by DiAnn Mills
But his wealth came from God and belonged to God. So did his life. Paul’s pitiful few years here on earth held no match for eternity. What mattered was God’s purpose for him right now.
One truth stood uppermost in his mind: God already had all of this worked out.
Reaching for his crutch, Paul pulled himself to his feet. He glanced at his laptop and recalled Larson’s worries about Rachel and Nyok. His return to Sudan must be for the right reasons. By the time he had hobbled inside the house, he sensed his spirit lifting. As if on cue, the sky looked bluer, the breeze felt fresher, and the flight of the seagulls reminded him of the peace he found only when he piloted the skies.
Paul no longer had a plane, although he’d shopped for another one, fully planning to purchase an identical model. With a new aircraft, he could fly without worrying about his leg, but once he was on the ground, he had to maneuver. As much as he hated to admit it, Paul was grounded until the leg healed.
Five days later, Paul purchased another Mitsubishi MU-2. That day he mailed Larson a letter and informed her of his plan to return. He’d received his answer about returning to Africa, not in an eye-opening sermon or even completely in God’s Word, but in bits and pieces from those who valued his work in Sudan. Each one confirmed his decision to return to the land of his birth.
* * *
Four weeks later, Paul flew over Kakuma, Kenya, and checked out the dirt landing strip. Once he had confirmed the wind’s direction, he set the plane down. One of the camp’s directors was waiting to escort him around the camp and answer his questions.
Joseph Kaei met Paul as soon as he stepped from the plane. The tall, broad-shouldered man with signs of gray weaving through his hair offered a wide smile and a firm handshake. “Welcome to Kakuma, Mr. Farid. I’ve heard much about you.”
Paul grasped his hand. “I’m honored to make your acquaintance. And please call me Paul.”
“And I’m Joseph. Our accommodations are meager, but we welcome you in love and hospitality.”
“That’s all I could ever ask.” He met the man’s dark eyes and detected true sincerity. “I’m anxious to see the camp.” Paul studied the crowd ahead of him being held back by Kakuma security. He waved, and many returned the gesture with shouts of welcome in a mixture of languages, mostly English.
Joseph greeted the crowd in the same manner. “Your email said you had a particular interest in our education facilities?”
“Yes, I do. I have a young friend inside Sudan whose guardian would like to see him out of the war zone. Naturally, education is critical to the boy’s future.”
“I would not turn away anyone seeking our help, but remember we live in crowded conditions, and supplies run dangerously short.” He spoke to a boy who retrieved Paul’s baggage. “What do you know of Kakuma?”
“Little, except what I’ve learned through recent research. I know the camp originated in the early nineties when thousands of Sudanese boys entered Kenya seeking asylum from the GOS. These boys told of their families and homes destroyed in the civil war and recited a tremendous tale of their walking first to Ethiopia and then here.”
Joseph smiled. “You know more than most people in the free world. Currently, the camp houses approximately eighty thousand refugees from Burundi, Ethiopia, Somalia, the Congo, Uganda, and Sudan.”
“What are the most crucial needs?”
“Food and sanitary water. Typical of refugee camps, we have a list of other things: clothing, housing, medical personnel and supplies, educational tools, and additional volunteers.”
Paul surveyed the area. The massive undertaking looked overwhelming. “I assessed many needs from the air.” He didn’t want to say the area looked like an African slum, but based on what the officials had to work with, they were doing remarkably well.
“We’ve taken great strides, but daily we receive refugees. We are blessed to have so many churches and worldwide humanitarian organizations working together to help us.”
“From the way I look at it, these people are the survivors, the hope of their countries,” Paul said.
“True.” They stood in front of a grass hut near the camp’s operational structures. “This is where you will be staying. Once you’re settled, you can let me know when you’d like to get started.”
Paul stepped inside the hut, and the young boy trailing them placed his bag inside. “How does right now sound?”
Joseph introduced Paul to many workers involved in the day-to-day operation of the refugee camp. They appeared tired but enthusiastic.
“We have the camp divided into zones so different groups can stay together. It helps morale and gives people a sense of belonging,” Joseph said. “Most of the refugees are women and children, and their needs are great.”
Paul listened as Joseph talked on about the varying degrees of needs and how Kakuma worked diligently to eliminate the problems. To minimize the fighting, an activities director kept the men and boys busy with sports. To avoid disease, classes were held for the women about health and sanitation. Prenatal classes and infant care helped lower the mortality rate.
Staring out over the desolate area, Paul realized that only the commitment of godly people could keep the camp going. “Can anything be grown in this red clay?”
“No. That’s why we are solely dependent upon contributions from around the world,” Joseph said. “The United States provides approximately 70 percent of the food and supplies here, and that helps give the refugees one meal a day—a tasteless mixture of maize. As you can guess, the population is malnourished.”
Paul clenched his jaw. He didn’t need to ask about depression and hopelessness. He saw it in the faces of too many men, women, and children. The condition of the refugees, their slumped shoulders and haggard faces lined with frustration, said it all.
“How do you bring any happiness to these people?” Paul asked.
