by Donna White
“But there was one man,” Charlie interrupted again, “a poor peasant man called Waswa, who told the king he would kill Sesota.”
Charlie’s grandfather patted the ground beside him, and Charlie returned to his seat.
“The king brought him many spear and big hunting knife, but Waswa turned his back on the weapon, telling the king that the only thing he needed was . . .”
“A large water pot and some blue bead and some brass and ivory bracelet and a ring,” Charlie said with a quick nod.
“After the king gave all these thing to him, Waswa began his journey with his little ka-son who carried the water pot with the brass and bracelet and ring inside. While they walked, Waswa played his reed pipe and his son sang this song.”
Charlie’s father reached across and took his hand. They joined with his grandfather and sang:
“Sesota, Sesota, the king of the snake,
Beautiful present I bring.
The king of Uganda has sent me today,
With bracelet and bead and a ring.”
“Now as you know,” his grandfather continued, “snake adore the sound of music, and as Sesota heard them approaching he sang back to them.”
The grandfather lowered his voice and sang:
“I am Sesota, the king of the snake:
Two bold intruder I see.
But if they bring me the gift of a king,
They will be welcomed by me.”
Charlie grinned at his father, then turned his attention to his kwaro.
“When Waswa and his son came to the village, they sat near a deserted house where the boy put down the water pot and hid. All the while, Waswa played his pipe and waited and waited. Finally, the snake slithered down the hillside and along the village road until it came to the house and looked into the water pot to see the present. This was when Waswa sang another verse of his song:
“Sesota, Sesota, the king of the snake,
Enter this water pot here.
The king of Uganda has sent you a bed,
On which you shall sleep for a year.
“Sesota slithered into the water pot, coiling his body around and around until the tip of his tail tickled both his tiny nostril. All the while, Waswa played his pipe very softly and slowly:
“Sesota, Sesota, Sesota, Sesota, Sesota . . .
“The great snake closed one eye, then the other, and fell fast asleep.
“Quickly and quietly, without making even the sound of a mouse scampering in the tall grass, the young boy crept up and put the lid on the water pot and tied it down. Waswa picked up the pot, and they walked back to see the king. Along the way they sang this song:
“Sesota, Sesota, the king of the snake,
Sleep on the bed of a king.
Beat all the drum, play all the harp,
Dance and make merry and sing.
“And that is exactly what happened. Every person in the village ran out of their house until the street were filled with singing and dancing and beating drum and playing harp because the great snake that had eaten so many people had been caught.
“And then the king ordered a bonfire to be built, and they burned Sesota the great snake. The king put both his arm around Waswa and beamed. ‘The village of Kalungu is now yours, and you shall be chief, and your children and their children will rule this village for all time, and they shall be called Wakalungu.’”
Grandfather grinned and patted Charlie on the back.
“Is the story true, Grandfather?”
“Of course it is true. Why would you ask such a thing? You only have to go to the village of Kalungu and ask Waswa children. They will say it is as true as you are you.”
“But where is Kalungu, kwaro? I have not heard of this village.”
“Eeh? My ka-boy, it is where the sky rest on the earth and the earth hold the sky in her arm.”
“But where is that?”
“Eeh? You ask too many question, Charlie. If I were to tell you all I know, you would think yourself wise, and wisdom only find it home in the old. And I am very old.”
Charlie closed his eyes and held tightly onto the memory. It had been a long time since he had allowed his mind to wander back and see such good things. He laid his head down and enjoyed the slight comfort of the mattress as it cushioned him from the hard ground. He detached himself from the sounds that kept him awake—the wind and the crickets and the leaves—until he found himself in a world where he was dancing around and around a pot left to burn on a fire, singing, “Sesota, Sesota . . .”
Chapter 3
There can be no peace without understanding.
