by Majok Tulba
That’s the last thing she says. I sit with her for another hour, listening to her laboured breathing, holding her hand. Then she is still. She’s gone. Just like that.
I know death happens every day. That’s how it is. There isn’t a single family in this camp that’s intact. But now I’m one of the bringers of death. How am I any better than a murderer?
I don’t go back to the clinic for several days. I can’t bring myself to go. My guilt is like a gigantic brick someone has placed on top of me.
‘Doesn’t Joanna need you at the clinic?’ Mama asks.
‘Not today,’ I say listlessly.
She tilts my chin up and looks into my eyes. ‘Juba, did something happen there?’
I swallow. I’ve told no one about my clumsiness, about the girl who died. The girl who died because of me.
‘I killed someone,’ I say at last.
Mama’s eyes widen. ‘Juba! What on earth do you mean?’
‘I dropped all the Mercurochrome when I was putting it away and because of that a girl’s wound got infected and she died.’
‘Oh Juba,’ Mama says. ‘That death is not your fault.’
‘Yes it is. How can you say it’s not my fault? If I hadn’t dropped the box of Mercurochrome, we would have been able to give her that and stopped the infection. She’d still be alive.’
‘My son, you cannot go around blaming yourself like this,’ Mama says sadly. ‘Otherwise you’ll never be able to get up and face the morning again. You must forgive yourself. And you don’t know for sure that she would have lived, even if you’d given her the medicine. Maybe she would have, but maybe not. Many people die even after getting medicine. God determines these things, not you. You were trying to do good, Juba. You were trying to help people.’
Mama has been stroking my hair as she talks. Now she stops and says, ‘Tell me, were you with this girl when she died?’
I nod.
‘And did you sit by her, hold her hand?’
‘Yes. I told her a little story.’
‘What was it about?’
I can hardly bear to remember. ‘About going home,’ I say. ‘She wanted to go home and she didn’t know how.’
Mama smiles. ‘Then I would say you helped this girl far more than you’re giving yourself credit for. And I think if you could ask this girl, she would say she’s grateful for what you did. You could only do what you were able to do. Juba, I don’t want to see you lying around like this. You have important work to do. It’s not always going to go perfectly, that’s the way of the world. But you cannot give up. Do you understand me?’
Mama’s tone has grown stern. I know she’s right. And I’m so glad she’s completely back to her old strong self now, after those awful first months in the camp. I want her to stay this way.
‘Besides,’ she says, ‘you’re not going to do anyone any good if you never leave this tent again.’ She gives me a hug. ‘I want you to know how proud I am of you. I really am. And your father and your grandfather would be too.’
Joanna is at her desk when I arrive. It’s quiet for once, with only a few people lying on the cots.
‘Juba,’ she says, looking up and putting down her pen. ‘I wasn’t sure if I was going to see you today or not. Why don’t you sit for a minute? Has everything been okay?’
I take a seat. ‘You’re probably wondering why I didn’t show up for a few days.’
‘I was a little worried, yes. I was thinking of coming to see you.’
‘I . . . I didn’t know if I could come back.’
Joanna looks sad. ‘You know, Juba, I need to apologise to you, because I was too harsh. It could just as easily have been me who slipped.’
‘No, you wouldn’t have done that.’
She gives me a keen look. ‘Don’t be so sure. I don’t need to tell you that this work is stressful. And sometimes the stress can get to you, and I think I let it get to me that day. It was wrong of me to make you feel bad about something you didn’t do on purpose.’
‘But if I hadn’t done it, that girl would still be alive. You can’t change that fact.’
‘It wasn’t the lack of Mercurochrome that caused the girl’s death,’ says Joanna. ‘Sometimes there are deaths that we just can’t explain. That’s the thing about this kind of work. We can do our best and it’s not enough. It’s never easy to lose a patient. And there are always going to be what-ifs running through your mind, that’s normal, but you can’t let them overwhelm you. You’re doing a great job here, Juba. We’re not going to be able to save everyone. No one ever can. It can be hard to accept that.’
I sigh. ‘That’s sort of along the lines of what Mama told me.’
Joanna smiles. ‘Well, she’s right.’
‘So . . . you still want me to come here every day?’
‘Want you to? Of course I do, I need you to. You’re an important part of this clinic, Juba, whether you realise it or not.’
Joanna goes on to tell me about a girl she employed in the past who was a good worker but stole medicine. She was replaced with a man who couldn’t take orders from a woman.
So it’s settled. I’m back on the job. I’m so relieved. I know that having this work is what’s stopping me from going crazy in the camp.
