by Dave Eggers
Michael, you have not seen darkness until you have seen the darkness of southern Sudan. There are no cities in the distance, there are no streetlamps, there are no roads. When there is no moon you fool yourself. You see shapes before you that are not there. You want to believe that you can see, but you see nothing.
After hours of falling through the brush, I saw orange in the distance, a fire. I crawled and slithered toward it. I was beaten now. I was bleeding from all parts of my body and had decided that even if this was a Baggara fire, I would allow myself to be captured. I would be tied up and taken north and I no longer cared. The thicket under me cleared and soon I was on a path. I lifted myself to the form of man and ran toward the orange flames. My throat heaved and my ribs ached and my feet screamed with the pain of thorns and my bones striking the hard path. I ran quietly, thankful for the silence of the hard earth under my feet, and the fire came closer. I had had nothing to drink since the morning but knew I could ask for water when I reached the fire. I slowed to a walk but still my breathing was so loud that I did not hear the sounds of whips and leather straps and men. I was so close I could smell the musty odor of their camels. These men were close to the fire but apart from those who kept the fire.
I crouched and heard their voices, their words spoken in Arabic. I dropped to my knees and inched along the path, hoping to find the fire before the voices found me. But soon I knew that the voices were the keepers of the fire. The voices were so close to the fire that the fire had to be a murahaleen fire.
—Who is there? a voice asked. It was so close I jumped.
There was movement almost directly above me, and now I could see them, two men on camels. The animals were enormous, blocking out the stars. The men wore white and protruding from the back of one man I could see the jagged shape of a gun. I held my breath and made myself a snake and moved backward, away from the path.
—Is that a Dinka boy? said a voice. I listened and the men listened.
—A Dinka boy, or a rabbit? the same voice asked.
I continued to slither, inches at a time, my feet feeling their way behind me until they encountered a pile of sticks that moved loudly.
—Wait! one hissed.
I stopped and the men listened. I stayed on my stomach, still, breathing into the earth. The men were good at being quiet, too. They stood and listened and their camels stood and listened. It was silent for days and nights.
—Dinka boy! he hissed.
The man was now speaking Dinka.
—Dinka boy, come out and have some water. I held my breath.
—Or is it a Dinka girl? said the other.
—Come have some water, said the first.
I remained there for days and nights more, it seemed, unmoving. I lay watching the silhouette of the men and their camels. One of the camels relieved itself onto the path and that got the men talking again, now in Arabic. Soon after, the men began to move. They moved slowly down the path and I stayed still. After a few steps, the men stopped. They had expected me to move when they moved, but I stayed on my stomach and held my breath and buried my face in the soil.
Finally the men rode off.
But the night would not end.
I knew I had to leave the path, which was a path of the Baggara now. I ran away from the path and thereafter the hours of the night tumbled over each other without shape or order. My eyes saw what they saw and my ears heard my breathing and the sounds that were louder than my breathing. As I ran thoughts came in quick bursts and in the moments between I filled my mind with prayer. Protect me God. Protect me God of my ancestors. Go quiet. What is that light? A light from a town? No. Stop now. No light at all. Curse these eyes! Curse this breath! Quiet. Quiet. God who protects my people I call upon you to send away the murahaleen. Quiet. Sit now. Breathe quiet. Breathe quiet. Protect me God protect my family as they run. Need water. Wait for dew in morning. Sip water from leaves. Need to sleep. Oh God of the sky, keep me safe tonight. Keep me hidden, keep me quiet. Run again. No. No. Yes, run. Must run to people. Must run, find people, then rest. Run now. Oh God of rain, let me find water. Let me not die of thirst. Quiet. Quiet. Oh God of the soul, why are you doing this? I have done nothing to ask for this. I’m a boy. I’m a boy. Would you send this to a lamb? You have no right. Jump log. Ah! Pain. What was that? Stop. No, no. Run always. Keep running. Is that the moon? What is the light? My ancestors! Nguet, Ariath Makuei, Jokluel, hear me. Arou Aguet, hear me. Jokmathiang, hear me. Hear me and have mercy on this boy. Hear Achak Deng and lift him from this. Is that the moon? Where is the light?
