What is the What

by Dave Eggers

  She turned her head to him and gave him the kind of disgusted look reserved for drunkards and the raving mad. The driver helped them with a few bags he retrieved from the back, and deposited them on the ground in front of the house.

  —It’s me! It’s me! Gop was screaming, and it was evident that his running toward them was making the girls, and their mother, uncomfortable.

  Gop was no more than one hundred yards away when he seemed to change his mind. He slowed and then stopped, and then ducked out of the road. I followed him as he dodged between the anarchic maze of homes nearby. We were now out of sight of the road and Gop’s family. He leaped over the low fences of the neighboring homes and under the clotheslines and around the sad stringy chickens kept by our neighbors, until he was at the back door of the home we shared. He entered his home and I followed him. I could hear someone at the front door, and guessed it was the Red Cross driver, whose knocking was loud and impatient.

  Gop was in his bedroom.

  —Don’t answer the door! he begged me.—Let me change. I waited by the door.

  —I don’t want them to know I was the man screaming down the road.

  By now, I had guessed as much. I waited by the door as Gop splashed and straightened and cleaned. In a minute he emerged, freshened and wearing his finest white shirt and clean khakis.

  —I’m ready, yes?

  I nodded, and opened the door. Gop strode through, his arms wide.

  —My wife! My daughters!

  And he lifted the girls, one after the other, starting with the oldest and finishing with the youngest and most delicate, a tiny girl he kept on his arm for the better part of the day, as they unpacked and ate. The family had brought many foods from Sudan, and he and I showed the women the house we had constructed for them.

  —There was a crazy man running down the road, his wife eventually said, as she arranged sheets on the girls’ beds.—Did you hear him?

  Gop sighed.—There are all types here, my darling.

  I became close with Gop’s wife, Ayen, and their daughters, Abuk, Adeng, and Awot. The restructuring of the household, which was extensive, changed my life and worked to everyone’s advantage. Because Gop and his wife now needed a bedroom of their own, we built another one, and the girls moved into the one that he and I used to share. Gop and his wife wouldn’t have me sleeping in the room with the girls, so a separate bedroom was built for me, and in the middle of building it, we had an idea: it was unusual for a boy my age to have his own room, and Gop and I knew of plenty of boys who would gladly move in with us and would help bring in more income and food, so invitations were extended to Achor Achor and three other boys, all students of Gop’s, and my bedroom was built to accommodate five boys. When we were done, the household had grown from two to ten in one week.

  There were four shelters now, all of them attached, and a kitchen and common room in the middle and it made for a very large household with many young people moving within it. It was never a question of whether or not all us kids would get along; there was no choice but to become a perfect machine, all of us parts moving in sync, peacefully and without complaint.

  Every day, all eight of us kids would wake up at six o’clock and together go to the water tap to fill our jerry cans for our showers. The water would run from the tap starting at six o’clock; it was then that everyone in our region of the camp, about twenty thousand people, had to get their own water for washing; the water for cooking and cleaning was retrieved later. The line at the tap was always long, until years later, when the UN dug more taps. But at that time, there were commonly over a hundred people in line when the taps came alive. At home we would all shower and dress for school. During those years, breakfast was not eaten at Kakuma—it was not until 1998 that there was enough food for morning meals—so if we consumed anything before leaving the house it was water or tea; there was enough for one meal a day, and that came at dinner, together, after school and work.

  We all attended the same school, a short walk away, with an enrollment just under one thousand. First there would be an assembly, where announcements would be made, and we all would be given the advice of the day. Often the advice pertained to hygiene and nutrition, an odd subject given how poorly we were fed. Just as often, it would cover malfeasance and punishment. If any students had been misbehaving, there would be retribution then and there, with a quick caning or verbal reprimand in front of the student body. Then there would be prayer, or the singing of a hymn, for all of the students in that school were Christians, at least as far as we could tell. If there were Muslims, they were very quiet about their faith, not protesting then or during the regular sessions in what they called Christian Religious Instruction.