And as soon as I think that, I feel sad for everyone who isn’t so lucky, all the others here who have nothing to do. No wonder they end up sitting in the dirt and staring at space.
People come to the clinic after getting cut, bitten or stung. Or because they’re dehydrated, or they need stitches and bandaging. Sometimes, when it’s not so busy, they come in only because they want someone to give them attention, be kind to them.
Things go well and I regain my confidence. We get a new delivery of Mercurochrome. Joanna is so good to work with that I think how I want her to stay here forever, and then have to remind myself that I don’t want to stay here forever. I wonder if she knows how much she’s changed things for me, the hope she’s given me, something I never thought I’d find here in the camp. She’s come to feel like a sister. But I don’t have the right words to tell her this.
At the end of one particularly busy day, she comes up to me holding out a red can with silver writing on it. I’ve seen cans, and bottles, like this before but I’ve never tasted what’s inside.
‘This is for you,’ Joanna says. ‘For working so hard. Have you had a Coke before?’
I shake my head and she shows me how to pop the tab on the can. The hiss makes me jump. I take a sip and feel my whole face light up. It’s so harshly sweet in the most pleasant way, tickling my throat as I swallow. Then without warning I burp, loudly. I cover my mouth, eyes wide with embarrassment. But only for a second, because both Joanna and I burst into giggles.
‘It can have that effect,’ she says.
Even though I want to gulp the whole thing down, I make myself save half, tucking it under my shirt as I leave the clinic.
Joanna asks if she can walk with me to my tent. ‘I’d like to meet your mother,’ she says. ‘Tell her what a great job you’ve been doing.’
As we walk she tells me about her own family. One brother and one sister. Joanna is the oldest.
I wonder why her family has only three children. If my father were alive, I’d have a lot more brothers and sisters, maybe even as many as my cousin, who has a hundred and sixty brothers and forty sisters. His father has eighty-six wives. I tell Joanna about him.
She laughs. ‘Eighty-six! That’s a lot of wives to take care of. And a lot of siblings to bicker with.’
‘You will be a good wife,’ I blurt out. ‘Then a good mother after that. The kind of mother every kid wants.’
She laughs heartily at that. ‘You think so? My boyfriend wouldn’t agree with you. He doesn’t think I’ll be a good wife at all. I’ll have to tell him you said that.’
‘Where is your boyfriend?’ I try to imagine what he might be like, this person who thinks Joanna wouldn’t be a good wife.
‘He’s in Aus
tralia.’
Australia! We were starting to study this country just before our school got bombed. We only had one class on it, but I saw a picture of an amazing building there. I don’t remember what it was but it was shaped like shells put on top of each other. Majok thought it looked like crazy slices of mango.
‘He must miss you a lot,’ I say.
‘He does. I miss him too.’
Joanna is pretty, and I know that girls like her cost a lot in dowry. ‘How many cows will he pay to your parents?’ I ask.
‘Cows?’ She laughs. ‘Oh Juba, he’s not going to pay anything. Definitely not cows.’
I stare at her. ‘What do you mean he won’t pay anything? Not even a goat?’
‘Not even a chicken.’
I’ve heard that this happens in other countries. From watching Oprah. But I don’t understand it. How can a girl’s family eat if the daughter brings no bride price?
Joanna tells me that Australian parents don’t need their daughters’ dowries in order to increase their wealth. The way they do marriages in Australia is opposite to how we do ours. Joanna says when a boy and a girl like each other, they meet each other’s families and no one can fight the boy. The brother will do nothing. Instead of hitting his sister’s boyfriend on the head with the biggest stick, he welcomes him and says congratulations when they announce their engagement.
‘Could I go to your country if I wanted to?’ I ask.
Joanna looks sad. ‘I wish it was that easy.’
‘Why don’t you take all of us with you?’ I say. ‘Mama and Nyanbuot and my friends. Except we don’t have money.’
‘Juba, trust me, if I could, I would. But even if you had the money, the Immigration Department wouldn’t be happy about it.’
‘Is that the government? Would they be unhappy because there isn’t enough food and space for everyone, like here in camp?’ It’s nice to think that the Australian government would care about that.
Joanna’s face grows even glummer. ‘Well, it’s not that. It’s more like . . . a policy.’
I’m not exactly sure what that is, but as it seems to make her sad I change the subject. ‘I know one thing about Australia,’ I say, remembering our class. ‘Our teacher said it’s right at the end of the world.’
Joanna smiles again at that. ‘It’s not really the end of the world, but it is called Down Under.’
‘And do you have cows there too?’
‘Yes,’ she nods, ‘plenty. So how many would you need to marry a Dinka girl?’ Joanna looks at me and raises an eyebrow.