~ Senegalese proverb
Charlie sat bolt upright and stared into the darkness. The chicken that had been roosting contentedly in the washbasin gave an indignant squawk and flew out of the hut. Charlie hurried to the edge of the doorway and peered into the yard. It was still and quiet. Nothing moved. He darted out of the entrance and hugged the wall until he was at the back of the hut, facing the outer bush. Glancing to each side, he ran the short distance until he was well into the cover of the trees. He leaped onto the thick trunk of a tree and hugged the smooth bark with the sides of his shoes and the palms of his hands, and then climbed to its top, stopping in the dense foliage.
Slowly and silently, he turned toward the yard and crouched behind the leaves, looking down. Within seconds, a teenage boy walked into the clearing. Charlie noted the bow held firmly in his hand and the quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder. The boy was joined by another, and then another, until the yard was filled with a group of a dozen or more, each wielding a weapon. Some, like the first boy, brandished bows and arrows, while others carried machetes or thick clubs with darkened tops.
The first boy turned and faced the group. One hand directed half of them into the bush to the right, while a quick tilt of the head sent the others hurrying into the brush near the tree where Charlie sat, hidden.
Charlie narrowed his eyes and stared at the boys as they crept cautiously into the jungle.
What is this? he thought, mouthing the words.
An arrow whizzed past his ear and landed in the branch near his head.
“If you are thinking I am a clumsy shot with the bow, you are wrong. Come down and explain yourself. If you do not, the next arrow will find itself in your heart.”
Charlie climbed down the tree. He raised both arms and stood quietly, eyeing the arrow strung in the bow, aimed directly at his chest.
“What are you doing, spying on us?”
“I am not spying on you,” Charlie said, lowering his arms.
“Then why were you up in that tree? A bit late for a ka-boy to be out hunting, yes? Will not your maa be worried her son is out late late after his cawa marac? You should be safely tucked into your blanket, with your maa kiss on your cheek now that it is past your bedtime.”
Charlie glared.
The teen drew closer to him and bent down to examine his face. He stood easily a foot taller than Charlie. From the hint of stubble on his chin, Charlie guessed he was well past his sixteenth year. “I have not seen you before. I have not seen you in the village or the refugee camp. You do not belong here, spying on us. Is that what you are? A spy? A spy sent by Kony?”
The boy whistled and the sound carried out into the bush like evening birdsong. In less than a minute, the rest of the group rejoined them, and a dozen pairs of eyes glared at Charlie. Some of the teens eagerly aimed their machetes and arrows at him, while a few others simply looked at him and smirked. Charlie dropped his gaze to the ground.
“Anyone know this boy? Is he from your village, Peter?”
A boy with arms as long as his legs eyed Charlie up and down. “No. Do not know him, Jonasan.”
“How about you, Michael Jackson? You ever see him?”
Charlie looked up to see a boy whose nose was as flat as his forehead.
“No.”
Jonasan kicked the back of Charlie’s legs and forced him to his knees. “Tie his arm,
Peter,” he said, tossing a rope to the boy.
Peter yanked Charlie’s arms behind him and began to bind the rope around Charlie’s small wrists. “He has got the rope burn.”
“Eeh?” Jonasan said, stepping in closer.
“See. The mark of the rope, here on his wrist. They go deep, too.” Peter ran his fingers over the pink scars.
Jonasan walked around Charlie, looking at his back, his legs, and finally, his face. “When were you taken by Kony?”
Charlie pressed his lips together and remained absolutely still.
“Do not deny it. Only kid from the LRA have scar like that on their wrist. Where are you from? Answer the question, ka-boy.”
Charlie closed his eyes. His head dropped to his chest.
“Answer me!” Jonasan kicked him in the back. He fell and didn’t move.
“Tie him. And do it tight.”
Peter finished wrapping the rope around Charlie’s wrists and yanked it tight. Charlie clenched his teeth as he stiffened in fear.
When the rope was secure, Jonasan grabbed Charlie by his hair, lifted him up, and set him back on his knees. “Now, ka-boy, if you do not want to tell us these thing, it will be very easy for us to form our own answer. Right now, I am saying to myself you are with the LRA, because you do not deny it. And right now, I think you are here, sent by Kony, to spy on our camp and see what sort of protection the government has given to us.”
