Trouble Tomorrow

by Terry Whitebeach

  It is Obulejo’s turn to cook that day, and although the others look surprised when a full bowl is set down before them, they say nothing. Perhaps, like him, they are just glad of the warm, soothing fullness in their stomachs.

  Daylight fades quickly and except for Ulum and Okec, who are on guard duty that night, they all ready themselves for sleep. But sleep does not come easily to Obulejo. Today he stepped over a line, he realises. His exploit has provided them with food, but he has broken both the Ma’di law of hospitality and God’s law: thou shalt not steal.

  He cringes at the thought of Moini’s shame and anger if he should learn that his son has become a thief. But what choice did I have? Obulejo asks himself. It was hunger that drove me to steal. Survival is the law that rules this new life and I am only one among many. What else can I do?

  But another voice says to him, Think about the people you stole from, your fellow Sudanese, they’re as hungry and desperate as you; haven’t they as much right to survive? And you know from the teachings you were raised with that even as stealing fills your belly, it empties your heart of goodness.

  ‘Baba ama ata bua rii – our Father in heaven,’ Obulejo mutters. ‘Forgive me.’

  The food in his belly is a heavy weight now. He tosses and turns on his mat. One thing is certain, however; the shame he feels will not take away the craving for food. Obulejo knows that when the next opportunity arises he will steal again.

  Obulejo is both surprised and saddened by how quickly he gets used to the new order of things, and how easy it is to abandon the old laws in the face of continuing hunger. He becomes bolder as his thieving efforts reward his household with extra meals. He feels a swell of pride that he is helping provide for the others in his shelter.

  Some of the refugees have set up makeshift stalls and trading posts in the camp. They are the lucky ones, the boys tell each other enviously. Perhaps their families send them money so they can buy goods from their fellow inmates, or goats and chickens from the Turkana and Kenyans. Obulejo wishes he had money to buy meat and bread. No one leaves precious things like that unguarded.

  One day, when Obulejo and Ochan are waiting in the line for water, Ochan tells his friend that he too has taken to stealing. Obulejo is surprised at the admission. There is an unspoken rule that if nobody sees you, then you say nothing.

  ‘And I wish one day to become a priest,’ Ochan says, hanging his head.

  ‘You stole to help your brothers,’ Obulejo reassures him, glancing around to see if anyone is listening to their conversation. ‘Do not speak of it any further.’

  But it seems Ochan’s urge to confess is too strong.

  ‘The first thing I stole was a saucepan,’ he says. ‘It was outside a shelter. It had been left out to dry, so I grabbed it and took it to one of the traders. “I don’t have salt in my house, so I cannot cook,” I told the trader, “so I wish to sell my saucepan.” Then I took the money and bought meat.’

  Obulejo nods. He remembers with pleasure how well they ate that particular day, but he also knows how hard it is for Ochan to throw off the ways they have both been taught to respect and follow.

  Ochan lowers his head again. ‘My action deprived a mother of the means to cook porridge for her children.’

  Obulejo knows just how Ochan feels. ‘I never thought I would steal, either,’ he says.

  But even while he is sympathising with his friend, he decides he’ll try out Ochan’s method for himself the next time he gets the chance.

  He quickly becomes an adept thief. The guilt and the shame are terrible, but the fierce hunger that demands to be assuaged quells the voice of conscience.

  At all costs, he must stay alive.

  14

  ONE ROASTINGLY HOT DAY, Obulejo is standing in line at the rations depot. He arrived early but others had got there even earlier, and all he can look forward to is to stand behind them in line, in the blistering sun, unfed, gasping for water, till he faints from hunger and thirst. He can see that it will take at least two more hours to inch forward to the food distribution point.

  He cannot wait a moment longer; he must have maize to make porridge with, now.

  He begins to sidle up the line. He asks a man to let him in, but the man refuses.

  The man tells Obulejo, ‘This is my place. I have waited since before sunrise. Go back there where you were.’

  Go back? Unthinkable. Instead Obulejo moves even further up the line and this time he picks an old woman.

  ‘Please let me in,’ he begs her, and the woman starts to make a space for him, but other people in the line shout, ‘Get away! This is not your place, get out!’

  A red rage engulfs him. He wants to fight those who have denied him a place.

  Then, a few paces ahead in the line, someone does just that. Starts a fight. Others soon join in. It doesn’t take much to inflame a crowd. The line begins to break up as people scuffle in the dust, their frustrations spilling over into a brawl. The Kenyan guards advance menacingly, Kalashnikovs at the ready, and the crowd scatters. Obulejo sees the attacker rush up the line unnoticed, and follows him. Before people have time to properly reassemble, Obulejo inserts himself forcibly between two weary-looking men. They start to protest but he glares at them and insists, ‘No, this is where I was before. You might not have seen properly.’

