gorilla.
‘Untie him,’ he orders.
After a second’s hesitation, two officers run forward and undo the ropes around my wrist and ankles. They pull me up onto my feet. Adrenaline hits my system, crowds out the pain. It keeps you fighting when you’re wounded, that adrenaline, it gets you onto your feet, makes you limber. The Commander’s growing gut stretches against his undershirt and he beats his fattening chest with those huge fists.
A fresh cheer drowns out the drums. No one has seen this before. Even Mouse and the girls have come out to watch the show.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ the Commander calls to me over the roar. ‘You kill me today, and everything I have is yours. You can have my wife, you can have my gun, you can have my stars.’
What a thought!
Fear burns into your memory, and I have feared this man for a long time. I remember every move he’s made, every little sign that he was about to strike. I have been studying this man’s violence for years, learning to see it coming, maybe avoid it. This, this I get.
As the army around me clamours for my death, I smile. These men love death, they love killers. He’s handed over his gun, but I know a knife is tucked into his boot.
He steps forward, cracking his knuckles. I step to the side, away from the boot with the knife. If knifing is part of his plan, I’ll see it coming. We circle each other. Soldiers, noise, smells fade into the distance. Like two lions vying for territory, crouching deep, waiting for the right moment to leap, we each watch the other, waiting for the first move. Watching for the opening to draw the other in.
The world is the Commander’s face. And in the distance, those beating drums mingling with the half-remembered chants of my grandfather. Louder and louder, they rise from that distant sky. Now they beat clearly over the cheering soldiers. One by one the soldiers stop cheering, shouting, their curses fall dead to the ground. Neither the Commander nor I turn. The only sound is the drums. Then, silence.
In a blink, it comes to me. The government troops have found the field. I hope the family got more than twenty dollars.
The distant drum of helicopters bears down on us. My eyes lock on the Commander. Years in the camp have taught me to kill and hate, but also to be vigilant. He is looking at the sky, issuing orders. The air cracks with the sound of gunfire. Large-calibre rounds boom over the football field. I duck and see a line of dirt rising like water hit by a handful of pebbles. It cuts through the ring of soldiers. Chaos erupts as they scramble with their AK-47s, sliding in clips, cocking, and firing wildly into the sky.
The helicopter passes over the line of thick jungle. The trees so close together cast a constant shadow. The Commander points to where the helicopter has disappeared, where it will return for another run. In a moment he will have his gun.
I see Christmas lying on her side, curled into a ball. Soldiers run about her, almost trampling her.
I run for her. I shove a soldier to one side and pull her to her feet. I push her towards the jungle, and this time she runs. The Commander is shouting and pointing at me now, but the soldiers are shooting at the government troops who are shooting at them. I see Parasite fall, shot through the chest, and I run. Dodging through the soldiers, I beat the ground with my shaking feet, straight for the tree line.
The last layer of soldiers falls away as I push through the final few yards of the field. Glancing to one side I see several trucks with official markings, government soldiers opening fire on the screaming, running, panicked rebels. It’s all behind me. The bullets and the blood and the death and the noise. The helicopter returns with its stuttering thunder.
For a second I hear a mosquito-pitch whine in the air around me. Three sharp jolts knock me forward and hot stings burn my back. I drop to my knees, blood oozes from my gut. I stare at the edge of the jungle, a penalty kick away. More government troops run out, their guns spitting fire and splitting the undergrowth around me. I turn and watch the red-purple sky swirl over the cluster of trees. Drops of rain bathe my forehead. I hear a song in my head, almost like a whisper, like a lullaby in the wind, in the breeze. I imagine my mother singing it, singing me home. I spy an eagle soaring high in the sky. A shadow shifts over me and a barrel aims at my face. This is a battle, the government versus the rebels. Crying girls are civilians, boys are soldiers.
I stare down the barrel of the rifle. The man holding it looks back at me. Soldiers both.
Acknowledgements
The experiences described in Beneath the Darkening Sky are not mine. I was shorter than the AK-47 that the rebels who came to my village used to measure recruits, and afterwards I fled to a refugee camp. But these experiences are those of tens of thousands of children in Africa, and my novel is an attempt to draw attention to their stories, as well as to imagine my own alternative life. I owe a profound debt to those who have shared with me what they went through.
I have used Nancy Oloro Robarts’ short story ‘Witness’ as my jumping-off point, and I’m very grateful to her for allowing me to use and reproduce it in the first chapter of my novel. You’re right Nancy – if we don’t tell our stories, no one will. I was so desperate to find out what happened next that I wrote this book. ‘Witness’ was first published in the anthology Michael’s Eyes: The War Against the Ugandan Child, edited by Raoul J. Granqvist, Umea University, 2005. The anthology was intended to raise global awareness of the situation in northern Uganda. It can be read as a human-rights documentation of the abuse of the child in war in general.
I’d like to thank Penguin Australia for making my dream to have a book published a reality. In particular, special thanks to Ben Ball, the most perspicacious editor I know, for challenging me to dig deep inside myself to reveal more in Beneath the Darkening Sky than I thought I could.
My deepest thanks to Virginia Francis, Mark Rix and John Killeen: because of you, I have stories to tell. Your excitement, motivation, guidance, support and friendship are much appreciated. Stay as you are forever.
Thank you to Mary Ryan for introducing me to my brilliant agent, Cheryl Akle of Trust & C Agency, who knew how to make this project happen and led me through the ins and outs of the book publishing business.
I express my thanks to Andre Kyme for helping bring my family to Australia. You are a man with a heart of gold, only warmer. God bless you and your family.
Thanks and appreciation to Mayom Tulba Malual for bringing me to this wonderful country, where I learned that stories are not only told to boys sitting in a circle by firelight.
Thank you to Zeniab Hassan Dongrin for believing in me and telling me I had something important to say. I now believe you were right.
Thanks to Chris Avent for encouragement, friendship and support and allowing me to use your office’s computer when I wanted to avoid my boys tapping me on the shoulder with a soccer ball in their hands.
I also extend my heartfelt thanks to Jessica Perini for editorial insights, enthusiasm and encouragement during the first drafts of Beneath the Darkening Sky. Without you, my novel would have remained another chunk in my computer.
My heartfelt thanks
also to my family, cousins, brothers, friends and well-wishers. I didn’t know I’d ever find another Pina, other than the character in my novel, until I found myself working side by side with two Pinas, women of vision and enthusiasm. Thank you, Pina and Pina, for the gift!
