by Donna White
Sam peered around a tree as Eseza rushed across the clearing, her dress wrapping around her legs as she ran through the tall grass. Eseza tied her dress around her hips and climbed the trunk until she was hidden within the sprawling branches. Seconds later she jumped down, her skirt acting like a basket, bulging with oranges. She ran back to the bush. “Follow me. We will find a safe place to eat. We are too close to the river and the field.”
Sam obeyed. She breathed in the delicious smell of the overripe fruit. Her mouth watered. She had to resist grabbing an orange from Eseza’s skirt and eating it, peel and all, right then and there.
When they came to a thick set of trees, Eseza sat down and placed the oranges on the ground beside her. Sam grabbed one and bit into it, ripping the peel away. She sunk her teeth into the fruit. The juice dribbled down her chin and covered her fingers. Within seconds, the orange was gone. She grabbed another while Eseza finished hers. They ate in silence, devouring the fruit, sucking the juice, chewing on the pulpy insides, and licking their fingers.
Sam stared at the pile of peels on the ground. She burped and wiped her hands on her pants. “That was good. Thanks, Eseza.”
“You are welcome to it, my muzungu woman.”
“I keep meaning to ask you. What the hell’s a muzungu?”
“It is what we call all white people when they come to Uganda.”
“Oh.” Sam paused. “What does it mean, exactly?”
“It means a person who is lost and does not know his way. It is a word our ancestor used when they met the first white people. The white people did not know where they were going and they were walking around and around in circle. Like they were dizzy. And muzungu, it is the word a tribe in Africa use for ‘dizzy.’”
“Well, you got that right. Never felt so dizzy in my life. Don’t know how I got here; don’t know where I’m going. Don’t know anything, that’s for sure.” Sam closed her eyes. “I’m just picturing my dad right now. He’s either livid because he thinks I’ve taken off, or he’s pacing the floor ’cause he thinks I’ve been abducted. Or both. Yeah, it’s probably both. That’s my guess.”
“Then we must get you to Charlie. Come. Let us go. We can travel in the darkness. I know the way well well.” Eseza tossed the orange peels, scattering them in different directions. She walked into the bush. Once again, Sam followed.
As they made their way, the jungle grew thicker and the girth of the trees larger and larger. Sam found herself grabbing long vines and flinging them out of her way as she tried to keep pace with Eseza.
“I would be careful doing that if I were you,” Eseza said.
“Why?”
“Because it is not only the vine that hang from the tree.”
Sam stopped in her tracks. “Oh.”
They continued at a quick pace until they found an old pathway, partially overgrown but still clear enough to make their travel easier. They walked for another mile and came upon a hut, standing alone. Its grass roof was burnt and its mud walls singed with black. A pile of charred logs lay beside it, and next to the logs was a skull. Sam turned her head, not wanting to look. The skull’s empty sockets appeared to stare at her, watch her, follow her.
“This is what Kony does,” Eseza said as she picked up the skull. “He send his men and boy in. Sometime ten, sometime twenty, sometime a little more, but they are not needing much men to go against us. They have the gun and we have nothing. We cannot fight them.”
“But . . . We? I thought you were—”
“Part of the LRA?” Eseza shook her head. “No, Sam. Did you not understand? Did you not see I must be one part but play another?”
She placed the skull back on the ground, grabbed a rock, and began to dig. Sam crouched and pulled the dirt away as Eseza dug.
“It has happened for year now. Many year. Since I can remember. The LRA attack our village. They burn the house, take the food and all the animal from us, and then they take the children. And they kill those who try to escape and those who try to fight back. Then they leave. And they leave those who are left behind to cry, and to hate, and to feel weak and helpless.
“Then they take us to the camp, and we are made to learn how to use the gun and set the mine and use the stick and rock and machet to torture and punish. And all the girl, we are made to be slave. To be used by the men and then made to be their wife and have their children.”
She placed the skull in the hole and covered it.
“And then we are made to murder. And when you have taken the life of your brother and sister from your village, those people you grew up with and who played with and cared for you, you do not want to go back. You are now konyi pee, dirt, not human, a stone that give no love and take none in.”
Eseza traced a cross in the dirt.
Sam studied her face, trying to comprehend everything she had just heard. “You were made to kill?”
“Yes. Many time.”
“And you don’t want to go back home?”
“No. Because I am ashamed. I did many horrible thing. Not just killing.”
Sam stopped and thought, What could be worse than killing? But she didn’t say it out loud. She only asked, “What horrible things?”
“Like spy on my own people.”
Sam nodded. “But—”
“There were some rumor of a group forming. Something started by the government and the people. They called themself the Arrow Boy, and they received some gun and bow and arrow to fight the LRA when it attacked. I was sent out here to spy and see if the rumor were true and what people dared to go against Kony.”
Eseza wiped her hands on her skirt. “I did not want to do this, but I had no choice. I was a good cover. I was a young girl with a young child, and no one would suspect me.”
“You have a child?”