My own breathing was too loud, every breath a great wind, a falling tree. I was conscious of my exhalations and how loud they were when I ran and when I sat in the grass waiting and watching. I held my breath to kill the sound but when I opened my mouth again my breathing was louder. It filled my ears and the air around me and I was certain it would be the end of me. When my breath calmed and I could hear other sounds, I soon heard a voice, a Dinka voice, singing a Dinka song.
I ran to the singing.
It was an old man singing, the voice small and coarse. I did not slow down when I came to him and emerged from the forest like an animal, almost knocking him over.
He shrieked. I shrieked. He saw that I was a boy and he held his heart.
—Oh, how you scared me!
The man was panting now. I apologized.
—The crashing of the grass sounded like a hyena. Oh child!
—I’m so sorry, father, I said.
—I am an old man. I can’t handle these things.
—I am sorry, I repeated.—So sorry.
—If an animal came through that bush he need only breathe on me and I would be sent to the next world. Oh, my son!
I told him where I had been and what I had seen. The man told me he would bring me home to keep me safe until daylight, when we would decide upon a sensible course of action.
We walked and as we walked I expected to be offered food and water. I needed both, had had neither since the morning, but had been taught never to beg. Now I waited, expecting that because it was night and I was a boy alone, the old man would offer me a meal. But the man only sang quietly and walked slowly along the path. Finally he spoke.
—It has been some time since the lion-people have come here. I was very young when I saw this last. They were on horses? I nodded.
—Yes. These are Arabs who have fallen to the level of the animal. They are like the lion, with its appetite for raw meat. These are not humans. These lion-creatures love war and blood. They enslave people, which is against the laws of God. They have been transformed into animals.
The man walked in silence for some time.
—I think God is sending us a message through these lion-men. This is obvious. We’re being punished by God. Now we need only find what it is that God is angry about. This is the puzzle.
I didn’t know where the old man was leading me but after some time I saw a small fire in the distance. We reached the fire and were received kindly by the people there. They knew the old man, and asked me where I came from and what I had seen. I told them, and they told me that they had run, too. They gave me water and I watched their Dinka faces red in the fire and I thought that this night was the end of the world and that the morning would not come again. The red faces in the fire were spirits and I was dead, all were dead, the night was eternal. I was too tired to know or care. I fell asleep among them, their heat and murmurings.
I woke up in the purple light of dawn among four men, all elderly but one, and two women, one of them nursing a baby. The fire was cold and I felt alone.
—You’re awake, said one of the old men.—Good. We need to move soon. I am Jok.
Jok was only bones and a threadbare blue gown. He sat with his knees by his ears, his hands resting limply on his knees. One of the women asked me where I was from. She spoke into the face of her suckling child. I told her I had come from Marial Bai.
—Marial Bai! You’re far from there.
Who is your father?
I told her my father was Deng Nyibek Arou. Now Jok was interested.
—This is your father, the businessman? he said. I said it was.
—And which son are you? he asked.
I gave my full name, Achak Nyibek Arou Deng. Third son of my father’s first wife.
—I’m sorry, Achak Deng, he said.—Someone is dead from your family. A man. Jok and the two women each said they had heard something about the family of the businessman named Deng Nyibek Arou.
—Either your father or your uncle, a younger man with glasses said.—One is dead.
—I think it was your father, the nursing woman said, still not looking up from her baby.—It was the wealthy man.
—No, said the young man,—I’m almost sure it was the brother.
—You’ll find out soon enough, the mother said.—When you go home. Oh don’t cry. I’m sorry.
She reached out across the ash of last night’s fire to touch me, but she was too far. I decided that I did not believe her, that she knew nothing about my father. I wiped my nose on the back of my hand and asked them if they knew the way back to Marial Bai.
