by Dave Eggers
They shot twice at me but I escaped and continued to run through the thicket. They did not pursue me. I ran through the waning pink light of the afternoon and into the evening. I ran through the bush, looking for my people or a well-traveled way, finding none, and when the darkness came I had no hope of seeing a road or footpath.
But then, finally, I did find a path. When I found the path I sat behind a tree nearby, resting, watching the path, listening for voices, waiting to make sure it was clear. After some time, I heard the heavy breathing of a man. Even by his breath I could tell it was a large man, a suffering man. From my tree I saw him, a large Dinka man who seemed to be walking with purpose. His back was straight and he seemed young. He wore white shorts and nothing else. I thought I would be saved by this man.
—Uncle! I said, running to him.—Excuse me!
He turned to me, but his face had been ripped from his skull. His skin had melted. It was wet and pink and the whites of his eyes were protruding and unblinking. He had lost the lids that covered them.
He brought his face close to mine, his raw skin crossed everywhere by red veins.
—What? What is it? Don’t stare at my face. I turned to run but the man grabbed my arm.
—Come with me, boy. Take this.
He gave me his sack. It weighed as much as I did. I tried to hold it, but it dropped to the ground. The man struck me on the ear with the back of his hand.
—Carry, it, boy!
—I can’t. I don’t want to, I said.
I told him I wanted only to get back to Marial Bai.
—For what? To be killed? Where do you think I got this? Where do you think I lost my face, stupid boy?
I now recognized the man. He was the soldier, Kolong Gar, who had deserted the army before the first attack. From the tree of Amath, we had seen him running below, the flashlights following.
—I saw you, I said.
—You saw nothing.
—I saw you when you ran. We were in the tree. He was not interested in this.
—I want you to stare into my face, boy. I need you to do this. You see this face? This was the face of a man who trusted. Do you see what happens to a man who trusts? Tell me what happens!
—His face is taken.
—Good! Yes! My face was taken. That’s a good way to say it. This is what I deserve. I said I was the friend of the Arab and the Arab reminded me that we’re not friends and never will be. I served in the army with Arabs but when the rebels rose up the Arabs no longer knew me. They were planning to bring me back north to kill me. This I know. And when I left the army they tracked me down and found me and threw my face into the fire. This face is a lesson to all Dinka who think we can live together with those people—
I dropped the sack and ran again. I knew it was not polite to run from the faceless man but finally I thought Damn it all. I had never before cursed aloud or silently but now I did, again and again. I ran as he yelled to me and ran as he cursed me and as I ran I cursed him and everything I could name. Damn the faceless man and damn the murahaleen and damn the government and damn the land and the Dinka with their useless spears. I ran over the grass and through a stand of trees and then over a dry riverbed and in the next stand of trees I found a great acacia, like the one I shared with William K and Moses, and in its roots I found a hole and in this hole I crawled and stayed and listened to my breathing. I was now expert at finding sleeping holes. Damn the dirt and damn the worms and damn the beetles and damn the mosquitos. I had not turned around as I ran and was not sure until I was in the tree that there was no one behind me. I looked out from the dark of the hole and saw nothing and heard nothing and soon the night’s black wings beat down from above and I was in the dark, in the tree, with my eyes and my breath. In the night the animal sounds filled the air and I stuffed my ears with small stones to block out the sound. Damn you forest and damn you animals, every one.
I woke in the morning and shook the rocks from my head and got up and walked and ran and when I heard a sound or saw a figure in the distance, I crawled. For a week more I ran and crawled and walked. I found people of my tribe and I asked them the direction to Marial Bai; sometimes they knew and often they knew nothing. Damn you directionless, helpless people. Some of the people I found were from the region and others had come from the north, some from the south. Everyone was moving. When I found a village or settlement, I would stop there and ask for water and they would say, ‘You are safe here, boy, you are safe now,’ and I would sleep there and know I was not safe. The horses and guns and helicopters always came. I could not get out of this ring, this circle that was squeezing us within, and no one knew when the end would come. I visited an old woman, the oldest woman I have ever known, and she sat cooking with her granddaughter, my age, and the old woman said that this was the end, that the end was coming and that I should simply sit still, with them, and wait. This would be the end of the Dinka, she said in a voice hoarse and reed-thin, but if this was the will of the gods and the Earth, she said, then so be it. I nodded to the grandmother and slept in her arms, but then left in the morning and continued to run. I ran past villages that had been and were no more, ran past buses that were burned from the inside out, hands and faces pressed to the glass. Damn you all. Damn the living, damn the dead.