“Yes. Many of the taken girl have children in the bush. I am no different.” Eseza sighed. “I found an abandoned hut. I painted my face to look like a witch doctor and gathered some bone. It was easy for me to do this. My mother is much respected as a healer in my village. I simply followed her way. But I did not know the way of the voodoo, the lajok. I had seen the men and women with their bone and horn and chant, so I did the same just. I said the word I remembered and I shook all the bone. And it was easy. And it was a good cover. People fear the lajok.
“Soon the people were coming to me, asking me to cure them and to tell them what the cloud would bring. Sometime they would ask me where their children were, if they were alive. And if I told them they were dead, they would ask me where they could find the bone. It is important to find the bone. They must be buried. It they are not, then the child spirit is angry and they will haunt the parent life.”
Sam’s mind reeled back to the moment when she was crouching in the hut, hearing the words, “Where is the child, Eseza? Where is Kony son?”
“Your child. Is Kony, the leader of this army, is he the father?”
Eseza dropped her head to her chest and closed her eyes. “Yes, he is. He is the father to many of the children there. He has many wife, like me.”
“And your child’s dead? I remember in the hut. I heard you say you had buried the child.”
“Yes, I said that. But it was only to protect him. If they knew he was alive, they would return to the village and take him and kill anyone who tried to stop them. Kony is very protective of his children. No, my son is well. He is safe with a woman near to my hut. When we get to the hut, I will take him and we will leave. I cannot fight any more battle against Kony. If I were to be caught again, my death would come only after many many hour of torture.”
Sam nodded. She understood.
“No, I will take my son and we will leave.”
“To find your mother and father?”
“No. I cannot do that.”
“Why? Why can’t you go home to your parents?” Sam paused and lowered her voice. “Are they dead?”
“No. They are alive, but—”
“But what?”
&
nbsp; “I am dead to them.”
“Dead? What do you mean?”
“I am a murderer and I am a spy. I cannot be trusted . . . And I am used. I am young and I have a child. I cannot marry now—no man will want me because I am not pure. And I cannot bring happiness to my mother and father life. I will be a burden to them just, and there will be no more grandchildren to put on their lap. The only grandchild they will have is a bastard child. And the father of that bastard is Kony, a murderer of his own people. They will have nothing to do with me or Maisha. No.” She paused again. “I am dead to my parent, my family, and my village.”
Sam squeezed Eseza’s hand. “But you’re their daughter and they love you. Parents are supposed to love their children no matter what, right?”
“Not after what has happened. It cannot be undone. They will think I am possessed. That I am capable of great evil. No, they will not trust me.”
Sam stared at her runners and then at Eseza’s bare feet. In the short time she had been in Uganda, Sam had already begun to see the differences between them. And it wasn’t just the lack of shoes. Eseza’s battles were real, fought with real guns against real people. She didn’t splatter them with neon-pink paintballs and laugh as they cried for mercy. That was one difference.
And she had a child. How old could she be, anyway? Fifteen, sixteen? Imagine a culture that placed a girl’s worth on her virginity and saw her as a burden until she was taken off their hands and married off. That was difference number two.
Eseza’s life was a constant struggle. Not only against her enemies, but also against her family, the very people who were supposed to love her. At least I have my dad and my friends to help me with all the hell I’m going through, she thought. Who does Eseza have?
Me, she thought. She cleared her throat. “I think you’re wrong, Eseza. I’ve seen what you did back at the camp. You let the boy sneak some food. You fed that other boy, Naboth, and gave him water. And you did the same for me. All at the risk of your own life. Wouldn’t your parents see that in you? ’Cause I did.”
“No. You do not understand the way of our people, Sam.”
“But think about what you were up against. An army! And how smart you are! You saved that boy’s life more than once. I saw what you did. Telling them he was a worthless beggar boy, bringing him into the shade of the hut, then convincing that ugly commander guy he shouldn’t kill him. Your parents will admire you for that. I know they will. They’d have to be stupid not to.”
“Please, Sam, let us go.”
“But if you told them all these things, they’d understand. They’d see that you’re brave. And kind.”
Eseza stood. “No. They would not. That is the way of my people. You cannot change what has been carved into their mind for generation after generation.”
“But I could tell them. Maybe if they heard of all the things you did at the camp, they’d realize how great a person you really are. And that would make them love you, despite Kony, despite what you were forced to do.”
“No.”
“But . . .”
Eseza turned and walked into the bush. Sam sighed and followed, watching Eseza’s bare feet step cautiously over the twigs and rocks that covered the unused path.
Chapter 22
If the rhythm of the drum beat changes,
the dance step must adapt. ~ African proverb
Sam stood at the edge of the bush and looked into a clearing. The first morning rays of sunlight cast shafts of pink light into the sky, warming the air and waking the morning songbirds from their slumber. A morning thrush called out: whe-eat, whe-eat ki ki ki. The silence and darkness of the night was fading.
“Salume and the children are not here,” Eseza whispered, walking out of the hut. She looked around the yard. The goalposts set near the edge of the bush were still there, as were the wooden chairs beside the hut. She looked at the goat pen. It was empty.
