What is the What

by Dave Eggers

  —Why would they send their slave to school?

  —Men like this want everyone to be Muslim, Achak. So I pretended to be a good Muslim. I thought they would be kinder to me, but this didn’t happen. They beat me more than was necessary. The kids especially liked to whip me. The oldest boy, smaller than us, when he was left alone with me, would whip me without pause. I couldn’t retaliate at all, so I had to run from him, run around the yard until he got tired. I wanted to murder that boy and I made many plans to do that.

  I could not take my eyes off of the 8 on the side of Moses’s head. Its color changed in the light of the sun.

  —I stayed there for three months before I decided I would try to escape. I told Akol I was going to escape and she thought I was mad. I planned to run away at night. The first time I tried, I was caught almost immediately. I ran into the next yard and a dog began barking. Its owner came out of the house with a torch and caught me. I was gone for a very short time. Hassan laughed a lot at me. Then he took me into the yard and he made me squat. I squatted in the yard like a frog, and he brought his children out and told them to jump on me. They sat on my back and pretended that I was a donkey, and they laughed, and Hassan laughed. They called me a stupid donkey. And the kids fed me garbage. They said I had to eat it, so I ate it—anything they gave me. Animal fat, tea bags, rotten vegetables.

  —I’m so sorry, Moses.

  —No, no. Don’t be. No, this was the key to my escape. After eating all the garbage, I began to vomit. I vomited for hours that night, and I was sick for two days. I couldn’t stand. I couldn’t work. Akol helped me, and I began to feel better. But when I was recovering I had an idea. I decided to be sick all the time.

  —This is how you escaped?

  —It was easy. I forced myself to be sick always. Whenever I ate I thought of anything I could to make myself vomit. I thought of eating humans. I thought of eating zebra hides and the arms of babies. Then I would vomit and vomit. Soon Hassan decided he didn’t want me around anymore. He said I was a bad gift, and that he would be selling me. One day two men appeared, each on camels. They were dressed in white, white covering their faces and feet. They threw me onto the back of the camel and I was taken many days away, to a town called Shendi. Again I was put in a barn with other Dinka and Nuer boys, this barn smaller than the one before. A few of the boys had been there for a week or more. They told me that this was a town where slaves were traded. They said that traders bought slaves here for people in many different countries—Libya, Chad, Mauritania. I stayed in that barn for two days without food, and only one bucket of water for fifty of us.

  —Were you sold?

  —I was, Achak! I was sold twice. First I was sold to a Sudanese Arab. He was an older man and he had his son with him. They seemed to be very strange people. They bought me and I went with them, simply walking out of the village without any bindings or leash or anything. They had a camel with them but the three of us just walked away. We traveled for many days, on foot and all three of us on this camel. It was very uncomfortable but they were not cruel men. They barely said a word, and I did not ask questions. I knew we were going south because of the direction of the sun and I planned to see how far we would go, and eventually I would find my chance and escape.

  —And you escaped where?

  —I didn’t need to, Achak! I told you I was bought twice, and the second time was how I became free. We camped in this one forest for three days, and did almost nothing all day. They had me gather wood during the day, but otherwise we only sat and they slept in the shade. On the second day, another Arab man came to visit them, and they exchanged some information, and the man left. On the third day, we rose at dawn and walked until midday, until we reached an airfield, and there I saw twenty other Dinka—boys like me, women, girls, and one old man. Around them were ten Arabs, some on horseback, some armed. They seemed to be a mixture of traders and murahaleen, and the Arab pair who had bought me brought me to the rest of the group and I felt so scared, Achak! I thought that they had brought me all this way to kill me with the rest of the Dinka. But this wasn’t their plan.

  —They killed no one?

  —No, no. We were valuable to them! It was such a feeling! An airplane came to that landing strip and from the plane came two people with the white skin. Have you seen any people like this, Achak?

  I said I had not.

  —There was a man, very fat, and a very tall woman. Their pilot looked like these Ethiopians here. And then the white people spoke for some time to the Arabs who held all of the Dinka. They had a sort of bag that I found out later was full of money. This was how I was bought again, Achak!

  —These people bought you? Why?

  —They bought all of us, Achak. It was very strange. They paid for all of us, and then they told us that we were free. All twenty of us were free, but we had no idea where we were. The Arabs turned and walked off, heading west, and then we waited. The white people waited with us, for most of the afternoon. Finally two Dinka men, dressed very well and with clean shirts, appeared in a large white vehicle. It seemed to be very new. And so many of the former slaves got inside the vehicle and some walked alongside, and I rode on top with one other boy. We drove for many hours, until it was dark and we came to a Dinka village. I ate and slept there for a few weeks, until I was told to join the walking boys.

  —And you walked with a big group?

  —It was not a bad walk, Achak. I even got to ride on a tanker.

  I was very jealous of Moses at that moment, but I didn’t tell him this. I thanked God for granting Moses this small act of mercy. Then I told Moses about William K, and afterward and we sat by the river for the rest of the day. Moses said nothing at all.