‘Well . . . for the girl I have in mind, at least two hundred.’
‘Really? Two hundred sounds like a lot. She must be a special girl.’
I smile as I think of Thiko. ‘She is.’
Mama is excited when she sees that Joanna has come. She shakes her hand, pumping it up and down so hard I worry she’ll hurt her. We sit together among the mess of the tent, me in the middle so I can translate. Mama says she wishes she’d gone to school when she was young so she could have learned to speak English.
‘It’s never too late to learn,’ Joanna says, and I say it in Dinka to Mama. ‘And speaking of learning, part of the reason I wanted to come and see you was to tell you in person how impressed I am with Juba. How helpful he’s been, how quickly he’s caught on. He’s made my job a lot easier. Even better, he’s good with the patients, and that’s something that can’t be taught. You either have that quality or you don’t.’ Joanna beams at me.
It’s weird to translate that, but I do, and Mama’s smile just grows bigger and wider.
Joanna stays a little longer to chat and once she’s gone I hurry over to Thiko’s tent. Luckily she’s there. I gesture to her to come outside and we walk a little.
Then I slide the can of Coke out from under my shirt. ‘Take a sip of this.’
She looks at me curiously, and when she tastes it her face changes completely. ‘Delicious!’ she exclaims. ‘So sweet!’ She takes another sip and burps loudly, just like I did, and falls into a similar state of giggles.
I let her drink the rest of the can, and when she’s finished she says, ‘Juba, that was amazing. How kind you are to share that.’ She stops walking and holds my gaze as she reaches up and gently places a hand on my cheek.
I feel almost paralysed, but in a good way. There’s nowhere else I would rather be at this moment. But I don’t know what to do with my hands, or where to look. My eyes dart here and there, finally landing back on Thiko’s face, and just as they do she steps all the way into me and stands on her tiptoes. Our lips meet.
My heart lurches. I’ve never kissed a girl before. It’s the most wonderful feeling. The air tastes sweeter and fresher, as if a flower is blooming on my tongue. I am lightheaded when we pull apart.
‘That,’ I say softly, leaning my forehead against hers.
‘That what?’
‘That’s what I’ve been wanting to ask you.’
She laughs. ‘Really? But that wasn’t a question. That was a kiss.’
I take her hands and stand there looking at her. My heart has melted and expanded all at the same time, and the breeze is running through my veins, my lungs, filling me with calm. We might be living in a refugee camp but right now, just for this moment, it feels like home.
And I make a promise to myself. One day I will live in a proper home again. With Mama and Nyanbuot and Thiko, and Chieng and Majok and the others. I will find Deng. And we’ll all be together. Though we can’t be sure what the next day will bring here, that is my promise.
Although it’s my name on the cover of this book, there are many energetic people behind the scenes who worked very hard to make it the best it can be. I would like to thank the team at Penguin for believing in When Elephants Fight and supporting me in sharing it with the world. In particular, my wonderful publisher, Ben Ball: thank you for making 2018 the year of the elephants. Thank you also to the dynamic sales and marketing team.
It was a privilege to work with the best of the best editors, Meredith Rose, who read a thousand versions of this story with thoughtfulness and care. Her passion and sympathetic and insightful knowledge made working with her a great pleasure. Words will never express my gratitude for the faith she showed in Juba’s journey. I would also like to thank my wonderful literary agent, Cheryl Akle, who championed this novel from start to finish.
I am very grateful for a grant from the Australia Council for the Arts that enabled me to complete this novel.
About the Author
Majok Tulba was born in South Sudan and came to Australia in 2001. His first novel, Beneath the Darkening Sky, won the 2014 Kathleen Mitchell Award, and in 2013 was shortlisted for the Dylan Thomas Prize and the Commonwealth Book Prize. He was named one of the Sydney Morning Herald’s Best Young Novelists of the Year in 2013. Majok is the founder of Okay Microfinance, a social enterprise launched in 2016 that aims to improve education for girls and community health, and to find sustainable solutions for families to break free of the cycle of poverty in South Sudan. He lives in Sydney with his wife and children.
ALSO BY MAJOK TULBA
Beneath the Darkening Sky
HAMISH HAMILTON
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First published by Penguin Random House Australia Pty Ltd,
Text copyright © Majok Tulba, 2018
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This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and all dialogue and interaction between the characters are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Alex Ross © Penguin Random House Australia Pty Ltd.
Cover photographs: Shutterstock: Melissa King/Shutterstock.com; Orlok/Shutterstock.com;
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ISBN: 978-1-760-14442-5