“There is nothing to show the LRA attacked here. I think Salume has taken my son and her children and they have gone somewhere. They may have gotten scared after me and Naboth went missing and decided to foot it to the refugee camp far far from here. Many many people stay there. They do not think Kony will attack the camp when the government soldier are guarding.” Eseza took one last look around. “Let us go to my hut. It is not far from here. Maybe Charlie is there and he can tell us.”
They set off again. Sam struggled to keep her eyes open and stifled a yawn as she tried to keep up with Eseza’s quick pace. Within minutes they reached another clearing. This one was devoid of any goat pens or any sign of life, past or present.
Eseza cautiously peered into one hut and then the other. She passed her hand over a black bag tucked against the wall. “There is no one here,” she whispered.
Sam looked into the mud enclosure. A small thin mattress lay on the ground. She leaned her head against the hut wall and sighed. “One minute,” she said. She walked inside and sat on the mat. “Just one minute,” she repeated. “One minute of sleep and I’ll be ready to go.” She put her head on the mat. “Eseza will understand. Just . . . one . . .” She closed her eyes and instantly fell asleep.
****
“Sam?” Eseza called out. “Sam, let us go.” She peeked inside the hut. “Sam?” Sam lay absolutely still. “Oh, my big smart muzungu Sam. You are tired. You rest. And I will watch.”
She sat in front of the hut, leaned her head against the wall, and stared into the surrounding bush.
A weaver bird called out and was joined by another, and another, until the forest was filled with a chorus of ko kweer and ko kweer ki sounds. Eseza laughed. “Do not worry, young men,” she called out to them. “I am sure you will all find a beautiful girl to lay her egg in your nest.”
Eseza sighed. She closed her eyes for a second and then startled herself awake. She slapped her cheeks and shook her head and blinked several times, trying to keep her eyes open. The jungle filled with monkey chatter and the tweets and trills of the morning birds. It soon became a lullaby. It was no use—she couldn’t shake the fatigue. Her eyes drooped and closed. She fell asleep.
Eseza woke and looked up as a shea nut dropped to the ground and landed at her feet. Another fell, narrowly missing her head. Two large eyes stared back at her. Charlie slid down the tree and stood before her.
He looked at her dirtied and torn dress and then at the rope burns on her wrists. “You escaped.”
“Yes.”
“You are hurt?”
“No. I am fine.” Eseza closed her eyes for a moment and sighed. “Sit,” she said, patting the ground beside her.
“I wanted to . . . I mean, I tried to get the other to come with me, Fire, but—”
“There is no need to explain, Charlie. Come. Sit and listen.”
Charlie sat.
Eseza drew in a long, deep breath and prepared herself. “I am afraid, Charlie. I am afraid of what I must tell you. Because I may lose you as a friend. But I have been afraid long long. And I am tired of this fear. Perhaps you will listen. Perhaps you will not. But I must speak the truth now. My name is not Fire. It is Eseza. This is the name my father and mother gave me. It is also the name I was called in the camp. By the general, the children, and Kony. But it is my name, and that is what I should be called.”
He nodded.
“I took the name Fire when . . .”
Charlie squeezed her hand. “It is fine. I do not need to hear.”
“But you need to hear the truth. You have told me many thing.”
“But I already know. It is fine, Eseza. We were all made to do horrid thing. And we all lived in fear.”
She returned Charlie’s squeeze and smiled. “You are good, Charlie. I am glad I saved you.”
“Saved me? But you said it was the spirit who wanted me saved, not you.”
“Well, that may not be entirely true.” Eseza laughed.
They stared into the canopy of the trees. A troop of vervet monkeys had begun their morning ritual, yawning and s
tretching. A young pair scampered through the treetops and chased each other, too preoccupied with the game to concern themselves with grooming. Eseza watched them and smiled.
She gazed at Charlie for a moment. The look on his face had become distant and vacant. “Are you still scared? I mean, does the ajiji still come and shake you?”
“Yes, but it is not what scare me.”
“What does?”
“Living.”
“Living?”
“Yes. Knowing that I am alive and I should not be. That I do not deserve to take any pleasure from life because I have done so much evil and stolen much from many other.”
Eseza nodded.
“Anytime I find the pleasure in something, like eating a ripened mango or hearing the hadada bird laugh in the tree when the sun show itself in the morning, I am afraid. I cannot take pleasure in it when I am remembering the people I took life from. They cannot take pleasure from these thing anymore. Why should I?”
“Yes. It is inside me, too.” Eseza drew in the dirt with her finger. “And I have seen this almost beat you. When I saw you hanging from the rope and your hand lying limp at your side, I saw a boy who had been defeated and whose fight for life had been lost. It was strange when I saw this. I was not afraid for you, but for me. I was scared this would happen to me, that I would come to accept that my life was no longer worth holding on to. And when the time came for me to fight for my life, I would not have the will to do so.”
Eseza held Charlie’s hands. “When I saved you, it was because I wanted to see if your fight for life would come back. And it did. I saw it. When you held the skull of the little boy and you cried, I knew you were human again.
“But each time the stone fell on you and your mind became the soldier mind, I cried inside, for I knew you were fighting a battle I was too cowardly to face.” She squeezed his hands harder. The tears began to fall.
“You have shown me a courage that I want, Charlie.”