When Elephants Fight

by Majok Tulba

  ‘Hey,’ the Dinka man calls out. ‘Hold on there.’

  I grip the gourd tightly and we continue on, but they catch us up and walk along with us a little way. Then the second man says, ‘What’s that under your shirt?’ His voice is calm and he’s smiling but my stomach drops.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say.

  ‘It’s not nothing. You wouldn’t be hiding it if it was nothing. Let me see it.’

  ‘No.’

  His friend smirks. ‘Come on now, we just want to see what you have. There’s no harm in letting us see, is there?’

  ‘We have to get back,’ I say. ‘We’re in a bit of a hurry.’

  ‘Give it here.’ The Dinka man grabs my arms and pulls them apart and the other man takes the gourd from under my shirt.

  ‘Give it back!’ I scream. ‘That’s ours!’

  ‘Not anymore. Now it’s ours.’

  I try to grab it back but the possum-eyed man knocks me to the ground like I’m no bigger than a gnat. When I try to scramble up Thiko sits on top of me and won’t let me up.

  ‘They’re stealing our corn!’ I shriek, struggling against her.

  ‘Let them go,’ she says. ‘It’s not worth it. There wasn’t much in there anyway.’

  Frustration bubbles inside me. I cry and hate myself for it but I can’t stop. The only thing I hate more is that Thiko is here to see it. She moves off me and rubs my arm, like Mama does. I sit up and she leans her head on my shoulder.

  I wipe at my eyes as I watch the men walk away. Back in Pacong, a grown man, a Dinka man with tribal marks, would never steal, especially not from a girl or a boy. But this man’s pride seems to have departed him. I remind myself that this is not Pacong. There’s no pride here in this camp. Pride is gone and buried. Now it’s only about survival.

  Once the men are some distance away, Thiko says, ‘Let’s go.’

  The sun is hanging low, beaming red as fire as we make our way through the camp, past children playing in the dirt who thankfully know nothing of what we’ve just seen.

  When we reach our area, we discover that the day hasn’t been all bad, because in place of our shelter is a tent. A proper tent! The light in my heart that went out in the food drop rekindles a little. The tent is big enough to accommodate more than ten people, although we’ve been given only three blankets.

  But Mama isn’t there. Nyanbuot says she went to look for me. ‘She heard shouting and was worried. I’m not supposed to leave the tent. I’ve been sitting here on my mat.’

  By the time Mama returns, the sun has long been down. I jump up when she pushes the tent flaps aside.

  ‘Where were you?’ she says immediately, rushing over to hug me. ‘Why didn’t you come back?’

  ‘I went to look for food from the plane drop. But it was madness, Mama. Everyone just went crazy. I wasn’t able to get anything.’

  ‘At least you’re unharmed,’ she says. ‘I thought you’d been trampled. I looked everywhere.’

  ‘I nearly had food,’ I say. ‘But someone took it off me.’

  Mama shakes her head. ‘Well, we mustn’t dwell on what is gone. It will only make the hunger worse. God will bring us something if we’re patient.’

  And I want to believe her, I do, but after that terrible fight I don’t know if I can. I’m not even sure God is still in this country. If he still remembers us. But at least we have a tent now, protection from the weather, and that’s enough to bring my hope back. Thiko and her mother, I discover, have been given a tent not far from ours.

  That night, Yomjima comes to see us. She has a cloth in her hand, folded around something.

  ‘This is for the three of you,’ she whispers to Mama and Nyanbuot and me. She unwraps the cloth and lying there are cooked corn grains and little cups of something pale.

  We just stare at her and she says, ‘Go ahead, I already ate. I saved this for you.’

  Our thanks seem inadequate but we eat. The pale stuff in the cups is applesauce, which I’ve only tasted once before, when a neighbour in Pacong was sent some by a relative. It’s sweet and soothing on my throat. I lick my fingers for every last trace.

  When we’re done, Mama takes Yomjima’s hand. ‘Yomjima . . . I don’t know how to thank you.’

  ‘Shh,’ she says, ‘don’t you be silly. You’d have done the same for me.’ Her face turns solemn. ‘It was terrible out there.’

  Mama looks at me. ‘Juba and Thiko were there. He told me what happened. I don’t want to believe it.’

