When Elephants Fight

by Majok Tulba

  Now the rebels who’ve been looting the tents are coming over to the field. Some are wearing football jerseys! They look laughably small on the older men. They all gather and stand around joking with each other. When one of the jersey wearers turns to laugh at something I see my name on his back and it feels like I’ve been punched in the stomach. I grip Thiko’s hand hard. I’m afraid if I let go I’ll run right over to that soldier and punch him in the face.

  A lot of the rebels are young, some are even younger than me, but they’re fierce. They have bloodshot eyes and terrifying stares. I look at a boy wearing a jersey and think how, maybe, in another life, we might have played a friendly football match together, he in his Ugandan team and I in my South Sudanese team, but right now none of them would hesitate to shoot me if they were ordered to. They cradle their guns like precious things, and bullets swing in rows around their necks like beads. But their dark green uniforms are little more than rags, caked with dirt and blood.

  The man who is clearly their leader has a patch on his jacket that says ‘General Otti’ and he carries a stick that looks to be made of ivory. He’s an older man with a long scar running from one side of his forehead down across his nose and cheek to the opposite side of his jaw. His face looks like it’s been split open and stitched back together.

  Now he walks right up to Philip and taps Philip’s leg with his stick, as though he’s waking him up. I don’t know why he’s gone to Philip, but maybe it’s because Philip looked him in the face. Then he goes to the lullaby woman, who has sat down with her screaming baby, and yells at them to be quiet. He orders them to get up.

  I look away, watch the ants racing across the ground like they’re also desperate to be gone from here.

  ‘Please,’ says the woman. ‘She’s hungry. I need to try to feed her, that’s all.’ When the woman shrieks, I look at them.

  Otti has wrenched the baby from her arms. As she lunges after him one of his soldiers springs forward and jerks his rifle up into her face. The general steps back a little way, holding the hysterical baby by one tiny leg with the tips of his fingers. She dangles upside down like a caught rabbit.

  The mother is on her knees before the rifles and staring up at Otti, hands clasped in front of her, tears streaming down her face. ‘Please, please, please, I beg you, she’s only starving. I will keep her quiet. I’ll sing her a lullaby. Please, sir.’

  He looks from the wet infant to the sobbing mother. ‘Obviously you can’t keep it quiet,’ he says, ‘or you would have already.’

  ‘I will do my best, sir. I’ll keep her still. Please.’

  ‘Why don’t I believe you?’ He gives the baby a little shake, and a long, broken gasp passes the woman’s lips, as if a sword is being driven through her chest.

  ‘You failed to shut the little monkey up. Now I will shut it up.’

  ‘No, no. No, I beg you, let me have her back and I will calm her.’

  ‘You want this thing?’ Otti lifts the baby higher and her tiny limbs pump the air with each scream. ‘Okay, you can have it.’ He jerks his head and two soldiers step back from the woman as he tosses the baby through the air at her like a sack of beans.

  I cannot find my breath.

  Somehow the woman manages to catch her child, pulling her back close to her breast. She scrabbles on the ground for the blanket and the general steps forward and pins the ragged cloth to the earth with his boot, nearly crushing her fingers. She jerks her hand away just in time and stares up into his face.

  He towers over her. ‘I don’t want to see or hear either of you again.’ His voice is a lion’s growl. ‘Do you understand me?’

  Limply she nods and I expect the rifles to be raised, or Otti to draw his revolver, but suddenly the woman is on her feet and running, her baby clutched to her chest, the blanket left under the general’s boot. She runs without looking back, across the field into the jungle beyond. Miraculously, no one shoots.

  I am frozen, stuck staring at the beam of sunlight catching the steel handle of the revolver on Otti’s belt and making it glow like a cluster of stars. He sees me looking and is in front of me in a flash. The glare he gives me makes me feel as if I’m standing naked in the middle of a lake of ice.

  ‘Like what you see, do you?’ he snarls.

  Before I can even think how to respond he punches me in the ribs. I grunt and stagger back.

  ‘Leave him alone!’ someone shouts. It’s Philip’s voice.

