by Ben Dosso
Eternal Journey
Ben Dosso
Austin Macauley Publishers
Eternal Journey
About The Author
Dedication
Copyright Information ©
JourneyMorocco
Dear Protective Umbrella
Samba Diallo
About The Author
Ben is a product of the street and an English learner. He grew up in violence, but he prefers tolerance and acts in silence instead. He is a humble young man of a few words. He has no advisor nor instructor. Only his good intuition guides him on the right path before he decides to do something. He is also a machine of positive thoughts that can turn all types of obstacles into opportunities for himself in order to help other people.
He came to the United States in January 2017. He has no writing skills or diploma. Happy of being welcomed as a refugee in this great nation, he is considerate about his adoptive nation, and being aware of the injustice and suffering inflicted on refugees, migrants, and street children, he started learning the new language little by little before taking the risk to write in English in order to make their voices heard.
He would like to be known for the talent of a youngster of the street, but not for all the bad reputation people have in mind about street violence.
Dedication
This book is dedicated to the refugee children all over the world.
Copyright Information ©
Ben Dosso (2019)
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.
Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
Ordering Information:
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Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data
Dosso, Ben
Eternal Journey
ISBN 9781643788067 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781643788050 (Hardback)
ISBN 9781645365242 (ePub e-book)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019914116
The main category of the book — BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / General
www.austinmacauley.com/us
First Published (2019)
Austin Macauley Publishers LLC
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On the eve of Samba Diallo’s birthday, a shooting’s rain was watering Abidjan, and the invitation cards he had given to his friends fell into the plowing of combat. The gifts were flying in the wind.
Sky view—a bright city of bullets like the fireflies that were falling on the herbs and this city of Abidjan was devastated by a storm that nobody was expecting. The mortar fires of massive destruction were echoing everywhere like thunder roars in the sky and the earth was trembling at its turn. It seemed as if a plane was crashing around the house.
Before the horrible nights of bombardment of spring 2011, the city of Abidjan was peacefully livable and likable. On the other hand, inside the country, everything was ebullient, safe from an excessive community violence of a bloody Civil war. And in this combination of anarchy and general chaos, Samba Diallo’s family got an unexpected visit in the middle of the night. The time at which the bars are emptied little by little. The gentle wind blows. The dried leaves fall. The silence controls the town. The sleep blinds the eyes and the dogs’ barking penetrates the hollow of ears. A visit during in which Samba Diallo’s family was ignoring the main reason. It was completely different from the many visits Samba Diallo had opportunities to attend or see from afar. Sometimes, Samba Diallo had no idea about these meetings. But during this last nocturnal visit, he was left for dead under the bed in the dark of his bedroom. Analyzing the degree of noises that was in his living room, he knew that the conversation was too stormy. And it was so hard to guess that this visit was a courtesy visit. Few minutes later, the conversation was turning down. But the shouts from outside could damage ears. This night was an unforgettable night for Samba Diallo and his family, likewise the rest of the population.
His genetic umbrella, his mom, who used to buy him all kinds of toys when he was still little, was shaking like a feather in the wind. A woman with a gold heart. Whenever Samba Diallo talked about his genetic umbrella’s kindness, he used to get more smiles on his lips, as if someone was tickling him. A genetic umbrella that he had seen nude for the last time, unclothed entirely by the armed men. The one who was pampering him before they went to bed. The one who would wake him up in his pee and defecations in the early morning without complaining about these two toxic mixtures. The one who used to protect him from the hot and dry wind and the swirls from savannah and torrential rains that resulted in material and human disasters in working-class neighborhoods during the rainy seasons. Despite his exaggerated crying, his genetic umbrella always found sweet words, giving him a good reason to cool down his heart of the old Diesel engine. The one who used to breastfeed him when the employees of his stomach were claiming their rights. According to his genetic umbrella, Samba Diallo was just an aromatic reed, so fragile, that could not grow on dry earth without water, even if this earth was fertile for scientifics. Samba Diallo believed that his genetic umbrella could replace Santa Claus someday, to give some gifts to kids because for a long time, every December 25, celebration day of the birthday of Jesus for Christian Community, we see only the Santa Claus dressed in red and white, smiling in his long white beard like an old goat. However, it’s not only men who are kind on Earth. Women are kinder than men too, according to him.
“I am not doing the eulogy of my genetic umbrella as if she was Virgin Mary, to offend people who did not have a chance to taste the honey of a docile genetic umbrella. That is not my main goal. But I am never going to know the faces of these ghosts with masked voices that were shaking my genetic umbrella’s voice. I would give them a double punch in their faces for breaking my genetic umbrella that was protecting me against this hellish sun,” said Samba Diallo, before joining a mourned populace on the public roads.