  ‘You should sleep in our tent tonight,’ Mama tells her. ‘Please. Stay with us.’

  Yomjima agrees and goes to get her mat. She and Mama talk and giggle like schoolgirls until it’s late, and from that night on Yomjima becomes part of our family. She brings Mama back to the way she used to be. Soon Nyanbuot and I are calling her Aunt Yomjima, and I can tell by the big smile on her face every time we say it how happy it makes her.

  The day after the fights, Yomjima shares more of her food with us. I save a cup of applesauce for Thiko, whose eyes widen when I take it to her.

  ‘Juba! Where did you get this?’

  ‘From Yomjima. But now it’s for you.’

  She beams and eats it up and the whole day feels fresher now that we have food in our bellies.

  A little later, Chieng comes by with Majok and Majok’s cousin Makol, a thin boy with chubby cheeks. They too now sleep in a proper tent, all three in the same one. None of them had gone to the food drop.

  ‘If I had been there,’ Chieng says, ‘I would’ve grabbed the biggest bag I could and ran.’ He swings his arms wildly in the air.

  I don’t want to tell him what would have happened to him if that mob had caught him with his bag of food. Instead, to change the subject, I start telling a story of Grandpa’s and soon I have an audience. Children and older boys gather round, some my friends, some I don’t know, some of them lost boys. I tell a tale about a fox, a snake and a leopard. I keep my voice animated and use a different one for each character, making quick movements for the fox, a slow weaving for the snake, a deep crouching for the leopard. I like feeling everyone’s eyes on me, knowing they’re listening to every word. When I finish the last story, we all have smiles on our faces.

  That was a good day.

  Whenever a new group of refugees arrives in the camp, Chieng and I go to see if any of his family are among them. We ask the UN people first, then the Red Cross, then we go from group to group. By now I’m really only trying to be a good friend to Chieng by going with him. I don’t have much hope that he will find anyone from his family.

  But Chieng’s hopes and energy are still high as we shake people’s hands, asking over and over if they have news. Every time, we get a negative answer, but still Chieng remains hopeful. He believes his mother and the others are alive. Sometimes I think it might be better to end the search, but I know I can’t ask him to give up.

  Mama is unwell. She’s fallen back to her old ways of sleeping for long stretches and staring at the ground when she isn’t asleep. Not even Yomjima can get her to snap out of it.

  ‘Your mama has been through a lot,’ Yomjima tells me. ‘Too much for one person to go through.’

  But Yomjima has been through just as much, I think to myself, and besides, it’s more than that. Mama has a deep, hacking cough. She spits blood and then tries to hide it from us, but we’ve seen it. She’s constantly shivering. I gather all the blankets we have and cover her. I fear she has the wasting disease.

  When I ask her how she’s feeling, she pats the ground next to her mat. ‘Sit with me for a few minutes, Juba. Keep your old mama company.’

  I sit, smiling. ‘You’re far from old, Mama.’

  This almost gets a laugh out of her, though I’m afraid it’s for the wrong reason. She squeezes my hand. ‘You’re a sweet boy,’ she says.

  I see how dry and cracked her lips are, how pale she looks, the tiredness in her eyes. I fill our plastic cup from the jerry can and hold it to her mouth. ‘You need to
drink something,’ I say.

  She takes a tiny sip and immediately starts hacking. Wiping the spittle from her lips she looks over at Nyanbuot, who is cleaning debris from the dirt floor a few feet away. Mama pulls me closer and says in a low voice, ‘Your sister looks up to you,’ she whispers. ‘No matter what happens, you must protect her with your life.’

  The way she’s talking makes it sound like she’s asking me to watch out for Nyanbuot because she won’t be around to do it.

  ‘Mama,’ I begin.

  ‘Shh. You must be strong. You must watch out for your sister. Promise me that.’

  ‘Of course, Mama. You don’t even have to ask.’

  She nods. ‘Thank you, son. That’s all I wanted to hear. Thank the Lord we are still alive and together,’ she says. She raises her arm weakly and rubs my back, but she continues to shiver despite the blankets. I don’t know how to help her. I don’t know what to do.

