by Ben Dosso
In some cultures, the dead spends some time at the morgue and a vigil before to be buried. But the day Amy passed away, her body had been thrown away a little far from the tent where Samba Diallo and the other travelers were living so as not to breathe the smell from the deceased like some hundreds of people who had already died from thirst and hunger. There was only a torn coat as a shroud to cover her face. The sand was getting hot. The barefoot travelers could feet it. For the teens who had thrown Amy’s body away, it was just a kid’s game. Because it was the day they were together unattended. Samba Diallo and other kids thought that Amy would join them later. They thought she was taking a nap, as nap is always good for the health. But, as the days went by, Amy did not get out of her infinite sleep. And she was becoming a bog body on the hot sand. Nothing rots on the desert. Any cadaver dries by the heat from the sand.
After this conditional release, the emotion of dying like an excavation under the sand had begun to install in Samba Diallo’s mind. The punishment that the soldiers were inflicting to people was mostly harder because of the non-payment of the ransom that they wanted. Samba Diallo was designated to be one of the children soldiers because there was nobody who could pay for the ransom to free him. And as he was a little stubborn like a donkey for refusing to be a child soldier, his knees were scarred like the skin of a zebra by being forced to kneel on the hot sand. The blows of sticks would rain on him anytime he disobeyed the orders imposed on him. Samba Diallo preferred to die than be a child soldier; he did not want to tarnish the name of his mother. He did not want her soul to grieve and for people to dishonor her name, as in his culture it was believed that if a child took to wrongdoings, it was the mother who was blamed for the child’s erroneous upbringing. He had already seen pregnant women disemboweled during the two wars that he endured. He had seen children slaughtered, hearts torn out and cut into smaller pieces distributed to the soldiers for ritual sacrifices to increase their mystic powers. Then, he was determined to not touch destructive guns. Samba Diallo could have become a criminal child because he only learned the school of violence throughout his childhood life. He could have become a ruthless child soldier terrorizing the whole world by claiming his life was already destroyed because of the disappearance of his genetic umbrella. But, this idea of revenge in the blood was rejected by his conscience despite being insulted. The benevolence of his genetic umbrella had remained a guideline to him. And the weight of his faith was probably equivalent to his vision about the humanity. His soul and his humanism were weighing in the balance more than his monstrous ideas of revenge. On the other hand, even if he could explode the world with anger, his scars would not be treated. The maternal love of his genetic umbrella would no longer be brought back to him. Despite this clumsy and unhealthy ideology that people were invading his mind with, telling him that the real world did not exist on Earth, and that the world we live in is full of kuffar (disbelievers).
The sun was going down, Samba Diallo could see his shadow disappearing in the dark. And the darkness was exercising its power. The sky was not cloudy like other days. Surrounded by his old incurable scars and stretched on the cold ground, he was observing stars scintillating in the sky and the movement of the moon. He had the impression that he was swimming in the lavas of a volcano in eruption. He also had the impression that the earth was opening and closing in speed to break his vertebral columns. Everything was collapsing down around him. He thought the world in which he was living was different from the real world. That the entire world was piercing his whole body with a burning iron. That the sun was refusing to come up by his side and when it tried to come up by his side, it was coming up in the inverse sense. In this moment, he did not want to believe someone else’s word anymore. He was rather believing the mental pressure inflicted by his oppressors. Samba Diallo was generally doubting about the existence of the real world. To his eyes, every single second was turning into a minute. Any minute was turning into an hour. An hour was turning into a day. Likewise, every single day was turning into a week. Any week was also turning into a month. Any month was turning into year. Every single year was turning into a decade. A decade was turning into a century. A century was turning into a millennium and a millennium was turning into an eternity. It seemed to him that the time had completely stopped. Meanwhile, Samba Diallo was not getting old nor his beard was growing like others’. Only lack of food was bothering him, and the thirst was devouring him from day to day; the journey was turning into an eternal journey.
Meanwhile, the insect sounds were giving Samba Diallo the hope that he was still living. Suddenly, he felt a crazy laugh come over him when he began thinking about his peaceful childhood. The beautiful smiles of his genetic umbrella were scrolling through his mind as if he was in a movies’ field. Moreover, he thought a little bit about his invisible dad. Samba Diallo thought his father used to torture kids and massacre their family in order to build them a happy life. He realized now why his father did not want to tell him more about what would happen if he would want to go into military in his future. His dad had just told him that the rules were very strict, in addition he was still small to understand a bunch of things. For Samba Diallo, being at the head of any organization meant to save people and serve people who really required welfare, it wasn’t to terrorize people. Over the years, Samba Diallo was undergoing the mental and physical pressures. Anyway, it was the only violence that he had known since he had left his home, what worse people were daily teaching him because of his lack of physical and intellectual maturity. And when he was coming out of his childhood bubble, he realized that being at the head of an army troop meant reigning with terror over the population. And terrorize people by spilling blood, especially the human blood, without realizing the suffering inflicted on innocent children who were over there.