On the other hand, his dad, who was working as an officer in the military service, was always gone when Samba Diallo was still forgetting himself in the arms of Morpheus. Sometimes, Samba Diallo used to saturate his father’s eardrums by curiosity with a bunch of questions during his days off about military service. He absolutely wanted to know more about military service. What would happen in the military camps if he would decide to integrate in the national army to defend the national flag color? He really liked this striped uniform like the skin of a zebra because when he would see his dad dressed in his military uniform, he thought his father was one of the heroes that he was watching in cartoon movies. Because his dad always used to tell him, “Being a military is to be a psychologist. Being a psychologist is to be strong mentally and know how to keep secretly everything we see in military camp in a corner of the head. Everything that happens in a military camp stays in the camp.” He also added, “My boy, you are still little. Be patient, when you will be older, you will know a lot about it. You will know what a soldier in mission is.” His dad answered him, nodding his head. That dark face intrigued Samba Diallo. But by fear, the rest of his questions stayed blocked
in his throat like Eden’s Apple. He used to believe his parents to be protectors and immortal gods. Under their wings, he felt safety. Unfortunately, during the last visit, his parents were so weak, no more than a chick that was just hatching from the egg. Unable to defend themselves, nor could they defend Samba Diallo. Yet Samba Diallo wanted to be the guardian of national sovereignty and his genetic umbrella used to tell him to be a powerful man like Kiriku, as in his childhood movies, face the power of Karaba, the sorceress, making him play on word games. Tom and Jerry and other movies were fantastically funnies but the power of Kiriku was going to save his whole clan.
Meanwhile, the shells, the cannons of war, and grenades were exploding everything. The bursts of war were flying above their heads and the melody of gunshots sounded over the night. That was a great orchestra in the dark. The shouts of despair were the choristers to this nocturnal orchestra of terror. However, everybody was completely ignoring the key organizers of bloody festivals that were traumatizing millions of people and throwing them on the street. It’s oftentimes absurd to dream of seeing a beautiful hairstyle on the head of a guinea fowl. No one will want to wear the hat of this human butchery, due to which the traumatized innocents were heavily paying for painful consequences in the terrors and blood.
“Sometimes, it’s a docile goat that gives a violent kick in a stomach that we do not expect,” said the madman sitting on the bench in the park. Habitually, everybody was peaceful living together and the city was very quiet in the early morning like a stagnant water in the upper neighborhoods. Apart from these, the roosters that crowed in the early morning, some government employees who were going to work, and the factory workers of this factory that was polluting the air at the exit of the city were the ones who would be awake. But unfortunately, that day, the roosters that used to wake people up early morning did not crow at the same time.
The smoky cloud prevented sunrays to light strongly. It felt like it would rain in next hours. The sky was cloudy. And an infinite number of people were running in all directions with whatever they could bring, to find a safe place. There were a hundred people heaped in a tiny, unfinished house and some people were soaking in the bloodbaths. The decapitated human bodies, some bodies were twisting from pains caused by machetes. Some human ghosts totally calcined were instinctively crawling to be safe somewhere under the sky covered by a smoky cloud. Most of them had crushed skulls in which bloody brains were coming out. Many people amassed like a bunch of woods burning from gas.
Meanwhile, Samba Diallo did not realize the gravity of injury housed on his stomach. Nobody was daring to make noise, thinking a little noise could lead them to the slaughterhouse. No one could talk either. Only the eyes could move where they wanted to move. No one could prohibit these eyes to see all these horrible massacres. To prohibit them, it was necessary to close them. But, nobody wanted to die with closed eyes like a blind who has his eyes open, living in an eternal dark under the light. The day and night were identical to their eyes if they were not located in time. No one could prevent the air that was penetrating their lungs and get it out.
The sun was very high. The shade was indicating it. On the central roads, the puddles of blood were connecting together and forming human blood canals. From that day of intensive bombardment, a big hole and a huge frustration got housed on Samba Diallo’s heart and got lost in total confusion.
Journey
An afternoon, an old truck of a dozen meters long was slowly snaking in the turning between buildings’ debris. It was moving at an average speed towards people squeezed in destroyed buildings. Few minutes later, the long truck stopped. People told Samba Diallo to follow them and get on the old long truck. Getting on the old engine was like getting on the last commercial vehicle at the Lagos market. Old people, whether they were women or men, young girls, young boys, and less young were nearly pushing each other to get a seat in the truck. Some people were climbing on the edges. Everyone wanted to get a good seat. Nobody wanted to let others get on the truck. Nobody wanted to miss this long unique engine. They were not able to bring forth their gallantry at that precise moment. Yet, there was no seat inside the truck. It looked like an old opened coffin.
After getting on the truck, the closing of the big door made of woods and some iron bars, maintained by some ropes of woven lianas, made an enormous noise. It was so hard to restart the truck. Few minutes later, the old engine started working again. Samba was less distracted by that commotion from the truck door. The long truck started heading to the opposite direction of the sun. And the journey began.
Samba Diallo sat at the bottom of the truck of about thirty tons. He felt sad for himself and a river of tears was flowing on his calcined face. He really wanted to die, but his human instinct did not want to see himself dying. He was traumatized and terrified. His mind used to reject automatically what his eyes was seeing. He used to refuse to believe the reality of these nights that he had endured. But the long truck was continuing to move forward toward the opposite direction of sun. The long truck was overloaded with men, women, and children who had certainly lost at least one member of their family and were squeezed against each other like fish in a fishing boat. No one had the courage to tell what happened to them. They were just looking at each other like a club of deaf. Probably, nobody wanted to widen the pain of others.