Joseph clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Later we’ll watch a soccer game. This is the highlight of the refugees’ day. Although it’s temporary, this—along with faith and education—gives them something to look forward to.”
They strode toward a primary school called Malakal, where Paul heard children’s laughter. This was the hope all countries needed. The building was constructed of a type of plaster made from water, dirt, and whatever filler materials the workers could find. “Do you mind telling me about your education system?”
The two men stood facing the school. “Education is top priority here, and it’s one of the major factors in keeping peace among the people. Because the schools are open to all, English is the spoken language. We have three levels: early childhood, primary, and secondary. Those students who have good marks are eligible for a distance learning program through the University of South Africa.”
“Where do you get your teachers?”
“Very few are university trained. Most are recruited from among the refugees. We work with all of them so they can utilize their strengths. We also offer a vocational program for all interested persons, as you can see from the concrete building on the right. Those classes are taught by the refugees who have these trade skills.”
“What about programs for special-needs kids? The boy I have in mind is bright, but I wonder about those who have disabilities.”
Joseph released a sigh. “The International Rescue Committee and Lutheran World Federation have developed a program on the primary level to teach sign language to the deaf. They are also working on future programs for the blind and other learning-challenged children.”
Paul processed all of Joseph’s words. Nyok could do well here, and Kakuma was doing its best with its massive undertaking, but this wasn’t the best situation for the boy. He needed to be in the United States or England.
Paul stayed at Kakuma for three days. He mingled with the people, the volunteers, the children, and those involved with the church. The spiritual leaders in Kakuma had a tougher job than those who attended the poor in US cities. Before he climbed into his pl
ane and left for Warkou, Paul phoned his accountant and added Kakuma to his list of monthly contributions.
“Thank you,” Paul said as he shook Joseph’s hand. “I appreciate your taking time with me these past few days. You’re doing a mighty work here.”
“We are blessed,” Joseph said with a smile. “God is good, and He continues to meet our needs. My prayer is that He will touch the hearts of those who are able to give so these refugees can have some sort of dignity and hope for tomorrow.”
The situation Paul left at the refugee camp settled heavily on his heart. The age-old question swelled within him: Why must the innocent always be the ones to suffer?
CHAPTER 14
Rifle fire kicked up dirt across Ben’s path. “Get back!”
He aimed his weapon toward the top of a ridge and pumped out cover fire. His men scrambled into the underbrush. Except for one. He continued to move forward.
“Fata, get down.”
Ben had suspected for some time that the man had lost his hearing on one side.
A rifle cracked. Fata’s body twisted, and he fell hard on his face. Ben cursed. The man was a loyal friend, a trusted soldier from the Nuer tribe. For eight years he’d fought under Ben and trained new recruits. Only logic stopped Ben from racing toward the injured man. All Fata had wanted was a chance for his children to grow up free. Now life drained from the still body into a ditch. A ditch of useless dreams.
Ben crawled back on his belly. Several more shots zipped over his head. He reached inside his shirt and pulled out a grenade. Signaling for cover, he hurled the death charge toward the ridge. The explosion raised screams of anguish. Signaling again, he directed his men as they fired into the smoke. When they stopped, silence reigned.
Ben rushed to Fata and turned him over. His face was ripped open, his rugged features a mass of torn flesh. Ben pointed. “You three, bury him. The rest of you, search the area.” Fata would not be left for the hyenas.
Once more, Ben would have the task of bearing devastating news to an anxious family. When that unpleasant chore was finished, his lost friend would become a forgotten face, stacked in the cold, dark closet of his heart where emotions were banished. He would say a brief prayer and move on. So far, the desolate corner inside him had been escape proof. Except for James, his childhood friend and brother.
Into his rooted thoughts about Fata came unbidden memories of James, and always Rachel. Ben fought hard to focus. They had another battalion to meet four kilometers ahead. The two groups would march toward a camp of GOS who had confiscated SPLA munitions. From there he would meet with Fata’s family—then on to Quadir, the slave trader, and finally to Warkou.
Unlike the others, war kept him sane. He identified with it. It was linear and accomplished with action. The cost he could deal with, although often severe. For Ben, the difficulty began in Warkou. He needed to see Larson.
* * *
Larson listened to the steady rhythm of the afternoon rain tapping against the thatched roof of the clinic. Sudan woke with the sun promising a new day and the evening’s assurance of a magnificent sunset, but the afternoon brought earth-growing showers. In the past, she’d found the rainy season comforting. It marked a temporary reprieve from the GOS. The crude roads flooded, making it difficult for the soldiers to get through. Five weeks had passed since Rachel had been abducted, and the rains served to deepen Larson’s despair. The waiting to have the girl redeemed from her abductors plunged Larson into an abyss.
If Rachel had been taken to one of the oil-rich regions, the likelihood of getting her back increased. The foreign oil companies had built high roads to carry their equipment through the rainy season. With transportation enhanced, Larson could levy a little hope the slave traders could get in and out. Of course, better roads also meant the GOS could take advantage of the rain-soaked villages along the concrete path.
