by Dave Eggers
I had known William K since he was a baby and I was a baby. Our mothers had placed us in the same bed as infants. We knew each other as we learned to walk and speak. I could not remember more than a handful of those days that we had not been together, that I had not run with William K. We were simply friends who lived in a village together and expected to always be boys and friends in our village. But in these past months, we had traveled so far from our families, and we had no homes, and we had become so weak and no longer looked as we had before. And now William K’s life had ended and his body lay at my feet.
I sat next to him for some time. In my hand his hand became warm again and I looked into his face. I kept the flies at bay and refused to look up; I knew the vultures would be circling and I knew that I could not prevent them from coming to William K. But I decided that I would bury him, that I would bury him even if it meant that I would lose my place with the group. After seeing the dead and dying of the lost Fist, I no longer had any faith in our journey or in our guides. It seemed only logical that what had begun would continue: that we would walk and die until all boys were gone.
I dug as best I could, though I needed to rest frequently; the activity made me lightheaded and short of breath. I could not cry; there was not the water in my body to spare.
—Achak, come!
It was Kur. I saw him in the distance, waving to me. The group had assembled again and was leaving. I chose not to tell Kur or anyone that William K was dead. He was mine and I did not want them touching him. I did not want them telling me how to bury him or how to cover him or that he should be abandoned where he lay. I had not buried Deng but I would bury William K. I waved back to Kur and told him I would come soon and then returned to my digging.
—Now, Achak!
The hole was meager and I knew it would not cover William K. But it would keep the carrion birds at bay for some time, long enough so that I would be able to walk far enough that I wouldn’t have to see them descend. I placed leaves on the bottom of the hole, enough that he had a cushion for his head and there was no dirt visible. I dragged William K into the hole and then placed leaves over his face and hands. I bent his knees and folded his feet behind his knees to save space. Now I needed to rest again, and I sat, feeling small satisfaction in knowing that he would fit inside the hole I had made after all.
—Goodbye, Achak! Kur yelled. I saw that the boys had already left. Kur waited a few moments for me, and then turned.
I did not want to leave William K. I wanted to die with him. I was so tired at that moment, so bone-tired that I felt that I could fall asleep as he did, sleep until my body went cold. But then I thought of my mother and my father, my brothers and sisters, and found myself invoking William K’s own mythic visions of Ethiopia. The world was terrible but perhaps I would see them again. It was enough to bring me to my feet again. I stood and chose to continue walking, to walk until I could not walk. I would finish burying William K and then I would follow the boys.
I could not watch the first dirt fall on William K’s face so I kicked the first layer with the back of my heel. Once his head was covered, I spread more dirt and rocks until it bore some resemblance to a real grave. When I was finished, I told William K that I was sorry. I was sorry that I had not known how sick he was. That I had not found a way to keep him alive. That I was the last person he saw on this earth. That he could not say goodbye to his mother and father, that only I would know where his body lay. It was a broken world, I knew then, that would allow a boy such as me to bury a boy such as William K.
I walked with the boys but I would not talk and I thought frequently about quitting this walking. Each time I saw the remnants of a home, or the hollow of a tree, I was tempted to stop, to live there and give all this up.
We walked through the night, and in the late morning we were very close to the border with Ethiopia, and the rain was a mistake. There should not have been rain in that part of Sudan at that time but the rain came heavily and for most of the day. We drank from the raindrops and we collected the water in all the vessels we had among us. But just as soon as the rain was a boon, it became our curse. For months we had prayed for moisture, for wet earth between our toes and now all we wanted was dry solid ground. By the time we reached Gumuro, there was virtually no piece of land that had not been drenched, reduced to swamp. But there was one elevated patch of land and Dut led us to it.
—Tanks!
Kur saw them first. We stopped and crouched in the grass. I did not know if the SPLA had their own tanks, so at first I assumed the tanks were those of the government of Sudan and were there to kill us.
—This should be SPLA territory, Dut said, walking toward the village.
Three military trucks stood in the center of the town. The town was burned everywhere but we were happy to see three SPLA soldiers step out from the husk of a bus. Dut stepped carefully.
—Welcome boys! one of the soldiers said to us. He wore fatigues and boots but no shirt. We smiled at him, sure that we would be fed and cared for.
—Now please leave, he said.—You need to get out.
Dut stepped forward, insisting that we were on the same side and that we needed food, to rest on dry land until the rains let up.
—We have nothing, a weary voice said. It was another soldier, wearing only shorts. He looked much like us, malnourished and defeated.
—This is SPLA land? Dut asked.
—I guess it is, the second soldier said.—We hear nothing from them. They’ve left us out here to die. This is a war run by fools.
The soldiers, eleven of them waiting at Gumuro, were from another lost battalion, this one without a nickname like The Fist. These men had been left in Gumuro without supplies and with no means of communicating with their commanders in Rumbek, or anywhere else. Dut explained that he did not want to add to the woes of the soldiers, but he had more than three hundred boys who could not walk through the night and would like to rest.
—I really don’t care one way or another, the second soldier said.—Just don’t take anything. We have nothing to take. Do what you want.