Jonasan tilted Charlie’s head back and stared until Charlie opened his eyes. For a few seconds they held each other’s gaze. A little tear formed in Charlie’s eye and rolled off his face.
The hard lines around Jonasan’s mouth softened. He released his grip and walked toward the boys. “But there is the chance you have escaped and must put many mile between you and the LRA.” He stood in front of Charlie and looked down at him. “So what is it, ka-boy?”
Charlie lifted his head and looked directly at the commander of the group. He inhaled a long breath. His words came out in a forced whisper. “My name are Oicho Charlie. I escaped from the LRA seven night ago.”
Jonasan nodded. “Okay, Charlie. Now the giraffe has come to the watering hole. Tell us where you are from.”
“Padibe.”
“And how long ago were you captured?”
“Two year.”
The boys looked at each other, then stared at Charlie.
“That is enough time for Kony to warp your mind and turn you against us. We have seen it happen when our many brother and sister came to raid our village. We could not recognize them for the evil that took over their mind.” Jonasan jerked Charlie’s chin up. “The thing is, ka-boy, we cannot trust you.” Jonasan turned to Peter. “Take him to the barrack and hand him over to the government army. Michael Jackson, you go with him. And do not take your eye off him. Ever. Not until he is safe in the hand of the UPDF.”
Peter jerked the rope and forced Charlie to his feet. Michael Jackson tapped Charlie’s chest with his machete, then used the weapon to point the way.
“My machet is sharp sharp,” Michael Jackson said. “The machet of the Arrow Boy is always sharp.”
Charlie headed out of the clearing and stepped onto the path, only to find his way blocked. A teenage boy who had not been with the group when they arrived stepped forward and looked from the rope to Charlie, then to Michael Jackson and Peter. “What is this?” he asked.
“The boy escaped from the LRA a week ago. We are taking him to the UPDF,” Peter said.
“Is this so?” The teenager stepped closer to Charlie and studied his face, staring long and hard into his eyes. He circled Charlie and bent down until they were almost nose to nose. Charlie felt the boy’s hot breath on his face—long and steady, like the beat of a war drum. Finally, he spoke. “I know him. He was with Otti Lagony when they lined us up at the school.”
Peter blinked. His eyes widened. “Are you sure, Naboth?”
Naboth forced each word out slowly. “I am sure. I know this face. He stood above me and my father at Atiak. He ran the bullet over us as we lay face into the ground.”
Naboth grabbed the rope from Peter and yanked it, dragging Charlie behind him. The teen’s steps were staggered and uneven. He stopped in front of Jonasan and the rest of the boys and shoved Charlie to the ground.
Naboth took the end of the rope and formed a loop.
“This boy was one of Otti soldier at Atiak. I know the face. He fired upon my father and me. He killed my father. He is the one. He is the one who filled my leg with bullet and left me a useless beggar boy.”
Naboth wrapped the end of the rope around the base of the loop and yanked it tight. He grabbed Charlie by the hair and shook him.
Jonasan rushed to Naboth and seized the rope. “You cannot hang the boy, Naboth. Maybe he did kill your wora, maybe he is a soldier from the LRA, but you cannot hang him. Let Peter and Michael Jackson take him to the UPDF and they will deal with him.”
Naboth pushed Jonasan and grabbed the rope from his grasp. He glared at Charlie. “Were you with Otti when he came to Atiak and killed many of the people of my village?”
Charlie’s head fell until his chin lay flat against his chest.
“Did you hold the gun and fire all the bullet?”
Charlie closed his eyes.
“See? He does not deny it!”
Naboth grabbed Charlie by the neck and shook him. “Did you?”
The explosive din of a thousand bullets firing resounded in Charlie’s mind.
“Did you?”
He saw the images of the still bodies and the pools of blood.
“Answer me!”
He could smell the acrid odor of bullets and the wasted stench of death. He gasped as he fought for breath. Falling flat to the ground, he clutched his ears.