Suddenly, a shout came up from the bottom of the long truck. “Have you seen my sister?!” said an unknown person, seemingly the voice of a young man. No one dared answer him either. And the long truck kept tracking on its way.
After crossing many military checkpoints, the long truck started speeding up, and the dust started invading this human flock squeezed in the truck. They were leaving their hometown, kilometer after kilometer, and Samba Diallo was looking at the city through a small hollow of the truck. At the horizon, he could see himself moving away from the land where he had grown. The country of his ancestors. The land that was dirtying his shoes. He was moving away from the beautiful smiles of his classmate, with who he used to share a bunch of funny stuff on the playground in the schoolyard. The souvenirs of holidays. The sweet kisses and sweet songs sung in the bed by his genetic umbrella. The souvenirs of his genetic umbrella’s soft palms on his cheek, like the softness of the sunlight at sunset, every morning before running toward his class. The long truck of a dozen of wheels was overloaded, and some wheels were already busted. There were no spare wheels. The diesel engine was getting heated up very quickly and the radiator also was a sieve. The truck apprentices were filling the radiator up with dirty water from streams. They did not filter this dirty water before filling the radiator. They were doing that almost every quarter of hour. The breakdowns were multiplying, resulting in many endless stops. Samba Diallo had no idea where they were going. But he knew where they were going was too far from his home. Some people were murmuring that the distance they had already rolled was the quarter of the distance to travel while they already journeyed hours, days, nights, and weeks in the same harsh conditions. At that moment, Samba Diallo was guessing about the number of months or years they would spend in this unsupportable condition before geting to this unknown destination on a stony road where they were getting whipped by tree branches hung on the road. Under the weight of his sadness and confusion, he was discreetly observing the trees moving. And he had the impression that these trees were also moving likewise as the truck. However, the vehicles on fire like scrap waste were not moving. Out of curiosity, Samba Diallo asked his truck neighbor, dressed in red and blue creased shirt, if they were going in the same direction as the trees. His truck neighbor looked at him nervously. And he made him understand by a nod.
“Trees are not competing against our old truck. Trees are not moving. They cannot move. Trees have never moved from their places, only the truck is moving,” said the truck neighbor, looking Samba Diallo with his scratched face. Samba Diallo could not believe him. Every time Samba Diallo tried to watch the trees, they moved. But they would stop moving when
the long truck was trying to slow down. In this swirl of dust and this dreadful heat like a 450-degree Celsius oven, Samba Diallo would drown in the hot sweat from other people. Meanwhile, the long truck was speeding up like chameleon that was watching his prey of the day.
After many days of journey, the tiredness could be felt on all the charred faces and the crying of kids were making some people mad. But they did not dare to say it openly. They were afraid of the reactions from the mothers who were protecting their newborns, as does a lioness. A small gesture of provocation could explode the deadly anger that the travelers had accumulated from the beginning of the journey against the long truck and its driver. Everybody was trying to avoid this spark. No one wanted to trigger the spark that could generate quickly. And the journey could be ended up in a forest. They could not say they were traveling in a rolling coffin in presence of the truck owner. As a matter of fact, the long truck was made for the transport of cattle and heavy goods. But the long truck was especially bittersweet for these hopeless travelers, because this necessary evil was moving them away from the city that was boiling in a lava.
Whenever the light of rays of the sun were getting devoured at dusk by the obscurity, the driver was parking the long truck by the side of road, on a slope to make easier the restart. It was not for safety reasons like a driver of a logging truck who was respecting the road codes to avoid an eventual accident. The driver was parking because there was no electric wire to power the turn signals. And the travelers were spending all night on the plant leaves under the moonlight, listening to the beautiful melodies from the insects, under the trees around the wood fire fighting against the cold. Sometimes, people let themselves be hopelessly beaten by the rain because of lack of umbrellas. Even if the umbrella was a metal weapon in the eighteenth century, it could be useful for them to cushion the tons of millimeters of water that were crashing on their heads. However, in the case of a breakdown, travelers were nervously struggling to remove the long truck in the plowing, using rudimentary means. In this humid atmosphere, the wet clothes used to dry on their bodies, thanks to the wind. And a harmful smell was invading the whole truck. The travelers could not breathe that air. It smelled awful. People who were allergic to this toxic smell and gas smell were vomiting all the rotten mangoes they had eaten. At the back seat of the truck, there was an old man in his sixties, with a bushy beard, dying of tiredness. His face was less smiling than a Buddha statue. According to him, the red monkey that had crossed the road at the beginning of the forest was the main cause of all the miseries that had struck them during the journey. None of these travelers had any idea that this old man was troubled mentally by the furious bombardments, but still had a strong superstitious sense after these troubling nights of spring 2011, or he wanted to cheer up the rest of travelers and make them laugh. Anyway, all of them believed in this myth of this old man mentally affected by the explosive grenades. But the suffering remained nearly as it was. The journey seemed endless.