  Otti turns slowly. ‘What?’ he demands. ‘What did I just hear? Who spoke?’

  No one replies. The wind holds its breath. The general takes his revolver out of its holster and fires a shot in the air.

  ‘Who was it who spoke? Own up or you will all be shot. Right now!’

  I try not to look into the dark barrels of the soldiers’ rifles. I don’t want to see it coming if they decide to shoot us. I glance up and see a bird with a colourful tail soaring across the sky. The clouds are so close I think I can reach out and squeeze one if I stand on tiptoe.

  ‘It was me.’

  I look back down and see Philip step forward. He stares Otti straight in the eye. ‘That boy didn’t do anything to you ––’

  The general calmly raises his gun and shoots. Philip’s head snaps and his legs flip up as he falls backwards. He lies in the dirt with the dust floating over him, unmoving except for his mouth, which opens and closes like a fish out of water.

  ‘No!’ shrieks Patricia and starts towards him. She is blocked by the rebels, who forbid any of us to move. They make us stand there and watch Philip die.

  Time stops altogether. I don’t want him to suffer. But I don’t want him to die! I watch him through blurry eyes, even though I can hardly bear to. It’s all my fault, he was trying to protect me, and it would be cowardly to look away now. I can only hope that he knows how much he means to me, to all us boys, how much he’s helped us. Oh God, where are you now?

  When Philip is dead Otti turns back to me.

  Do I care if he shoots me too? I already feel half dead inside. But I can’t leave Mama, Nyanbuot, Thiko . . . Please don’t shoot, I say in my head. My neck is tense and my throat is dry. At last the general motions his men to stand down.

  I am spared. I don’t know why, any more than I know why Philip was shot. But I do know now why they’re called the Lord’s Resistance Army. At this moment, General Otti is God. He decides who lives, who dies. I want to know what he’s thinking, and at the same time I don’t want to know. Is it really that easy to take a human life?

  He strides away, flanked by his soldiers. They take with them all that they’ve looted. They go without announcement and we are left standing in lines in confusion.

  I look back over at Philip. I have the crazy thought that he’ll get up now that the soldiers are gone. But he just lies there in a pool of blood, dark and still.

  We bury him, and the other dead, helping the workers from Philip’s organisation. His family have told them that even if they were to take his body back home, his spirit would remain in Africa, so it’s better that his body rest here. They say that this is what he would have wanted, although of course he never expected to die here.

  At his graveside all the boys from the football teams gather, and each face asks a thousand questions that have no answer. Philip’s body, wrapped in a white cloth, is lowered into the gaping hole. Stones fall, then clods and then the soil, until the grave is filled and firmed up into a sad mound, and the earth doesn’t care. It doesn’t say, I don’t want more. It doesn’t say, I’ve already taken enough. It just keeps swallowing. It has swallowed Philip. It has taken him out of existence like an ant lying by the roadside. The fact that he was here to help us makes his death different somehow. Are any of us safe now?

  Fog looms over everything, shrouding it in a thick grey. It covers the sun and suffocates every blade of grass and tree. It absorbs the sounds of birdsong that should be filling the air.

  We walk back to our tents. I live another day. I sleep with a
stomach that is empty. There are small sounds of rustling and the moan of the wind outside. As I lie on the mat between the other boys, I think about playing football with Philip. I think about Deng. I wonder if the Sudan People’s Liberation Army will also come to the camp, and if Deng will be among them. I think about the last time I saw my older brother, the rage burning in his eyes the night our father was killed.

  When dawn breaks, a bird sings a thin song, as if unsure it’s the right time. It’s answered by another, and then another, until the air is filled with the sound of them. Their chirping is calming. There’s peace in their voices. It’s a new day. A new day without Philip.

  More UN peacekeepers arrive in the camp, but they still won’t be enough to protect us if General Otti and his soldiers return.

  In honour of Philip we still play football. That too is what he would have wanted, we decide. We practise, we play informal games, but I don’t know if we’ll ever play another big match. It just wouldn’t feel right.