—It’s a half-day’s walk that direction, Jok said.—But you can’t go back there. The horsemen are still there. They’re everywhere. Stay with us, or you can go with Dut Majok. He’s going to get closer to see what’s happening.
The young man with glasses, I learned, was named Dut Majok. I recognized him as the teacher from Marial Bai, the teacher of the older boys, husband to the woman I spoke to in the river. He was not much more than a boy himself.
When the day opened, I chose to walk with Dut Majok. We left after eating some nuts and okra. Dut was a man of no more than twenty or so, shorter than average and a bit round in the stomach. His face was small, his head very close to his shoulders. He picked leaves from the trees we passed, tearing them into small pieces and dropping them into the grass. He had a professorial air about him, and it extended beyond his glasses. He seemed more interested in everything—me, my family, the footprints we occasionally found along the way—than anyone I could recall.
—You were at the cattle camp? he asked.
—No.
—Too young I suppose. Where were you when they came?
—At home. In my house.
—Your father was a smart man. I liked him. Funny, shrewd. I’m very sorry about your loss. Have you heard about your mother? I shook my head.
—Well. The town was burned to the ground this time. Many women were burned inside their homes. The murahaleen do this now. This is new. The homes in your area, where the wealthier people lived, the big homes—the horsemen like to burn those. It was probably burned the last time, correct? Did she run?
—Yes, I said.
—Maybe she’s okay. I bet she is. Is she fast? I said nothing.
—Well. Come with me, son. We’ll see what we can see.
The sun rose as we walked and was high and small when Dut climbed into a tree and lifted me up. From there we could see the distant clearing of Marial Bai. All around was dust.
—Okay. They’re still there, he said.—Those are their horses, some of the cattle they’ve stolen. Where you see dust, Achak, this is the murahaleen. We won’t be going back into town for some time. We’ll check again tomorrow. Come.
I followed Dut down the tree and back in the direction of the fire where we had slept. We walked for an hour before Dut stopped, looked quizzically in every direction, and then turned around completely. Throughout the afternoon, he stopped frequently and seemed to be making calculations in his head and with his hands. Each time, after his calculations, he would appear decisive and would be off again, confident with his new course, with me following. Then, after some time walking in the diminishing light, the process would begin again. He would stop, look to the sun, look all around him, make his hand calculations, and set off on a new path.
The sun had set by the time we reached the camp again.
—Where were you two? the suckling child’s mother asked.
—You left in the morning! laughed Jok.
Dut ignored this.—The Baggara are still there, he said.—We’ll check again tomorrow.
—You were lost, the woman said.—You’re an educated man, but you have no sense of direction!
He brushed this off angrily.—Where is the food, Maria? How long must we wait? Give us food and water. We’ve been walking all day.
That night I slept with those men and the women under a shelter they had built. In the small hours I heard the sounds like those I heard outside my stepmother’s home when my father spent his nights there. I kept my eyes closed and my body near the fire. In a few moments, it seemed, I was woken and there was a weak light in the sky. My eyes opened on the face of one of the elderly men in the group. He had not spoken before.
—We have to get up now, boy. What is your name again? You are the son of the late Deng Nyibek Arou, bless his soul.
This man’s voice was feather-light and quivering.
—Achak, I said.
—I’m sorry, Achak. I should remember. Now we have a plan. You’ll come with us. We’re joining another group who slept nearby last night. Come see.
—Where is Dut?
—He has wandered off. He does this. Come.
The quivering man brought me to a clearing where a group of perhaps a hundred others had gathered, women and children and elderly men, standing among a mix of livestock—goats, chickens, more than forty head of cattle.
—We’re going to Khartoum, he said.
I was so young, Michael, but even then I knew this idea was insane.
—Is Dut coming? I asked.
—Dut is gone. Dut would not like this idea, but Dut cannot find his way out of his own hut. You’re safer with us.
—In Khartoum?
I thought of the handless man.