In the first light of dawn I ran past an airfield, where I saw a small white airplane and a family and a man who was serving as their representative. He was wearing a strange garment that I would later learn was a suit, and he carried a small black briefcase. A few feet behind him was the family—a man, a woman, and a girl of five, all of them dressed in fine clothing, the woman and child sitting atop a larger suitcase. The man in the suit, the representative, was talking excitedly to the pilot of the plane, who I could see was a very small man, and with skin much lighter than ours.
—These are important people! the representative was saying.
The pilot was unimpressed.
—This man is an MP! the representative said. The pilot climbed into the cockpit.
—You must take them! the representative wailed.
But the pilot did not take them. He flew off, away from the sun, and the family and their representative were left on the airfield. No one was important enough to fly away from the war, not in those days.
I continued to run.
CHAPTER 10
Michael is awake and roaming. He believes that he has neutralized me, and now feels at ease to search through the house. He walked past me on his way to the bathroom, and once he was finished there, I heard the whine of Achor Achor’s bedroom door. I don’t know what Michael might be looking for, but there is not much to see in the room where Achor Achor sleeps. He has decorated his walls with two pictures: a poster of Jesus he was given at his Bible-study class, and a large but grainy snapshot of his sister, who lives in Cairo and cleans restaurants.
Now Michael moves down the hall and into my room. My door makes no sound, only the faint swoosh as it passes over the carpet. I hear the sound of my closet opening, and soon after, the blinds being drawn. I know that he has picked up the two books by my bedside—The Purpose-Driven Life, by Rick Warren and Seeking the Heart of God, by Mother Teresa and Brother Roger—because I hear them hit the floor, one after the other. I hear the bedsprings gasp, and then go quiet. He opens the drawers to my dresser, and then closes them.
Michael is a curious boy and his searching makes him seem more human to me. My fondness for him grows again, and forgiveness fumbles back into my heart.
‘Michael!’ I blurt.
I had not expected to say his name but it is too late. Now I have to say it again, and have to decide why I am saying it.
‘Michael, I have a proposition for you.’
He is still in my room. I hear no sounds of movement.
‘Michael, this will be an attractive proposition. I assure you.’
He says nothing. He does not emerge from my bedroom.
I hear the sound of my bedside table’s drawer being pull
ed open. My stomach clenches when I realize he will see the pictures of Tabitha. He has no right to look at them. How will I ever forget that this broken boy has handled those pictures? Those photographs are far too important to me for my own sense of equilibrium. I know that I look at them too often; I know it seems self-punishing. Achor Achor has scolded me for this. But they give me comfort; they cause me no pain.
There are ten or so, most of them taken with the camera Michael’s companions have stolen. In one, Tabitha is with her brothers, and the four of them are together holding a giant fish in a market in Seattle. She is in the center of them all, and it’s very clear how much they adore her. In another, she is with her closest friend, another Sudanese refugee named Veronica, and Veronica’s baby, Matthew. In front of the baby—a child born in the United States—is a round brown mess, Tabitha’s first attempt at an American-style birthday cake. The baby’s face is covered in chocolate, and Tabitha and Veronica are grinning, each holding one of Matthew’s cheeks. They are not yet aware that the sugar from Matthew’s binge will keep him up for the next twenty-two hours. The best photo is the one she thought I had destroyed, at her insistence. She is in my bedroom and is wearing her glasses, and this fact makes it quite rare, one of a kind. When I took it, before we went to sleep one night, she was livid, and did not speak to me till noon the next day. ‘Throw it out!’ she yelled, and then corrected herself: ‘Burn it!’ I did so, in the sink, but a few days later, when she had returned to Seattle, I printed another from my digital camera. Very few people knew that Tabitha wore contacts, and almost no one had seen her in her glasses, which were huge, ungainly, the lenses as thick as a windshield. She kept them near when she slept, in case she needed to use the bathroom. But I loved her when she wore them, and wanted her to wear them more often. She was less glamorous in those enormous frames, and when she had them on, it seemed more plausible that she was truly mine.