It is really a huge sin to take away someone’s life at an early age. In an incurable painful injury; Samba Diallo learned then to read people’s thoughts inside of him. He began learning how to understand people in his own way. The outside world was violently aggressive. In general, in the battlefields, people kill to scare others, not because they want to kill, but they kill not to get killed by their adversaries. The powerful never sully their own fingers. They use children as scapegoats to do their dirty work for them on the pretext for providing them a better life. And if these street children don’t do what they want them to do, they’re threatened and forced in unimaginable ways.
The little tent under which Samba Diallo used to be during this part of his journey was a kind of prison. This prison was the most watched place. But oftentimes, there were loopholes when the chief Mohamed with the gray beards of bad preacher was absent. And as the surveillance was down that day, Samba Diallo took advantage of this security decline to meet some soldiers and make a friend. Making a friend was also like putting a pressure on someone to move a fierce animal’s teeth out. In this camp, the eyes could see everything happening. Ears could also hear everything. But nobody could share a word with others. The mouth was a silent assistant, but an eyewitness. Samba Diallo had already taken the time to observe people one by one in this torturer camp. Inasmuchas, kids always react politely according to the good education acquired with their genitors. It is oftentimes pretty much the same reaction of a pet that reacts instinctively according to the actions of his master. Kids generally are easier to disorient psychologically. They become exemplary adults in the society according to the level of good education that has been inculcated into them when they were running in all directions in the garden. Then, Samba Diallo had put his whole hope on the smallest one among these soldiers because kids understand each other at a glance. However, it is necessary to be careful in apparently calm watercourses sometimes. One could drown easily if they do not know how to swim. This Little Boy was one of the must-have pieces in this Islamic Group. Samba Diallo knew that the Little Boy had put all his hope in an important place in these soldiers’ leader’s heart. By the size, Samba Diallo was a little taller t
han the Little Boy. But the Little Boy was more energetic physically than Samba Diallo, thanks to his experience in this group. By look and expressions of the Little Boy, Samba Diallo was perhaps a little bit older than him. Mathematically, the Little Boy should be at least fourteen. In school, Samba Diallo wasn’t good at mental arithmetic. The mathematics was loving him still, but he never tried to be passionate about mathematics in return. He never understood why. Perhaps it was all in Samba Diallo’s mind—he had made it into a red devil. However, his teacher used to tell him to make a little effort, that he could do better. He could have tried to understand math, but he let myself sink into his ignorance. Maybe he did not want to unconsciously honor Pythagoras while the arithmetic followed him every single day.
Apart from this idea, Samba Diallo did not have another way to escape this prison. He was mad with rage. He absolutely needed a potential accomplice to run away with. The weight of the pain was destroying him. And he did not want to die early with this severe pain in his neck. The stakes were high. He played his last card hoping to get the trust of the Little Boy. With their ideas together, they could eventually manage to escape this hell. Samba Diallo then put all the chances on his side. He used then the politeness formula that his genetic umbrella taught him when he was in the cradle. His genetic umbrella loved kids as if she was working in an orphanage. She was so docile. She was his guardian angel. With her, the life was a huge paradise where he could get lost. He could get lost through an imaginary universe as well. He did not care about anything his genetic umbrella used to do every single day for him. To feed him. “I want to be what my genetic umbrella was. When I grow up, I mean. Because she always was kind to people. She was as if she used to work in an orphanage. I positively kept her docility in a corner of my head. I wanted to be like her by drawing the path of peace with other children who were always blinding themselves in the childish system. But not this gentle genetic umbrella used as object of exploitation. Used merely as consumption for her function of biological reproduction marginalized and ignored. Used as a voiceless woman under the shade of her husband. Not, this genetic umbrella humiliated under the eyes of her own kids because of her right claimed. Not, this mutilated genetic umbrella programed for submission who does no longer live because of the social burdens. If I was a little girl, I mean,” said Samba Diallo with enthusiasm. His genetic umbrella was his mentor. With this intention in his head, Samba Diallo took the first step in approaching Little Boy discreetly and surely. He firstly greeted him, hoping to get an answer. He was waiting for an answer to lead off a conversation in case of kindness from Little Boy. They could probably build a friendship. But Little Boy remained silent. He did not look at Samba Diallo nor answer his greeting. The mistrust of an unknown was a code already studied in this discipline. The unknown always is seen as an enemy. Therefore, Little Boy didn’t have the courage to open his mouth by constraint. Samba Diallo thereafter returned to his seat with a heavy, shameful head. He was desperate. He thought the whole plan that he had long drawn had just failed. He thought Little Boy did not understand him. He questioned himself about different strategies.