—We’ll be safe there, the nursing woman said.—Come with us. You can be my son. I didn’t want to be her son.
—But why Khartoum? I asked.—With the Arabs? How?
—People have already gone to Khartoum, the old man said in his feather-light voice.—This is a well-known path. We’ll be protected there from the murahaleen. We’ll be given food in the camps. They have safe havens up there for people like us, people uninterested in the fighting. We’ll stay there until all this is done.
I had no choice but to walk with them. I worried about their plan, but my legs ached from the running of two nights before, and I was content to be among so many people and not alone. The musty smell of the cattle warmed me and I rested my hand on their haunches as we walked. We traveled until midday, whispering when we needed to, trying to slip quietly out of the region with the cattle. Jok, the leader of this group, believed that once we made it over the river and into the north, we would be safe. It was a very strange strategy.
Soon we encountered a man in the orange uniform of Manyok Bol’s militia. He looked incredulous to see us.
—Who are you people? Where are you going?
—To Khartoum, the old man said.
The man in orange now stepped in front of us, blocking the path.
—Are you mad? How will you get to Khartoum with forty head of cattle? Who’s the maker of this plan? You’ll all be killed. There are murahaleen not far from here.
You’ll walk straight into them.
The old man shook his head slowly.
—You’re the one who should worry, he said.—You have the gun. We’re unarmed. They won’t harm us. We have no allegiance to you.
—God help you, said the man in orange.
—I trust he will, the old man said.
Muttering to himself, the man in orange walked away and in the direction we had come. Our group continued along the path for a moment, until the soldier’s voice came from far down the path.—You’ll see them in one hundred yards. You will die one hundred yards from where you now stand.
At that, the cattle group stood still and the elders argued. Some
were of the opinion that we would not be bothered if we were passing in peace, that the only reason there was trouble in Marial Bai was the town’s affiliation with the SPLA. If our group denounced the rebels and indicated their intentions to walk to Khartoum, we would be allowed to pass. Another faction thought this senseless, that the murahaleen had no loyalty to the government or grievance against the SPLA—they only wanted the cattle and children. The group remained like this for some time, on the path, the elders arguing and the cattle grazing, when finally the debate was settled by the rumbling of hooves and an advancing veil of dust.
In seconds the murahaleen were upon us.
The group ran in every direction. I followed the man who looked the fastest as he dove into the grass and crawled under a dense bush and settled behind a thatch of logs and sticks. The man beside me was older than my father, very thin, his arms roped by protruding veins. He wore a large soft hat that shielded his eyes.
—Army, the hat man said, nodding at the men on horseback. There were seven horsemen, four in traditional Baggara clothing, three wearing the uniform of the Sudanese army.—I don’t understand this, he said.
A large portion of our cattle group had stayed, had not run from the path. They were now being guarded by two of the soldiers in uniform. The group stood, saying nothing. There was a long moment when it did not seem like anything at all would happen. Or perhaps all involved were waiting for something to happen. And it did. Suddenly one of the old men ran into the forest, awkwardly and far too slowly. Two soldiers leapt off their horses and raced after him, laughing. Shots followed and the men returned without the old man.
One of the government soldiers turned and seemed to be looking at me and the hat man. My breathing was again too loud, my eyes too big. We both lowered our heads.
—They see us. Let’s go, I whispered.
Without warning, the hat man stood, arms high in surrender.
—Come here, abeed! the soldier said, using the Arabic word for slave. The hat man walked toward them. I watched the man’s back, and saw the children and women and cattle herded between the horses. I thought of Amath and the way she stood, accepting her fate, and I became angry very quickly. I should not have moved at that moment but my anger overtook me. Damn you, I thought, and ran. I turned and ran as they yelled to me.—Abeed! Abeed! Damn you, I thought as I ran. I damn you with the power of God and of my family. I expected to be shot at any moment but I ran. Damn you men. Damn you all. I would die while damning them and God would understand, and in eternity these men would hear my curse.