Now applaud the work of the LRA!
Naboth thrust the rope over Charlie’s head and pulled it tightly around his neck. With a quick jerk, he dragged Charlie to the base of a tree. He threw the end of the rope over a branch and yanked. Charlie rose until his toes barely touched the ground. His arms lay still at his side, limp and lifeless. He looked at his faded blue Nike shoes, splattered with dried blood.
“Here is what I think of the LRA,” Naboth said. He pulled the rope until Charlie dangled in the air. A terrible gurgling noise came from Charlie’s throat as the rope tightened around his neck.
A girl’s voice shouted, “Put him down!”
Naboth yanked the rope. Charlie rose farther into the air.
The girl’s voice grew louder. “I said, put him down!”
The rope slid over the branch, and Charlie collapsed to the ground. He heard the faint sound of scattering footfalls while gentle hands pulled the rope from his neck. Charlie looked up into the darkest eyes he had ever seen. Two eyes, surrounded by white diamonds painted on a dark face. He closed his eyes and lost himself in a tunnel of darkness, devoid of sight, sound, and touch.
Chapter 4
A man who uses force is afraid of reasoning.
~ Akan proverb
Patches of sunlight flickered across the floor of the hut, touching Charlie’s face with brief, warm caresses. He heard the soft croo-doo-doo from a laughing dove as it pushed away the last of the night with its morning song. He opened his eyes and focused on the partially thatched roof above his head.
The chicken sat contentedly in the bowl on the top of the mud wall, staring down at him. Charlie let out a long sigh.
“Hello, again.” His words came out rough and grating. He reached for his throat, feeling the raw and bruised skin that the rope had left behind.
A whiff of smoke drifted into the hut and drew Charlie’s gaze out the door. A girl, wearing a floppy white hat and a long white dress, sat crouched over a fire. Wrapped tightly to her back in a colorful shawl, a young child lay sleeping, rocking gently with its mother’s busy preparations.
“It is a good thing you are not on night watch with the chop-chop,” the girl said, looking into the pot as she stirred. “
Or the LRA may be giving you your second hanging for your deaf ear and closed eye. The rooster crowed long ago, and you did not stir with all my coming and going.”
Charlie walked out the door and stood by the fire. His mouth watered as he breathed in the sweet aroma that drifted up to him from the pot. He swallowed and looked away.
The girl poured a thick brown liquid from the pot into a cup and passed it to Charlie. He took a step back and lowered his head.
“Eeh? It is unkind to refuse a gift. Here. Drink. Your body is in need of it.”
Charlie hesitated, then took the cup from the girl’s upstretched arms. Deep brown eyes, encircled by white diamonds, stared back at him. She smiled briefly, taking Charlie by surprise. He gazed at her hands and noted their size: small, only slightly bigger than his.
He gulped the warm liquid down. The coarse mixture rubbed against his raw throat like sand before it rested contentedly in his stomach.
“Here, you must take more.” The girl refilled the cup.
“Apwoyo matek. Thank you.”
“And what is the name your parent gave you?”
“Oicho Charlie.” He gulped the rest of the liquid down and passed it back to her.
“Oicho Charlie, I am by the name of Fire.” She patted the ground beside her. “Come and sit. You must tell me what angered the Arrow Boy so much that they were ready to kill you. And no, I do not want your thank. The spirit did not want you dead. That is the only reason I came. No other.”
Charlie sat beside Fire with his hands resting in his lap. He was silent.
“If you do not want to tell me this, then you must start at the beginning. Or near to it. Tell me, when did you escape from the chop-chop?”
Again Charlie answered with silence.
“You do not need to pretend with me,” she said. “I know what you are.”
Charlie startled at the girl’s choice of words: “what you are,” not “who you are.” He avoided her gaze and stared at the two sacks beside her. One lay open, exposing a small bag of rice, a knife wrapped in an old cloth, a couple of oranges, and the ends of a rope. The second bag, made from thick black cloth, lay closed, a rope securing its top.