by Terry Morgan
CHAPTER 18
"Halima?"
In her sleep, Halima heard her mother calling her name, but Halima's mother was dead. So was her father and so were her three sisters.
Halima, sixteen years old, wearing a black tee shirt and long desert camouflage pants sat up on the flimsy, creaking, camp bed.
The man calling her name was Peter Moosa, the black South African soldier who had found her in shock, disorientated, dirty, temporarily deaf and surrounded by blood, body parts and her younger sister's headless body. It was Moosa who had, by chance, been passing the school when the bombs fastened to the girls' bodies exploded just as a hundred other children poured from the school. It was Moosa who had found her hiding in a generator shed and driven her two hundred miles across country to Bill Larsen's camp.
"Were you dreaming, Halima?"
"I think so."
"When you're free, Bill says he'd like to talk to you."
"But I must help Ali in the kitchen. It is my duty."
Halima's first language was Hausa but Moosa had quickly grown used to her husky voice and good, polite English. But it was her sense of duty and responsibility that was so striking. "OK. When you've finished preparing breakfast, go to Bill's tent."
"Yes sir."
Moosa turned to go, then: "I almost forgot. Benjamin says there's a problem with the computer. Would you look at it?"
"Yes sir."
It was almost a month since Halima had arrived at the camp and for Bill Larsen, the tough, no nonsense career soldier, the effect she was having on himself, Benjamin Simisola and the rest of the men in the camp had been increasing by the day.
Larsen was tired and was lying on his back, smoking a cigarette, a mug of coffee on the floor. The last few days had been the longest but most stressful since he'd set up the operation on Gabriel's land. In the last few days two teams had been in action. Another team was still out tracking a group of suspected COK activists. Right now, though, it was the Halima effect he was thinking about.
"It was the COK, sir," she'd told him the day after Peter brought her in. "They hid their faces behind masks. They drank and smoked. One man was very tall. Long hair, sir, down to here."
She'd pointed to her shoulders and the description matched perfectly with a known terrorist known as Yan or Yan Tatsine though the man was also Mohamed Idris, Mahmud Amadu, Mahmud Yusuf or Allah Marwa and he moved around like a tall, dark shadow seen only on You Tube clips.
To his ragbag of followers, though, he was a hero, the bringer of money and gifts. Gifts like the hand rolled cigarettes filled with narcotics that he called Holy Smokes which he carried in plastic bags ready to throw to the men to fight for like starving dogs in the dust.
In return for their total loyalty Yan Tatsine not only offered money, food and shelter but individual responsibilities such as they'd never had before. Yan Tatsine granted them the right to kill anyone who got in their way and the freedom to inflict as much violence, suffering and horror as YouTube clips could depict. With work benefits like that, recruitment of boys and men who had had nothing before and expected nothing in future was easy.
Tatsine now boasted on video that his territory was bigger than France and Larsen was sure it had been Yan Tatsine who led the recent raid on Burkina Faso, assembling his rabble outside the towns of Dori and Sebba before moving on to Ouagadougou and the airport.
There had only ever been one drawback for Jan Tatsine: money.
But even that had been resolved once he'd met with a mysterious Nigerian man in Cairo. The agreement was simple. "Money for chaos."
"That is very good, sir," Tatsine had replied with enthusiasm. "Chaos is our speciality. With money, we can expand rapidly through Niger, Mali and Burkina Faso."
And, because he was known for his great humour he had added: "It will be easy, sir. Do you know that fifty percent of the people of Burkina Faso are Moslem, fifty percent Christian and one hundred percent Animist?"
The big man had smiled but then issued a stern caution: "Not so fast, my friend. Step by step. And never lose sight of our ultimate target - Nigeria."
Larsen had offered to take Halima home, back to her village but she had been in no doubt about that. "But, sir. I have no home now. I have no mother or father. I have no sisters."
"So, what do you want to do?"
"To stay here, sir. To help you."
"But we are soldiers."
"Yes, sir but I can help. I can cook. I can clean."
And Larsen had quickly discovered that Halima, despite her humble background, had many other natural skills besides cooking breakfast for thirty men. Bill Larsen wasn't experienced with kids, particular girls, but she'd always looked comfortable enough in the black tee shirt and cargoes although she'd quickly given up on the boots and now went barefoot. There was a slight swelling of breasts beneath the tee shirt but with her hair tied with an elastic band she could have easily have been mistaken for a boy. The men treated her like a young man.
And her English, strongly accented though it was, was impressive.