  Our lives seem to just limp along, although I know that every day here is actually a wonderful gift and we count them, not counting down but up. There are many who haven’t made it this far.

  One evening, I go in search of someone I’ve heard about who was apparently with the Sudan People’s Liberation Army but left after becoming disillusioned. I’m hoping for news of Deng, but when I find the man, nothing comes of it.

  I’m on my way back, not far from our block of tents, when I see Thiko walking with a jerry can of water. Two older boys are following behind her.

  ‘You’re beautiful!’ I hear one of them call to her.

  ‘Thank you,’ she replies without looking at him. She keeps walking.

  ‘Hey!’ the boy says. ‘Stop. We want to know your name.’

  She ignores him but the boys catch up to her. Then one grabs her arm and pulls her around. ‘Come on,’ he says, ‘talk to us.’

  ‘Let go of me!’ Thiko slaps him away with one hand, still holding the jerry can with the other, and by the time he tries to grab her again, I’ve already put myself between them, shielding Thiko with my body.

  ‘Leave her alone,’ I say.

  The boy looks me up and down and snickers. ‘Get out of our way.’

  ‘No,’ I say, and he leans down to me.

  ‘What did you say?’ He has small, cruel eyes.

  ‘I said back off!’

  He shoves me and I punch him in the stomach. His friend grabs my wrist and though I struggle he has me pinned, and the other one grabs Thiko again. She pushes him off.

  I pull loose and punch small-eyes right on the nose. He stumbles back but I feel a fist connecting with my ribs. I whirl around and punch the other boy, so hard it hurts my hand.

  Blood is dripping down his face. ‘He broke my nose,’ he wails, and by now adults have rushed over, shouting at us to stop. Like cowards, the two boys run off.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Thiko grasps my hands, making me wince.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, though my knuckles are throbbing.

  ‘I can’t believe you punched them. They were a lot bigger than you.’ I hear the awe in her voice.

  ‘They were idiots,’ I say, trying to ignore the way my hand is breathing fire through my fingernails.

  ‘You got that one right on the nose,’ Thiko giggles, and the sound of her laughing makes any pain worth it.

  In the morning my hand is still throbbing. My knuckles are bruised and puffy and three of my fingers are swollen and stiff. They look like tamarind tree fruit and it’s hard to close them. There’s nothing for it but to try the clinic, though I’m not hopeful. They will probably say they don’t have supplies and turn me away, but I go anyway.

  This time I’m lucky because the line is short. I stand in the doorway, unsure who to speak to. There’s no one at the desk this morning. There’s a nurse checking a child’s throat, and another nurse explaining to a woman how she should take the tablets she’s giving her, demonstrating sunrise, midday and sunset with her hands. She looks over at me and I recognise her. She’s the one who was going to treat my arm after the truck accident.

  When she’s finished with the woman she comes over and looks me up and down. She sees my hand and makes a clucking noise with her tongue.

  ‘How did this happen? Have you been in a fight?’

  I look down at my feet. I don’t want to tell her that I punched a boy in the face. ‘Can you help me?’ I ask, looking back up at her.

  A smile comes to her face. ‘Ah, a tough guy. I remember you now – you’re the one who ran away the day you cut your arm. The day you helped Patricia. What’s your name? I’m Joanna.’

  I feel ashamed. She’s being so kind. ‘I’m Juba,’ I say.

  ‘Well, Juba, you’re very brave. You possibly even saved a life. Come and sit down over here.’

  ‘But I think you must save many lives in this clinic,’ I say, following her.

  ‘Is one life worth more than another? You save many lives by saving one.’

  I think about this, and decide maybe she’s right. One life isn’t worth more than any other, and one person’s actions can affect many.

  Joanna goes away and I look around. I work out there must be about thirty beds in the two rooms, divided by partitions. When she returns she’s carrying a metal basin of water, a bar of soap and a washcloth.

  ‘Juba,’ she says, ‘the first thing to do is go into that little room over there and wash yourself. I know your hand hurts, but we’ll be able to treat it better once all of you is cleaned up, okay?’