  There were sixty-eight students in my class. We stayed in one classroom throughout the day, sitting on the dirt, as our instructors, specialists in English, Kiswahili, Math, Science, Home Science, Geography, Agriculture, and Arts & Crafts & Music moved in and out. I enjoyed school and was well liked by my teachers, but many of my friends had stopped attending classes. They were impatient with it, could not see the point, and went into the markets to make money. They would trade their rations for clothes, sell the clothes in the camp and turn a profit. And of course they continued to leave Kakuma for the SPLA, and we would hear soon enough about who had been shot, who had been burned, who had been separated from his limbs by a grenade.

  On the days food was distributed, we kids would be sent to the UN compound, where we would line up. The UN workers or the LWF workers would scoop food from the trucks, first checking the ID cards and ration cards of each recipient. On the way back, we would carry the bags of grain or sorghum the mile home, either on our heads or shoulders, resting frequently. We all complained about retrieving the rations, and on the rare occasions when someone missed the distribution, when they slept late or were late getting into line, the ration would not be brought home and the family would be affected. Backup plans had to be made and carried out, to ensure the family ate. It was time for my recycling trip.

  I had my backpack and good shoes and—

  —Do you have a hat? Gop’s daughter Awot asked me.

  —Why would I need a hat?

  —What if there’s someone at Loki who knows you when you come back?

  She was a brilliant girl, this Awot. So I included Achor Achor’s prized Houston Astros hat in the backpack and finally I was ready. It was midnight when the family saw me off. Gop did not seem to fear for my life, so I took our goodbye lightly and the girls followed suit. Achor Achor walked me to the border between Kakuma and the great beyond, and when I turned to the leave, he grabbed my arm and wished me luck.

  —Did you bring your ration card? he asked me.

  And I had indeed brought my ration card, a grave mistake. If I was robbed by the Turkana, or interrogated by the Kenyan police, or asked to empty my pockets by the officials at Loki, my original ration card would be taken, and the entire point of the trip would be lost. So I gave my ration card to Achor Achor, we patted each other on the back like men, and I was off into the night, with no identifying papers on me. I was new, I was no one.

  I had been told that if I came upon any Kenyan police along the road, a bribe would be requested and I soon would be on my way. And this is precisely what happened: within a few miles of Kakuma it happened three times. Each set of guards were bought with fifty shillings and were exceedingly polite and businesslike about the transaction. I might as well have been buying fruit from a sidewalk grocer.

  I walked through the night perhaps too cheerfully, thinking my trip charmed and knowing I would be successful. With any luck I would be back at Kakuma, with six thousand shillings and another ration card in three days’ time.

  I arrived at Loki in the early hours, found the dirt roads empty, and slept inside a compound maintained by Save the Children, an NGO we knew well: they had been supplying food to the starving in southern Sudan for years. Loki is dotted with these NGO staging areas, which are in most cases no mor
e than small shacks or adobe houses, surrounded by wooden fences or gates of corrugated steel. Save the Children, back then and still today, works closely with the Sudanese, and their people are always willing to help those of us coming to Kakuma or leaving for Sudan.

  When I woke up I saw first the feet of a man standing over me, talking to another man on the other side of the fence. The man almost stepping on me, I learned, was named Thomas. He was a bit older than me, had been SPLA, but left during the split between Garang and Machar. When he was done speaking to the man over the fence, he turned his attention to me.

  —So what’s your situation? he asked. I told him a general version of my plan.

  —How much money do you have?

  I told him I had only fifty shillings left.

  —Then how do you intend to get your papers from the SPLM?

  I had not been told that these papers would cost money. I knew if I entered SPLA-controlled territory, I would need an SPLA⁄SPLM-issued identification card, but I thought they would provide it for free. The SPLA⁄SPLM, I had been told, would put any name you wanted on the document, and I had planned to give them a name similar enough that it would be regionally correct; that way I would be able to answer any questions about clans in my part of Sudan. With the new document, I would ride back to Loki, sell the goats, and, at the Loki immigration office, I would hand them my documents and claim to be in danger if I returned to Sudan. I would be processed as a refugee, and under my new name be granted admission to Kakuma.