  I tell Nyanbuot to stay with her and I run to the clinic nearest to us, at the southern end of the camp. I know there’s another clinic at the northern end, and I’ve heard that each one has two doctors and five nurses. So I’m hopeful that one of them will be able to help.

  But when I arrive, there’s a long line outside. The clinic is in a large tent with a sign on it saying ‘Doctors Without Borders’. I join the line and tap my fingers against my thighs impatiently, my mind full of worry about my mother. When I finally reach the desk at the front of the tent, I describe her condition to the nurse, a pretty woman with a giant smile. Behind her I can see partitions dividing the tent into rooms. The nurse tells me Mama needs medicine, but they’re out of it just now because so many people are sick. They will get more, she says, but she doesn’t know when. She offers me bandages. I don’t know what I can do with bandages but I take them anyway. I wonder why the planes didn’t bring medicines in with the food.

  I stay by Mama’s side late into the night, even after she and Nyanbuot have gone to sleep. Yomjima’s mat is empty. I don’t know where she is. She’s slept here every night since she first came to us with the applesauce and corn.

  Lying next to Mama I stare up at the roof of the tent, wishing I could see the sky, the stars. My eyes feel heavy but I’m afraid if I go to sleep Mama will wake up and need me. I don’t want her to lie there awake alone.

  After four days she says she feels better. So it wasn’t the wasting disease. This is cause for great thanks. But Yomjima still hasn’t returned, and she isn’t in her old tent either. I’ve missed her kindness, and her help.

  No sooner is Mama on the mend than I hear Nyanbuot crying in her sleep. This happens two nights in a row, and when I hear her crying on the second night I get up and crawl over to her. I nudge her but she doesn’t stir, or stop crying. I pull her arm and she jumps awake.

  ‘What?’ she says in alarm.

  ‘Shh. You were crying in your sleep,’ I whisper. She puts her hands to her face and discovers I’m telling the truth. I snuggle up close and wipe away her tears.

  ‘Were you dreaming about bad things?’ I ask, and she nods. ‘You know, I have bad dreams sometimes too, but it doesn’t mean they’ll come true. Try not to worry about them.’

  ‘The only time I feel happy in my dreams is when I’m playing with Thon.’

  Hearing my brother’s name makes my stomach knot. ‘Me too,’ I say, and we lie silently for a few moments.

  ‘He will always be in our hearts,’ I tell Nyanbuot.

  ‘I wish I could play with him again.’

  ‘I know. So do I.’

  ‘I wish I could see him smile.’

  Now the tears are flowing down my own face but I don’t want Nyanbuot to know.

  ‘It’s not fair,’ she says. ‘Why did those men have to do those things?’

  I put a hand on her cheek. I remember when I used to carry Thon on my back to the river, how he’d never want to get down when we reached the water. I think of the times he did his crazy dance moves in the compound and Mama laughed and clapped. My father would join the dancing. And with eyes that were never dull, eyes that shined bright as the sunrise over the Nile, Mama sang for them. Like a songbird. Sometimes the other men of Pacong would look at my father and shake their heads. Men weren’t supposed to laugh with their wives all the time, but that was Dad. That was our family.

  Out beyond the confines of this tent, the wind plays the same song repeatedly, whistling in the trees. Eventually Nyanbuot falls back asleep, but I stay awake. And then I hear shrieking. It’s away in the distance but it’s a sound I know, I’ve heard it all my life.

  Rats.

  I get up quietly and go outside, grabbing a stick. I follow the sound and come upon two rats fighting. They’re entangled in each other and aren’t aware of me. I stab one in the head with the sharp end of the stick, stepping on the other’s tail when it tries to scamper off. When the first rat is dead, I stab the other one. I remember how I used to fear rats. In the village they were pests that could bite and make us sick. Here they are food.

  It’s still early as I’m roasting the rats over a little fire behind our tent, hoping the smell won’t attract too much attention, but soon enough I hear footsteps approaching. I place myself in front of the rats and a boy appears, his nose up, sniffing the air like a dog.

  ‘I smell steak,’ he says, inhaling deeply. ‘It smells good. Do you smell it?’

  I widen my eyes and sniff the air too. ‘No. I wish I could. I’d give anything to smell steak. But I think your nose is playing tricks on you, because you’re hungry.’