Later when Samba Diallo was affected by the emotional shocks of his eternal journey, Little Boy discreetly joined him under the tent with precaution. Little Boy did not have enough confidence to do so when he was among this army group. Samba Diallo did not expect that Little Boy would join him later. Samba Diallo did not know likewise that Little Boy would have needed him so much. Little Boy greeted him in another dialect. Fortunately, Samba Diallo had learned some words of this dialect during his long journey.
“Did we see each other before?” asked Little Boy a little aggressively.
“No,” said Samba Diallo slowly.
“Why did you greet me then?” said Little Boy loudly.
“I-I-I-I don’t know. I just wanted to make a friend,” said Samba Diallo.
Samba Diallo was a little bit scared. He thought Little Boy had come to hurt him. These men were not human beings anymore. But Little Boy didn’t want to scar Samba Diallo. Little Boy then reassured Samba Diallo, adding, “I know you saw a bunch of bad things here, and during your journey. But don’t be afraid, man. Be reassured, I am not like them.”
Samba Diallo then breathed a handful of fresh air. Once again, a cool warmth blew his heart. Rapidly, a childish instinct began running on a good wheel despite the distrust. The two boys began then meeting each other secretly at nighttime without anyone knowing about it. Because of the bad looks from the chief Mohamed, Little Boy was already warned not to talk to someone else.
Day after day, the blind trust was setting up. They were becoming one and indivisible. The day was becoming longer and longer so they would meet again in the evening. When Little Boy would join him under the tent and as they became friends, Samba Diallo understood that Little Boy needed someone with whom he could talk to. And well, the mistrust was getting away, and the trust was getting in. The two boys could trust each other. They were sharing all the secrets and were laughing about them. Before leaving at night, they had promised each other to talk about their journey. Each of the two boys was in a hurry to tell his story. They had promised themselves. Samba Diallo did not close his eyes that night. The time used to be too long for him. He had the impression that the time had stopped, and the day no longer wanted to come up on the horizon. He lost momentarily his patience but was so excited still to be the first to talk his story. Samba Diallo could no longer wait to escape from there also.
After a long night, the sun’s rays were rising at the horizon and the sun had started moving so slowly. The day was also going slowly. Samba Diallo wanted to put a rope to the sun to pull it down to see his new friend, Little Boy. Little Boy likewise. But Samba Diallo could not reach the sun. He was just a tiny object sitting on the sand dune more than a million kilometers from the sun. And when the sun would lay down after a long day, Samba Diallo would impatiently wait for his friend, Little Boy, under the tent. But, Little Boy missed the rendezvous at the same time. The time at which they were meeting each other. Samba Diallo was dying of worry for him and a line of less important words was invading his mind. He spent all night in a cloud of worries. Some days he would be exhausted. Samba Diallo did not see his friend, Little Boy. He did not also know what happened to him. And he could not ask someone else either. That had sparked a number of questions in him. They knew only each other by their faces but not by their names. One day after a few days of absence, Little Boy reappeared as if by miracle. It was a joyful night for both the boys. They were so happy to see each other again. They hugged each other. The emotion was a joy of the century. In this short-lived joy, they all forgot their promises they had made before they were separated from each other again.
The next night, they met again. They did not want to be separated from each other anymore. Finally, they remembered their promises. Samba Diallo remembered about their promises. He demanded then to Little Boy.
“Where are you been?” said Samba Diallo.
“I wasn’t here,” said Little Boy.
“Alright, tell me how long have you been living here?” said Samba Diallo.
“I live here, there are a long time ago,” said Little Boy, taking a dose of white powder to refresh his memory.
“Really?” said Samba Diallo.
“Yes, since I came here, I always see the sun coming up at the left from my little tent and it is going down at its right. And it’s a daily routine. Yesterday was the same ritual. Today, the sun is already above of our heads. The shade of my tent can indicate it. And tomorrow, you can verify it by yourself,” said Little Boy.
“But, why do you smoke these weeds and this white powder anytime you speak? They are dangerous for health, right?” questioned Samba Diallo.
“Maybe these weeds and this white powder like you call them could be dangerous for health, but they are my companions of every day. Without these different doses, I can’t live, I would be nothing. I could continue to breathe but not to be ab
le to execute at the criminal orders from my chiefs to honor their hierarchies,” said Little Boy. Adding, “Give me a second, the walls have ears now (looking outside to be reassured nobody was listening to their conversations). It’s one of thousand reasons I find refuge in the drug to forget a little bit about the pictures of atrocities I saw before. The crimes we commit day by day under the reign of these human sharks. They are thinking only about their own profits. They don’t care about the kid’s shouts in distress. The innocent kids who are dying from hunger and thirst. Sometimes, in the hellfire they light up like a lighter. They are destroying everything for conquering the world at the fanfare of machetes, rifles, and gusts.”
“Have you ever taken part of a massive destruction?” said Samba Diallo.
“Yes, a couple times,” said Little Boy.
“How did you get here?” asked Samba Diallo.