  More stories like Moses’s began to be told at Pinyudo, as boys who had been abducted were occasionally freed or escaped and found their way to the camp. But Moses was the only boy I knew who had been aided by the white people, and thus information about their deeds was scarce. I personally doubted that the people Moses had seen were actually white until I saw my first of the species. This was perhaps three months after we had been in Ethiopia, and after Moses had become part of the Eleven. By then the rest of the world, or some portion of the humanitarian-aid world at least, had become aware of the forty thousand or so refugees, half of us unaccompanied minors, living just over the Ethiopian border.

  I was woken by excited talk outside the shelter.

  —You haven’t seen him?

  —No. You’re saying he’s a white man? His hair is white?

  —No, his skin, every part of him. He’s white like chalk.

  I sat up and crawled outside, still not alert enough to think much of what the three of the Eleven were discussing. When I stood and peed, I saw clutches of boys everywhere in the camp talking intensely, in groups of ten or more. Something was happening, and it was somehow related to the gibberish my tentmates had been uttering. As I began to piece together their conversation, I looked up to see the heads of hundreds of boys turning simultaneously. I followed their stares and saw what seemed to be a man who had been turned inside out. He was the absence of a man. He had been erased. An involuntary shudder went through my body, the same reaction I had when I saw a burn, a missing limb—a perversion or ruination of nature.

  I began to walk toward the erased man before I realized I had not lifted my pants after urinating. I fixed myself and followed the crowd of boys who were herding in the direction of the erased man. I looked for Moses, to ask him if this was the sort of person he had seen, but Moses was nowhere to be found. The white man was a few hundred yards away, and the murmuring among the boys was getting quieter as we drew closer. An older boy burst in front of us.

  —Stop! Don’t bother the khawaja. He’ll run away if you get too close. A hundred boys running to him will scare him off. Now get away.

  We returned to our shelters, to our chores, but over the course of the day, theories about the new man abounded. The first theory held that he had been sent by
the Sudanese government to kill all of us—that he would count all of the boys, and then he would decide how many weapons he would need to exterminate us. Once he had done so, the killing would come at night. This theory was quickly debunked when we discovered that the elders did not fear him; in fact, they were talking to him and shaking his hand. Naturally, then the pendulum swung and the next notion posited that he was a god, that he had come to save all of us, and would lead us back to southern Sudan, to triumph over the murahaleen. This idea gained currency throughout the day, and was undermined only when we cataloged the activities in which the god engaged. He spent most of his time with a few of the elders, building a storage shed for food, which seemed like work too pedestrian for a god or even a minor deity. Thereafter, some of the older boys offered more nuanced views.

  —He works for the government, but in secret. That’s why he hides in the white skin.

  —He’s turned inside out, and is in Sudan to find out how to become right again. Finally I had had enough of the theories, and went to ask Dut.

  —You’ve never seen a white man? he laughed.

  This interested Dut. I didn’t know where I would have seen a white man. I didn’t think it was funny. His face softened and he sighed.

  —The white people come to Sudan for many reasons, including their desire to teach us about the Kingdom of God…I know there weren’t any white people in Marial Bai, but they didn’t have white missionaries in your church in Aweil, either?

  I shook my head.

  —Well, okay. They also come for the oil, and this has been a source of much trouble for people like us; that is a story for another time. For now we’ll talk about another reason they come, which is to help people when they’re being attacked, oppressed. Sometimes the white men who come to inspect things here represent the armies of the white men, which are the most powerful armies on earth.

  I pictured the armies of the murahaleen, only with white men on white horses.

  —So which reason brought this white man to Pinyudo? I asked.

  —I don’t know yet, Dut said.

  I decided to wait for a few days, until there was more information available, to get closer to the inside-out man. The next day, the facts were clearer: the man had a name, it was either Peter or Paul, he was French, and he represented something called the UNHCR. He was here to help the elders build food-storage containers. If he liked the people he met, it was said, he would bring food to fill the containers. This information was accepted by most of the boys, though many of us still eyed the man warily, expecting anything from him: death, salvation, fire.

  When interest in the man had plateaued, I got close enough to observe him more closely. His skin was remarkable. Some days it was indeed as white as chalk, and others it was pink, like that of a pig or the underbelly of a goat. His arms and legs were covered in tangles of dark hair, again like a pig’s, only these hairs were longer.

  The man produced more sweat than any man I had ever seen. He would wipe the sweat from his face every few minutes; it seemed to be the primary occupation of his day. I found myself feeling sorry for the white man, for his sweating and because he resembled a pig in so many particulars. He was unsuited to the heat of Pinyudo, and I feared that he would burn up. He seemed fragile, oppressed by the sun; he carried a water bottle with him always, which he attached to his back with some kind of belt. He would sweat, and then wipe the sweat, and then drink water, and soon after, he would sit under the fig tree, alone.

  I visited Ajulo and asked her about him. She had heard about the white man, too. I asked her if the presence of the inside-out man was a good thing, what it might mean. She thought about this for a long moment.

  —The khawaja is an interesting thing, son. He is very smart. He has things in his head that you would not believe. He knows many languages, and the names of villages and towns, and can fly airplanes and drive cars. The white men are born knowing all of these things. He is powerful in this way, and very useful, very helpful to us. When you see a white man, it means things are going to improve. So I think this man is good for you.