  —No money left, huh? Thomas said.—You just left last night! Thomas gave me a curious smile, his head tilted.

  —Poor planning, Achak. Do you have a new name chosen? No doubt you’ll be glad to be rid of Achak.

  I told him Valentine Deng would be my new name.

  —Not bad. I like that, Valentine. There are a few other Valentines around. It won’t look suspicious. Listen, here’s fifty shillings. You can pay me back next time you come through. I’m here a lot; I do some business here and there. You take the fifty shillings, combine it with yours, you have one hundred. That might be enough if the SPLM takes pity on you. Give me a pitiful face, Valentine Deng.

  I turned my mouth downward into a pout, and teared my eyes.

  —Wow, not bad, Valentine. Impressive. You have a ride? I did not have a ride.

  —Oh lord. Never have I encountered such an unprepared traveler. If you give me the face again I’ll tell you where to get a ride into Narus. I gave him the look again.

  —That is really a pitiful look, son. I congratulate you. Okay. There’s a truck coming from Sudan right now. It’s down the road and one of the drivers is a friend of mine, cousin to my wife. It’s going back to Sudan in a few minutes. You ready?

  —I am, I said.

  —Good, he said. Here it comes.

  And indeed a truck pulled up at that moment, a standard flatbed truck, the sort I was accustomed to seeing full of passengers. It was a dream, it seemed, to have found a direct ride so quickly. I had only been awake five minutes. The truck shook to a halt in front of Save the Children. Thomas spoke to the driver for a few minutes and then gave me the signal. The engine rumbled awake and the tires chewed the gravel.

  —Go, fool! Go! Thomas yelled to me.

  I gathered my bag and ran after the truck and jumped onto the back bumper. I turned to wave to Thomas, but he had gone inside the compound, finished with me. I threw my bag in and climbed over the back door. My first foot landed on something soft.

  —Excuse me! I gasped.

  It was then that I saw that I had stepped on a person. The truckbed was filled with people, fifteen or more. But they were grey, white, covered in blood. These people were dead. I was stepping on the chest of a man who made no protestation. I jumped off his chest and onto the hand of a woman who also offered no objection. I stood on one foot, my other foot hovering over the exposed innards of a boy only a bit older than myself.

  —Careful, boy! There are a few of us still alive.

  I turned to find a man, an elderly man, lying prone and twisted like a root, near the back of the truck.—I’m sorry, I said.

  The truck jerked and the old man’s head hit the back hatch. He moaned.

  We were moving, and the truck quickly picked up speed. I gripped the side of the truck and tried not to look at its cargo. I looked into the sky but then the smell overtook me. I gagged.

  —You’ll become accustomed to it, the man said.—It’s a human smell.

  I tried to move my foot but found it stuck; blood covered the truck floor. I wanted to jump but the truck was traveling too fast. I looked forward, wanting to get the attention of the driver. A head emerged from the passenger side of the truck cab. A cheerful man hoisted himself so he was sitting on the window ledge, looking back at me. He seemed to be an SPLA soldier, but it was difficult to tell.

  —How are you back there, Red Army?

  —I’d like to get out please, I stammered. The maybe-rebel laughed.

  —I’ll walk back. Please. Please, uncle. He laughed until tears filled his eyes.

  —Oh Red Army. You are too much.

  Then he slipped back into the cab.

  A moment later, the truck swerved and I lost my footing, and for a second I found my knee in the broken thigh of a dead soldier, whose open eyes stared into the sun. As I raised myself, I glanced over the contents of truckbed. The corpses were arranged as if they had been thrown. Nothing held them in place.

  —It’s pitiful, it is, the old man said.—Many of us were alive when we left Sudan. I’ve been keeping the vultures away. A dog jumped aboard yesterday. He was hungry. The truck jumped again and my foot slipped on something viscous.