Larson wiped perspiration from her face with her arm. She squeezed a sponge soaked in warm, soapy water and scoured the medicine cabinet. A heavy sigh escaped her lips. No matter how she looked at the situation, the GOS was successful in destroying any hope of happiness for the villagers.
“Dr. Kerr,” Nyok said from the clinic’s entranceway. “Come see.”
“What? Can’t you see I’m cleaning?”
He linked his arm with hers and guided her to the doorway. “Look, over there.”
A double rainbow spread across the sky with a backdrop of green mountains in the distance. For a moment, she tasted the overwhelming grandeur of nature. “Oh, it’s magnificent.”
Nyok leaned against the door. His slow smile sealed the moment. Too often her sweet warrior allowed the dismal circumstances of the day to affect everything he did. Seriousness was good in appropriate times, but she fretted that Nyok had long forgotten small pleasures. This moment relieved her concerns.
“My mother used to say rainbows were a sign of God’s promises,” he said.
“You rarely mention her. Will you tell me more about your mother?”
“She was quite beautiful. My sisters looked like her.” He cupped his hand under the raindrops and lifted it to his lips. “They believed in rainbows.”
He had never spoken about them before. “Do you?”
“At times. I think one would have to trust in God before believing in His promises.”
“I used to make wishes on rainbows.”
“What do you wish for now?”
“Does it matter?” She had grown used to Nyok basing his understanding on emotion and the unspoken.
“Let’s play a game. Give me a wish for every color.”
She tossed the sponge into a bucket behind her. “I don’t want to do colors, but I’ll play as long as you will.” When he nodded, she began. “I want Rachel back unharmed. I want the war to end. I want you educated at a fine university.”
When she paused, he poked her in the ribs. “That’s three. You need one more.”
“I can’t tell you the fourth. It’s personal.”
“I already know what it is.” He laughed.
“Hush. It’s your turn.”
“I want Rachel returned. I want to join the SPLA. I want an independent South, and . . .” He paused midsentence.
“Was she gentle?”
“Very.”
“Tell me about her.” Larson spoke barely above a whisper and waited.
“Sarah, the one who has grown so old that you cannot tell if she’s ever been beautiful, she is my mother.” He watched a child play in a puddle of water. “Every time she picks up a crying child or gives her food away, she is my mother. When she sings praises to God over one who is dying, she is my mother. When the villagers seek her counsel, she is my mother. When you look at her and see the gold beneath the silver in her hair, she is my mother.”
Larson swallowed a lump in her throat.
“One day when I marry, I want my wife to be like Sarah . . . and you.”
Larson sucked in a breath. “Me? Thank you, Nyok. That’s quite a compliment.”
“I might never find her.” The child outside slipped and fell, her naked body coated in mud. “I’ll get her,” he said.
The comical sight broke the seriousness. Nyok held up the little one and allowed the rain to wash her, scrubbing her bare behind with his hand. Larson laughed with him. Relief eased into her bones. He would not have wanted to hear that Paul’s soon return was her fourth wish. With the pilot’s presence, she sensed new hope of finding Rachel—and maybe new purpose for Nyok. And maybe a forgotten dream for herself.
Three days later, shortly after sunup, she heard the sound of cheers and lively voices. Larson set aside breakfast and raced to the center of the village. Ben had arrived. Her stomach fluttered, and the thought of seeing Rachel—touching her and hearing her musical laughter—made Larson tremble as she raced toward the soldiers.
* * *
Ben searched the familiar sea of black faces for the white woman with sapphire-colored eyes. The healer, the Sudanese called her,
the one who had God in her fingertips. Ben chose to keep his sentiments to himself.
The moment he caught Larson’s gaze, elation left her face. He could tell she expected to see Rachel. The grim look on his face had revealed the truth. She stopped amid the enthusiastic crowd and offered a wave and a faint smile while he and his men wove their way through the milling villagers. Sometimes she displayed the respect he deserved. Other times she rebelled over the slightest issue and argued her viewpoint. Discussions he enjoyed even though squabbling over different viewpoints reminded him too much of the conflict. If Larson had chosen to practice medicine in the North, she would have been tortured and killed a long time ago. He hoped the Sudanese never learned the mannerisms of American women. This one plagued him.
“Hello.” Ben studied the tiny lines fanned from her eyes. Two months ago she didn’t have them.
“You look tired, Ben.”
“We’ve been on the move constantly, our supplies stolen and our men ambushed.”
“I’d hoped the talk of peace negotiations would bring a halt to the fighting,” she said.
“It’s increased. Discussing give-and-take measures in Kenya hasn’t changed a thing.”
“Even in the oil-rich areas?”
“Those are the worst.” A boy tugged at his pant leg, and Ben patted his head.
“With all the criticism of some of the European-based oil companies, wouldn’t you think those firms would want to put up a good front?”
“Money speaks louder than humanitarian efforts.” Ben spoke to a woman who had lost her husband during the last raid on the village. Once she stepped away, he turned back to Larson. “The oil companies want the profits, and Khartoum wants their slice to fund the war.”