  After church, I asked the priest the same question.

  —It is a very good thing, Achak, he said.—The white man is a close descendant of Adam and Eve, you see. You have seen the pictures of Jesus in your books, have you not? Adam and Eve and Jesus and God all have such skin. They are fragile, their skin burning in the sun, because they are closer to the status of angels. Angels would burn in a similar way if placed on earth. This man, then, is here to deliver messages from God.

  I began to circle closer to the man named Peter or Paul, and soon, it seemed, the man noticed me. One day Moses and I were walking close to the man, pretending not to be looking at him as he sat under his fig tree.

  —The khawaja smiled at you! Moses said.

  At first this troubled me. I had decided that it would be bad if the white man set his eyes upon me, so whenever the man turned toward me, I looked away and then walked quickly home. I preferred to watch, from a safe distance, as the man worked, to observe the man as he rested, always alone, under the giant fig tree. It made sense that the white man would rest alone, because he needed to receive messages from God. In crowds of noisy people such messages would be difficult to hear. I imagined the messages as delicate things, too. This seemed appropriate in the case of the white man, for he seemed like a very mild sort of man, a quiet god, if he was indeed a god or messenger for gods.

  For many nights I lay awake in my shelter, the mosquito net close around my face, the night and its noises crowding close, and I wondered if I should ask Peter or Paul whether he knew anything about Marial Bai and my family, their fates. If the man was a close descendant of Adam and Eve, and spoke to God from under the fig tree, surely he would know about my relatives—whether they were alive, and where they were now. Perhaps he would even be able to transport me back to Marial Bai. If my parents had been killed, he could bring them back to life, and restore the town to its state before the murahaleen’s dark cloud arrived. And if he could do that, and it seemed likely enough, could he not also stop the war in southern Sudan? Perhaps he could not do this himself, but by calling upon his God and the other gods, why couldn’t they intercede, and for the sake of all of the boys at Pinyudo, allow us all to go home? I decided that I would, if it came to it, compromise, and ask at the very least, the man might spare Marial Bai. If it was necessary for the war to continue, and I knew that gods often allowed men to fight, then perhaps Marial Bai could be excluded. I lay awake for too long each night, the Eleven falling off to sleep around me, planning how I might approach the white messenger, and how I might ask these favors without seeming burdensome. But one day Peter or Paul was gone and was never seen again. No one had an explanation.

  It was not long, though, before more white people, and aid workers from all over Africa, began to descend upon Pinyudo. From a distance I could see the delegations walking through the camp briskly, always guided carefully by one of the Sudanese elders. We were sometimes made to sing for the visitors, or to paint vast banners of greetings. But that was as close as we got to them. The visitors never made it deep into the camp, and usually left the same day they arrived.

  Supply trucks soon came three times a day; we began to eat at least twelve meals a week—it had only been seven before. We gained weight, and projects were underway all over the camp: new wells were dug, medical facilities opened, more books and pencils arrived. With relative contentment and full stomachs came thoughts of return. Moses was one of the first boys to suggest going back to Sudan.

  —We have food here, and things are stable, he said.—This means things are safe at home. We should go home now. Why should we stay? It’s been a year since we left.

  I didn’t know what to think. The thought seemed mad, but then again, just as Ajulo had questioned our existence in this place, I began, too, to wonder why we were not on our way to some other place, or home.

  —We won’t have any elders with us, though, I said.
—We’d be killed.

  —We know the way now, Moses said.—We’ll get twenty of us. That’s enough. Maybe one gun. Some knives, spears. Put some food in bags. It won’t be like before, like coming here. We’ll have all the supplies we need.

  Indeed, there was much talk among the boys of whether or not the war was over. Many thought it was time to return, and they were dissuaded only when the rumors of our plans reached the elders. An enraged Dut came to our shelter one night. He had never come inside our home.

  —This war is not over! he barked.—Have you lost your minds? Do you know what awaits you in Sudan? It’s worse there than ever before, you fools. Here you are safe, you’re well-fed, you’ll soon be educated. And you want to leave this, so you can walk through the desert alone? Some of you boys are no bigger than cats! Already we’ve heard of two boys who have left the camp in the dark of night. What happened to them, do you suppose?

  We knew the boys who had left, but did not know their fate.

  —They were killed by bandits just over the river. You kids wouldn’t even make it past the Anyuak!

  He was gesticulating wildly. He paused to collect himself.

  —If any of you are thinking of leaving, leave, because you’re too stupid to remain here. I don’t want you. I want only the boys with brains. Leave now, and when school begins in the fall, I expect only the boys who are smart enough to know what they have here and what they don’t have in the desert. Goodbye.

  He strode quickly from the shelter, still stammering as he walked away. Some of the Eleven didn’t believe the story about the bandits, because they could not imagine what the bandits would want from small boys, but after Dut’s outburst, our general restlessness diminished dramatically. The prospect of school actually beginning was a fantasy that we wished dearly to believe. Moses, though, was not convinced. There was an anger growing within him and it would drive him to adventures worse than the one that brought him to Shendi and back.