  The boy blinks. ‘No, I can smell it.’

  ‘You’re imagining it,’ I laugh. ‘You must be smelling the steak you had some time ago in your village. It’s a cruel trick of your mind.’

  ‘Your mind can do that to you?’ he asks incredulously.

  ‘The mind can play all sorts of tricks on you,’ I say. ‘It can be enough to drive you mad.’

  He looks horrified. ‘I can’t believe it. I don’t want to smell something that isn’t there!’ He runs off and I breathe a sigh of relief, even as my heart whispers its guilt for lying to the boy.

  Once I’m sure he’s not coming back, I rouse Mama and Nyanbuot and we sneak away to the cover of the bushes to eat our feast. It’s been so long since I had meat and it tastes like the best meat I’ve ever eaten.

  Mama licks her fingers for every last piece. ‘God always provides,’ she says, and I have no trouble believing her now. I silently thank him for letting me hear the rats in the night, and I can’t help feeling like a true provider.

  ‘Should we save some for Yomjima?’ I ask, even though we haven’t seen her in days, and Mama looks sad again. ‘I don’t think so,’ she says. But I set some aside for Thiko, although two rats provide little meat.

  Nyanbuot hugs me, her fingers slick with grease. I pull Mama to her feet and she leans against me as we walk back, our bellies sated. I’m surprised to realise that I can now see over her shoulder; I’m only a few inches shorter than her. I can see the top of her head if I stand on my toes. When did that happen? Despite everything, I’ve still been able to grow.

  Nyanbuot skips ahead of us, circles back and then runs ahead again. The sun is warm and the sky is the cloudless blue I know well. A good morning becomes a good day when I give Thiko her rat meat and in return she gives me a kiss on the cheek.

  One day, something happens in the camp that changes everything for me and the other boys around me.

  Spirits had been lagging, we were all wishing harder than ever to be somewhere else. People bickered and argued about everything, if for no other reason than to have something to do, to take their mind off being here, being hungry. The priest from Pacong would walk past and give no response when I said hello. I didn’t know what had happened to him. Maybe he no longer recognised me. Whenever I greeted him in our village, he always responded with ‘God bless you.’

  I remembered him standing in the church after our school was bombed, holding his wooden cross high, a
nd with the Great Spirit in his voice as he told the congregation not to surrender to the work of evil. He organised prayers and home visits for the wounded. He had been tall and unbending, like a pole. Now he looked defeated.

  The worst day was when we learnt that a peacekeeping soldier had discovered Yomjima’s body hanging from a tree, a mile or so outside the compound. There was a burial and Mama said a few words, forcing herself not to cry.

  No one said it, but I couldn’t get rid of the feeling that Yomjima did this to herself. She was happy about sharing our tent but I knew she never stopped thinking about her family and everyone she’d lost. Yomjima was so kind to us and she kept Mama strong, she even claimed that it was Mama who had suffered too much. I never suspected that beneath her hopeful manner she had already lost hope herself. And I couldn’t stop wondering if there was something we could have done to save her. Everything felt so dark.

  Nyanbuot was more upset than anyone. Afterwards she would not let the stick doll Yomjima gave her out of her sight.

  The day that things change begins with me going to the jungle to forage. On my way back I see a group of boys playing in the field where the food drop happened, and as I get closer, I see that they’re chasing something. It’s hard to tell what, because there are so many legs and feet moving in different directions.

  ‘Kick it, kick it!’ the boys yell and shout.

  It’s a game of football! I discover that they’re using balled-up plastic bags, all stuffed inside each other and then inside one larger bag. It doesn’t matter how hard anyone kicks it, it never goes far, but none of the boys care about that. Some old buckets have been set as goal markers at either end of the field.

  Chieng and Majok are right there in the thick of things, and when they see me they grin madly.

  ‘Juba!’ Chieng calls. ‘Come and play football!’ His face is covered in sweat and dirt. I haven’t seen him look so happy in ages.

  ‘Yes, come and join us!’ Majok yells. The ball of plastic bags whizzes by him and he’s after it in a flash. Then he runs over and says he and Chieng came looking for me when they heard about the football, but couldn’t find me.