  —The dogs now, they have a taste for people. They go straight for the face. Did you know that? It was lucky that one of the men in the cab heard the dog. They stopped the truck and shot it. Now it’s just the four of us, he said.

  Four aboard were yet alive, though it was difficult to find them, and I was not sure the old man was correct. I glanced to a body next to him. At first it seemed that this man’s arms were hidden. But now it was clear, because I could see the white bones of his shoulders, that the man’s arms had been removed.

  The truck swerved wildly again. My right foot landed on the arm of a teenage boy, wearing a blue camouflage uniform and a floppy hat.

  —He’s still alive, I think, the old man said.—Though he hasn’t spoken today.

  I raised myself again and heard wild laughter from the truck cab. They’d swerved on purpose, each time. The cheerful man’s head again appeared from the passenger window.

  —The driver is very sorry, Red Army, he said.—There was a lizard in the road and he was very concerned about killing such a creature of God.

  —Please uncle, I said. I don’t want to be here. I want to leave. If you could only slow down a bit, I’ll jump off. You don’t need to stop.

  —Don’t worry, Red Army, the maybe-rebel said. His face and tone were suddenly serious, even compassionate.—We only have to drop the wounded at Lopiding Hospital, and then bury the bodies over the hill, and we’ll have an empty truck all the way to Sudan. Wherever you need to go.

  The truck had taken a bump and the man’s head had struck the top of the window frame. Soon he was inside the truck again, yelling at the driver. For a moment the truck slowed and I thought I had a chance.

  —Take the ride, boy. It was the old man.

  —How else will you get to Sudan? he said. He looked at me then, as if for the first time.

  —Why are you going back, anyway, boy?

  I did not consider telling the man the truth, that I was trying to recycle, to get another ration card. It would seem ridiculous to a man struggling to live. The people of southern Sudan had their problems, and by comparison the mechanisms of Kakuma, where everyone was fed and was safe, were not worth mentioning.

  —To find my family, I said.

  —They’re dead, he said.—Sudan is dead. We won’t ever live there again.
This is your home now. Kenya. Be glad for it. This is your home and it will always be your home.

  A sigh came from below my feet. The teenage boy turned over, his hands praying under his ear as if he were comfortably at home on a pillow of feathers. I looked down at him, determined that I should focus on him, for he seemed most at peace. My eyes assessed him quickly—I could not control them, and cursed them for their speed and curiosity—and realized that the boy’s left leg was missing. It was now a stump covered with a bandage fashioned from a canvas tarpaulin and rubber bands cobwebbed to his waist.

  The ride, I now know, was less than an hour, but it is impossible to convey how long it seemed that day. I had covered my mouth but still I gagged continuously: I felt chills, and my neck seemed numb. I felt sure that this truck represented the devil’s most visible deeds, that in every way it symbolized his work on Earth. I knew I was being tested, and I rode until the truck finally slowed upon reaching the driveway to the Lopiding Hospital.

  Without hesitation I jumped over the side and tumbled onto the ground. I meant to outrun the truck and find safe haven in the clinic. Upon landing on the hard dirt, I needed a moment to re-engage with the world, to know that I was not dead myself, that I had not been cast into Hell. I stood and felt my legs and arms working and so I ran.

  —Wait, Red Army! Where are you going?

  I ran from the truck, which was slowly traversing a series of potholes. I ran and outpaced the vehicle easily, aiming myself for a building on the end of the compound.

  Lopiding was a series of tents and a few white brick buildings, sky-blue roofs, acacia trees, plastic chairs set outside for waiting patients. I ran to the back of a building and almost knocked over a man holding a false arm.

  —Careful, boy!

  The man was Kenyan, middle-aged. He spoke to me in Kiswahili. All around him were the makings of new feet, legs, arms, faces.

  —Hey Red Army! Come now. It was the soldier from the truck.

  —Take this. Put it on.

  The Kenyan gave me a mask, red, too small for me. I sank my face into it. I could see through the holes for eyes and the Kenyan tied it closed.