Thus Gumuro was chosen as the day’s place to rest, and we spread out under the trucks and in the shadow of the tank, anywhere where the rain was deflected. It was not long before some of the boys wanted to look for food, or for fish in the swamps. The first soldier, whose name was Tito, urged them to stay put.
—There are mines here, boys. You can’t wander off. The Sudanese army left mines all over here.
The message was not getting through to the boys, so Dut stepped in.
—Does everyone know what a mine does to a person?
Everyone nodded, though Dut was not convinced. So he led a demonstration. He knelt on the ground, and asked a volunteer to pretend to step onto his hand. When he did, Dut made the sound of a great blast, and he took the boy’s foot and threw the boy onto his back; he landed with a slap. The boy, his eyes tearing with anger and pain, got up and returned to his spot under a bus.
It was not long before boys disobeyed. Dozens of boys walked off in all directions. Many were hungry, and were determined to find food. Three boys went into the grass. I asked them where they were going, hoping that they would be fishing and that I might join them. They did not answer me and walked down the hill. I sat under a truck, my head between my knees, and thought of William K, about the carrion birds who might be curious about him. I thought of Amath and my mother and her yellow dress. I knew that I would die soon and hoped that perhaps she was dead, too, and that I could join her. I did not want to wait in death to see her.
The sound was like the popping of a balloon. Then a scream. I did not investigate. I did not want to see. I knew the boys had found a mine. The movement of many men followed, those coming to help the boy. It emerged that one boy had lost his leg; two others had been killed. These were the boys who I had asked to join. The boy who had lost his leg died later in the evening. There were no doctors in Gumuro.
Some boys rested but I deci
ded that I would not sleep. I would not close my eyes until I reached Ethiopia. I did not feel like living, and I was very sure that I was dying, too. I had eaten the eggs in the tree, and the nuts from the bicycle man, and so had eaten more than some boys, but the wound on my leg would not heal, and each night I felt the insects explore its crevices. When we walked, the boys in front of me were a blur and their voices, when they came to me, no longer made sense. My ears were infected, my vision unreliable. I was a very good candidate to be taken next.
After the soldiers had helped Dut dispose of the dead boys, one of the soldiers saw me under the truck and crouched before me. The rains had abated.
—Come here, Red Army, he said.
I did not move. I am not rude this way by nature, but at that moment I did not care about this soldier or what he wanted me to do. I didn’t want to help bury bodies or anything ideas he might have for me.
—That is an order, Red Army! he barked.
—I’m not in your army, I said.
His arm was quick and his grip was immediate. In one quick motion he had taken me from under the truck and lifted me to my feet.
—You’re not part of us? Of this cause? he asked. Now I saw that it was the soldier named Tito. His face was heavily scarred, his eyes yellow, ringed in red.
I shook my head. I was not part of anything, I decided. I was not even part of the walking boys. I wanted to return to the man with the bicycle, to his oranges and cold hidden water.
—So you’ll just die here? Tito demanded.
—Yes, I said. I was even then ashamed at how insolent I was acting.
Tito took me roughly by the arm and led me across the village to a pyramid of logs and kindling, and behind it, the legs of a man. The rest of the man’s body was hidden under the leaves. His feet were pink, black, white, covered in grubs.
—You see this man? I nodded.
—This is a dead man. This was a man like me, a man my age. A big man. Strong, healthy. He had shot down a helicopter. Can you imagine this, Red Army, a Dinka man shooting down a helicopter? I was there. It was a great day. But he’s dead now, and why? Because he decided not to be strong. Do you want to be like the dead man? I was so tired that I didn’t react at all.
—This is acceptable to you? he barked.
—Everyone is dying, I said.—We passed dead soldiers coming here.
This seemed surprising to Tito. He wanted to know where we had seen them, and how many there were. When I told him, he was changed: it became clear to him that his was not the only group of soldiers alone in the desert, forgotten in the war. This news, I believe, gave Tito strength. And watching him run back to the bus to tell his comrades, I felt stronger, too. I realize it was not rational.
In the early evening, as the sky’s blue grew black, we were settling in to sleep when a figure broke the horizon. Dut saw him and stood on the edge of the village, squinting into the distance. The figure became a boy.
—Is that one of ours? Dut asked.
No one answered. Tito was asleep in the shadow of the tank.
—Kur, could that be one of ours? Dut asked. Kur shrugged.
I squinted and saw that the boy on the horizon became many boys, then hundreds of figures. I sat up. Dut and Kur stood, their hands on their hips.
—My God, who is that?
Dut woke Tito and asked if he knew anything about a group of boys coming to Gumuro.
—We didn’t know about you, Tito said wearily. He was unhappy to be woken but was interested in the mass of people approaching.
The group in the distance grew closer. All of the boys of our group were watching as this other, larger, line of boys approached. The line did not end. The line grew to four boys wide and soon there were women visible, very small children, armed men. Tito was agitated.
—What the hell is this?
This was a river of Sudanese and they were coming into Gumuro. They looked stronger, and they walked briskly, with purpose. They carried bags, baskets, suitcases, sacks. And then the most incredible thing: a tanker.
—Water, Tito said.—That’s the SPLA water tanker.