Larsen closed his eyes, remembering what Peter Moosa had said when Halima had asked to see him the first time. "She works hard, sir. The kitchen is spotless. Ali thinks he'll be out of a job soon."
"Then Ali better pull his socks up."
"His socks, sir?"
"Nothing like a woman to organise a kitchen."
"She asked at breakfast if she could meet Pastor Gabriel."
Larsen had wiped sweat. "But she's Moslem, from a Moslem village. What have you told her?"
"That we're here to defend the land from the COK and anyone else who tries to upset Gabriel's Project. Enough for her to understand we don't belong to any one government - and that Pastor Gabriel is involved."
"What did she say?"
"That she'd seen him on TV though I don't know where because she didn't have a TV at home. She knows he isn't Moslem but it didn't matter. Religion's not important, she told me. It's what is in the heart. She's bright."
Larsen had capitulated "OK, bring her in."
And in she'd come in bare feet, the cargoes folded above her ankles.
"Good morning, Halima," he'd said.
"Good morning, sir."
She had stood straight, hands behind her back, looking up at him with intense black eyes, her pink lips moving as if wanting to say something but unsure. Larsen had stepped in. "You're busy in the kitchen. Ali says you're better than he is."
"No sir," her eyes dropped to the floor. "Just doing my job, sir."
"So, what do you want to talk about."
"Master Gabriel, sir."
"OK, sit down." Larsen had beckoned Moosa to bring chairs but Halima had taken charge, grabbing three chairs, setting them in a triangle and they'd sat down, Halima with her hands together in her lap, relaxed, confident, expectant.
"What do you know about Pastor Gabriel?"
"I have read, sir. Some people in my village are suspicious of him. When we went to Maiduguri I heard some bad things. That he is a Christian, that he is only interested in money, that he hates Moslems. But I don't think so, sir. I think he has no religion. I think he wants everyone to live in peace, to make lives better. His words, sir, are good. I believe he speaks for all poor people whatever their religion. He is tired of the old ways that don't work and of old politicians who only look after themselves. He wants to change things. I cannot think badly of him. Will he visit us here, sir?"
Larsen glanced at Peter Moosa as if the South African might want to say something. In truth, it was to give himself time to think. He was, after all, a man more used to decision-making and issuing instructions to grown men not listening to the thoughts and private opinions of sixteen-year old girls. This one seemed to have already made up her mind about a thing or two and her summary was about as accurate as any he'd heard.
"Perhaps he will visit soon," he said, although in truth he had no idea.
"Then might I speak to him, sir?"
"Would you li
ke me to tell him about you?"
"I would like to help him."
Larsen had nodded, slowly. "And you want to stay here? Amongst all the men?"
"There are women outside, sir."
"They work in the fields. Do you want to help them?"
"Perhaps, sir."
"Is there anything else you want? To while away your time."
"While away, sir?"
"Something else to do to keep you busy?"
"I have seen the computer. Do you have the internet, sir?"
"It is not good but yes, we do."
"May I learn about it, sir? Like school?"
Why not, Larsen had thought. "Good idea. I'll ask Benjamin to show you. Benjamin, can also help you contact Pastor Gabriel."
"Thank you, sir." Halima had then smiled broadly and ran outside like an excited eight-year old.
Benjamin had been next. "You asked me to call in, Bill."
"I'm about to leave to meet the men from Ouaga," he'd said. "We've got a casualty."
"Sorry to hear that."
"Yeh." He paused. Then: "Our new lady guest, Ben."
"Halima, Bill. Brave girl. Bright girl."
"Braver than anything the COK have got I reckon. Cool as a cucumber."
"Cucumber, sir?"
"Cool, unpressured, sensible, risked a lot. As bright as a button."
"Button sir?"
"So bright she wants to add to her set of skills. Cooking and cleaning the kitchen isn't enough for our Halima. She wants to learn computers, the internet."
"Games, sir?"
"Shouldn't think so. More like studying medicine or nuclear physics online. I wondered if you might like to take her under your wing?"
"My wing sir?"
"You've got teaching diplomas as well as a degree in botany haven't you, Ben?"
"It's tropical agriculture, sir, but I'd be happy to teach her about the internet. She'll self teach in no time."
"How's the connection?"
"Off and on. Power-outs are the problem. We need more capacity."
"I'm working on it."
"Any news from Gabriel, sir?"
"Not a fucking dicky bird. You heard anything?"
"Not a dicky sir."
Larsen had drained his coffee, put the mug back on the floor, stubbed his cigarette out between his thumb and first finger and fallen asleep.