  I look at the basin. I can’t remember the last time I washed.

  ‘Go on,’ she urges. ‘Wash yourself well now. I know there’s nowhere for that in the camp but we can do something about it for today.’

  There’s such kindness in her eyes and face that I nod meekly and thank her, then go into the little room she pointed to and pull the door shut behind me. I strip off my filthy clothes and let them fall in a heap on the floor, and for a moment I just stand there, goosebumps forming on my arms even though it’s not cold. I take the washcloth and dip it in the basin with the bar of soap. The water is warm and luxurious. The soap has a clean, sharp smell. I lather the suds up and wash my face, my ears, my neck, my entire body. The air tickles my skin. When I’m done, the water in the basin is brown as mud.

  But I feel incredible. When was the last time I was this clean? It feels so good that I forget the pain in my hand. I realise I’m grinning as I pull on the clinic gown Joanna has left in the room. It reminds me of wearing Thiko’s skirt. How long ago that seems now.

  When I come out, Joanna smiles and says, ‘You look much better already.’ She points to the stool. ‘Have a seat. You’re lucky we’re not so busy today.’

  I sit and she examines my hand, gently squeezing and pressing. I try not to wince but it hurts.

  ‘Are your parents here in the camp?’ she asks.

  ‘Only my mother. My father is dead, and my grandfather and my little brother. I don’t know where my older brother is.’

  Joanna stops pressing on my hand and holds it. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. After a moment she says, ‘But you live in the tent with your mother?’

  ‘Yes, and my sister.’

  ‘And do you have friends here?’ When I nod she says, ‘What are their names?’

  I look at her. I can’t imagine why she would want to know my friends’ names.

  ‘Why do you need to know?’ I ask, and straightaway I feel bad. She’s been so kind, after all, but I’m not used to someone asking me these things.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, ‘I know I ask a lot of questions. It’s a bad habit of mine. You don’t have to answer me.’

  She takes a small bottle of something orange-coloured and rubs it on my hand, then bandages it. ‘I can’t feel anything broken but you’ve bruised it pretty badly and you might have a sprain. You’ll have to take it easy for a few days. Try not to use your hand too much. You need to give it time to heal.’

  I
nod. ‘Okay. Thank you.’ I get up and put my clothes back on. As I walk to the door I see something familiar on the front desk. Winnie-the-Pooh. Another well-worn copy, just like the one Miss Ayen gave me in that other lifetime. My heart hurts along with my hand as I stare at it.

  Joanna sees me looking. ‘Do you know that book?’ she asks. ‘It’s one of my favourites. I didn’t bring too many personal things with me but I wanted to bring that. Sometimes I read a chapter before I go to sleep at night.’

  ‘I’ve read it,’ I say. ‘I used to have a copy. My teacher gave it to me. It was one of her favourites too.’ I think of the last time I saw Miss Ayen and I close my eyes, trying to rid my mind of the image.

  ‘You must miss going to school,’ Joanna says.

  ‘I do. I liked it a lot. I like learning new things.’

  She considers me for a moment. ‘Juba, how would you like a job? Do you think you could help me out around here? Keep the place clean, roll bandages?’ She tells me that the clinic has two rooms for the medical and nursing staff, a storeroom, and even a room for intensive care. Along with the rooms for the patients.

  Can this be true? Or is it a trap? She seems sincere.

  ‘I can’t pay you,’ she continues, ‘but I can offer quick treatment if you or any of your family get sick.’ She leans towards me. ‘And I can get you a ration card too, if you don’t have one. Do you?’

  My head is spinning. It’s too good to be true. Joanna must be stringing me along.

  ‘Are you just saying that?’ I ask at last.

  She raises an eyebrow. ‘I never lie during working hours.’

  I’m so happy right now I can’t think of anything to say.

  ‘I’ll take that smile as a yes. Now, there are a few things you should know first.’ The way Joanna says this reminds me again of Miss Ayen. ‘I’m the head nurse and there are four other nurses who work with me. I expect you to follow any instructions they give you, but it’s my word that’s final.’