—A tanker? Dut whispered.—We have a tanker?
The group emerging from the drenched horizon was eight hundred strong, perhaps a thousand. They were accompanied by fifty soldiers or more, armed and healthy and guarding the walkers. The first of them began to enter the town. Dut was elated. He saw their food and their water and gathered us.
The first of the new soldiers stepped up to Dut and Tito.
—Hello uncle! Dut said, now exuberant, almost in tears.
—Who are you? the new soldier said. He wore a baseball hat and a full uniform.
—We’re some of the walking boys, Dut said.—Like you. We just arrived earlier today. It’s so good to see you here! We’re so hungry! And we have no clean water. They’re drinking from puddles, from the swamps. When I saw that tanker I thought God himself had sent it to us. We really could use some of that. We’re dying here. We’ve lost so many. How should we—
—We’ll feed the soldiers, the new rebel said,—but you shouldn’t be here.
—In this village? Dut was incredulous. His voice cracked.
—We have to take this village. We’ve got a thousand people.
—Well, we’re only three hundred. I’m sure there’s room. And we really need assistance. We lost nineteen boys in the desert.
—That may be the case. But you have to leave now, before the rest of my group arrives. These are important people and we’re escorting them to Pinyudo.
Dut watched the people arriving. There were families and adults in fine clothing but there were among them many boys, small boys, looking very much like us. The only difference was that the new group was better fed. Their eyes were not shrunken, their bellies not bloated. They wore shirts and shoes.
—Uncle, Dut tried.—I have respect for you and your position. I only ask that we share this land tonight. It’s already getting dark.
—Then you better move now.
Dut was sputtering now, as the reality of the soldier’s resolve became clear.
—Where? Where will we go?
—I won’t draw you a map. Move. Get these mosquitoes out of our way. He cast a disgusted look over all of us, our protruding bones and eyes and cracked skin, our mouths circled in white.
—But uncle, we’re the same! Aren’t we the same? Are your goals different than mine?
—I don’t know what your goals are.
—I can’t believe this. It’s absurd.
The crack at that moment was very similar to that when my father was struck in his shop. I turned away. Dut lay on the ground, his temple bleeding from the blow of the butt of the gun. The soldier stood over him.
—It is absurd, doctor. Good choice of words. Now get the hell out of here.
The soldier raised his gun and shot into the air.—Get out of here, you insects! Move!
The new soldiers chased us from the village, beating whomever they could. Boys fell and bled. Boys ran. We ran and I ran and I had never felt the rage I felt at that moment. My anger was more intense than it had ever been toward the murahaleen. It was born of the realization that there were castes within the displaced. And we occupied the lowest rung on the ladder. We were utterly dispensible to all—to the government, to the murahaleen, to the rebels, to the better-situated refugees.
We settled on the edge of Gumuro, in a marsh, where we rested in ankle-deep water and tried to sleep. We were alone and in a circle again, listening to the sounds of the forest, watching the lights of the tanker in the distance.
It was two days more before we reached Ethiopia. Before Ethiopia we had to cross a tributary of the Nile, the Gilo River, wide and deep. The people who lived by the water owned boats but would not allow us to use them. Swimming was our only choice.
—Who’ll be first? Dut asked.
On the riverbank there were three crocodiles drying themselves. When the first boys stepped into the river, those croco
diles chose to enter the water, too. The boys leapt from the water, crying.
—Come, look, Dut said.—These crocodiles won’t attack. They’re not hungry today.
He waded into the river and then began to swim, gliding easily, his head above water, his glasses never getting wet. Dut seemed capable of anything. Some boys cried anew, watching him in the middle of the river. We expected him to disappear in an instant. But he swam back to us untouched.
—Now we must go. Anyone who wants to stay here, can do so. But we are crossing this river today, and once we do, we will be very close to our destination.
We squinted to see what lay ahead on the opposite bank of the river. From our perspective, it looked very much like the side of the river we were on, but we had faith that once across the water, all would be new.
Few among us could swim, so Kur and Dut, and the boys who could swim, pulled across those who could not. Two swimmers would take one boy at a time, and this took quite some time. Each boy was courageous and quiet as they were brought to the opposite shore, keeping their legs from dangling too deep. No one was attacked in that river that day. But these same crocodiles would grow accustomed to eating people at a later time.
As I waited for my turn, hunger came to me like I had not experienced in weeks. Perhaps it was because I knew that in the riverside village there was real food, and that there must exist some way to get it. Alone, I walked from house to house, trying to conceive of a plan to trade for or steal food. I had never stolen in my life but the temptation was becoming too great.
A boy’s voice spoke to my back.—You, boy, where are you from?
He was my age, a boy who looked not dissimilar to us Dinka. He spoke a kind of Arabic. I was surprised to find that I could understand the boy. I told him that I had walked from Bahr al-Ghazal, though this meant nothing to him. Bahr al-Ghazal did not exist here.
—I want your shirt, the boy said. Soon another boy, looking like the older brother to the first boy, approached and commented that he, too, wanted my shirt. In a moment a deal was struck: I told them I would sell them my shirt in exchange for a cup of maize and a cup of green beans.