We met at Kakuma, in a home economics class. She was three years younger than me, and was very smart, which is how she and I found ourselves placed together. It was required in the camp, for young men and women both, and this caused much consternation among the Sudanese elders. Men taking cooking classes? It was absurd to them. But most of us didn’t mind. I enjoyed the class a great deal, even though I showed no aptitude for cooking or any of the other tasks involved. Tabitha, though, showed no interest in home economics, or even in passing the class. Her attendance was infrequent, and when she was present, she scoffed loudly every time the teacher, a Sudanese woman we called Ms. Spatula, attempted to convince us how useful the lessons of home economics would be in our lives. Ms. Spatula did not appreciate Tabitha’s scoffing, or Tabitha’s disdainful sighs, or those days when Tabitha read from her paperback novels while Ms. Spatula demonstrated the ways to cook an egg. Ms. Spatula did not at all appreciate Tabitha Duany Aker.
But the boys and young men did appreciate her. It was impossible not to.
There were more girls in classes in Kakuma, more than in Pinyudo, but still they were the minority, one in ten at best. And they would not last. Every year they were removed from school in order to work at home and prepare themselves to be married off. At fourteen, any girl without a deformity would be spoken for—sent back to southern Sudan to become the wife of an SPLA officer who could afford the dowry demanded. And they would in many cases go happily, for it was not a good life for a girl at Kakuma. Girls were worked to the bone, were raped if they left the camp looking for firewood. They had no power at Kakuma, they had no future.
But no one told this to Tabitha. Or they had and she was undaunted.
She lived with three brothers and her mother, an educated woman who was determined to give Tabitha the best life possible under the circumstances. Tabitha’s father had been killed very early in the war, and her mother refused to be taken in by her husband’s family. In many cases in Sudan, the brother of the deceased will assume the wife and family of his brother, but Tabitha’s mother would have none of that. She left her village, Yirol, and made her way to Kakuma, knowing that a life in Kenya, even in a refugee camp, might provide a more enlightened world for her children.
I was thankful for her mother’s courage and wisdom. I was thankful each time Tabitha chose to attend home economics and each time she rolled her eyes and every time she smirked. She was the most intriguing young woman at Kakuma.
Eventually we were boyfriend and girlfriend, or as close to that status as was possible for teenagers at Kakuma, and I told her many times I loved her. These words, when I used them then, did not mean what they meant much later in America, when I knew that I loved her as a man loves a woman. At Kakuma we were so young; we were careful and chaste. It is not proper, even in a camp like that, for young people to parade their affections before the community. We met for walks after church, we snuck away when we could. We attended events at the camp together, we ate with friends, we talked while waiting in line for our rations. I stared at her heart-shaped face, her bright eyes and round cheeks, and it was everything to me then. But what was it? Perhaps it was nothing.
She left Kakuma before I did. This was extraordinary, for there were very few girls in the Sudanese resettled in the United States, and almost none who had parents in the camp. Tabitha claims it was luck but I believe her mother was clever throughout the process. When the resettlement rumors became true, her mother was brilliant; she knew the United States was interested in the unaccompanied minors. Anyone with parents at Kakuma would be far less likely to be considered. She allowed her children to lie, and she herself disappeared, went to live in another part of the camp. Tabitha and her three brothers were processed as orphans, and because they were young, younger than most of us, they were chosen, given early passage, and were even kept together once in America.
With their mother still in Kakuma, Tabitha and her brothers settled in a two-bedroom apartment in Burien, a suburb of Seattle, and all attended high school together. Tabitha was happy, was becoming an American very quickly. Her English was American English, not the Kenyan English I learned. When she graduated, she was given a scholarship by the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation to attend college at the University of Western Washington.
By the time I arrived in the United States, almost two years later, she had forgotten me, and I her. Not entirely, of course, but we knew better than to hold on to such attachments. The Sudanese from Kakuma were being sent all over the globe, and we knew that our fates were not ours to determine. When I settled in Atlanta, I had few thoughts of Tabitha.
One day I was talking on the phone to one of the three hundred Lost Boys who regularly call me, this one living in Seattle. There had been a cease-fire declared in southern Sudan, and he wanted to know my opinion, since he assumed I was very close to the SPLA. I was in the middle of explaining his mistake, that I knew as much as or less than he did, when he said, ‘You know who’s here?’ I told him I did not know who was there. ‘Someone you’ve met, I think,’ he said. He handed the phone off and I expected the next voice to be a man’s, but it was a woman’s voice. ‘Hello, who is this? Hello? Is it a mouse on the other line?’ she said. It was such a voice! Tabitha had become a woman! Her voice was deeper, seemed full of experience, greatly at ease with the world. That sort of easy confidence in a woman is overpowering to me. But I knew it was her.
‘Tabitha?’
‘Of course, honey,’ she said in English. Her accent was almost perfectly American. She had learned a great deal in two years of high school. We talked aimlessly for a few minutes before I blurted out the primary question on my mind.
‘Do you have a boyfriend?’
I had to know.
‘Of course I do, sweetie,’ she said. ‘I haven’t seen you in three years.’
Where had she learned these words, ‘honey’ and ‘sweetie’? Intoxicating words. We talked for an hour that day, and hours more that week. I was disappointed that she was seeing someone, but I was unsurprised. Tabitha was an astonishing Sudanese woman, and there are few single
Sudanese women in the United States, perhaps two hundred, perhaps less. Of the thousands of Sudanese brought over under the auspices of the Lost Boys airlift, only eighty-nine were women. Many of them have married already, and the resulting scarcity makes things difficult for many men like me. And if we look outside the Sudanese community, what can we offer? With our lack of money, our church-donated clothes, the small apartments we share with two, three other refugees, we’re not the most desirable of all men, not yet at least. There are countless examples of love found, of course, whether the women are African-American, white American, European. But by and large, Sudanese men in America are looking to meet Sudanese women, and this means, for many, finding one’s way back to Kakuma or even southern Sudan.
But Tabitha, coveted by so many here in America, eventually chose me.
‘Michael, please,’ I say.
I want to bring him from my room and back to the kitchen, where I can see him and where I know he will not be alone with the photographs.
‘I need to talk to you. I think you will be interested in talking to me.’
I am silly to think I might be understood by this boy. But young people are my specialty, in a manner of speaking. At Kakuma, I was a youth leader, overseeing the extracurricular activities for six thousand of the young refugees. I worked for the office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees, helping to devise games, sports leagues, theatrical works. Since arriving in America, I have made a number of friends, but perhaps none as important to me as Allison, the only child of Anne and Gerald Newton.
The Newtons were the first American family to take an interest in me, even before Phil Mays. I had been in the country only a few weeks when I was asked to speak at an Episcopalian church, and when I did so I met Anne, an African-American woman with teardrop eyes and tiny cold hands. She asked if she could help me. I was not sure how she could, but she said we could discuss it over dinner, and so I came to dinner, and ate with Anne and Gerald and Allison. They were a prosperous family living in a large and comfortable house, and they opened it to me; they promised me access to all they had. Allison was twelve then and I was twenty-three but in many ways we seemed to be peers. We played basketball in their driveway, and rode bicycles as children might, and she told me about the questions she had at school about a boy named Alessandro. Allison had a fondness for boys of Italian descent.