  The two men look at each other tiredly, and Obulejo knows he has won. The men will allow him to go ahead of them rather than create more trouble, for that will bring the guards back again. Today, he will eat when he needs to. Tomorrow he can play the same trick. He can be trouble tomorrow, whenever he chooses.

  It’s a risky ploy, he knows that. Others have disregarded the warnings of the security guards and paid the price. He remembers the first time he saw troublemakers shot, their bodies jerking to a stop, pitching forward to lie splayed in the dust, bloody and lifeless. It was shocking to witness.

  The thing he fears most, though, more than the guns of the guards, is coming face to face with his former captors from the Rebel camp. If he is recognised, Kakuma will offer as little safe refuge as the piles of leaves he once hid under in the jungle. Torture and forced military service will be his fate if he is abducted. His family will never find him then.

  Such kidnappings occur daily. Kakuma is less than seventy miles from the Sudanese border, and the Rebel soldiers are allowed free entry to the camp. When the inmates object, the UNHCR staff say, ‘But these are your own people,’ as if Dinka, Acholi, Ma’di, Moro, Kuku and any other Sudanese tribe are all the same. They make no distinction between those who started the war and those who are fleeing from it. As far as the UNHCR is concerned, they are all just Sudanese.

  The Rebel soldiers simply wait till the guards leave at dusk and then snatch people away under cover of darkness. Obulejo has heard the tramping of boots in the night, the muffled screams as people are dragged away, and the sound of gunfire, and has seen people huddled in groups the following day, fearfully discussing the latest raid. And when these incidents are reported to the UNHCR staff, the reply is, ‘Are you sure this person you say has been kidnapped was taken against his will? Perhaps he wanted to go home.’

  So Obulejo stays hyper-alert, constantly on watch. Whenever he catches sight of a Rebel soldier inside the camp his fists clench and the sour taste of bile fills his mouth. He spends the rest of the day hiding, waiting for the Rebels to depart.

  His only respite from fear and hunger comes once or twice a week when he gathers with other churchgoers to sing hymns and listen to the adungu players. It’s a happy time, almost like being back home. People sing and dance, they smile and chat with each other. On Sunday a Kenyan priest, Father Angelo, conducts the mass. He has been assigned the care of the Christians. He is a kind man, always ready to listen and to advise. He speaks to the young people firmly and gently; tells them not to forget their families, and to put their trust in God. It is only at these gatherings that Obulejo feels he is still the son of his father. Then he is quick to hold a chi
ld while a mother rests, or to bring water to the elders, and to listen to their wisdom. He takes heart from Father Angelo’s words.

  But these times are brief. Most of each day is consumed waiting in line for water or food, skirting violent outbreaks, seeking out opportunities to steal food, and at night Obulejo lies awake for hours listening to people shouting and fighting, or takes his turn to patrol the area around their shelter, to ward off thieves or intruders looking for trouble.

  His eyes swim with tears sometimes, when he thinks of the older, more compassionate ways he is losing. But stuck in the camp, with no way out, no magical spell to whisk him away, a boy on his own with no father to defend and guide him and no mothers to feed and nurture him must look after himself.

  He must survive as best he can.

  An idea slowly begins to take shape in Obulejo’s mind. There is one way he might be able to escape the threat of the hated Rebels. He turns the idea over for some time. He knows the others will try to talk him out of it, but he has to do something.

  Eventually, he speaks to Father Angelo about his plan. The priest expresses misgivings, but promises to help Obulejo if he can.

  ‘I’m going to leave Kakuma,’ he tells the boys in his shelter, one morning.

  Six months he has been in this camp. Six months of comradeship, working together as a household and sharing everything, good and bad, but also six months of panic and unceasing nightmares, and six months of becoming a more and more ruthless predator.

  ‘You’re crazy,’ Ochan says. ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘I will apply to go to Dadaab,’ Obulejo replies.

  The others are shocked. They shout their objections.

  ‘But that is so far away!’

  ‘Nearly to the Somali border.’

  ‘And the Somalis are Muslim. They hate us.’

  ‘What kind of comrade leaves his brothers behind?’ Ulum demands.

  ‘You will never get permission to transfer,’ Ochan adds. ‘You think a refugee can go wherever he wishes? Without papers? Who will give this worthless boy papers?’

  ‘Stay with us,’ the others plead. ‘Don’t leave.’

  Obulejo knows they are afraid he will become one of the thousands of nameless and homeless dead.

  They don’t believe he’ll go through with it. Even now his parents may be searching for him, they argue, and if he is nowhere to be found it will break his father’s heart. Dadaab is a long way away, close to the town of Garissa. It may be far, far worse than Kakuma. He might even get killed on the way.

  ‘My parents may be dead already,’ Obulejo replies, the words striking terror into his heart as he speaks them. ‘I must be responsible for myself. And for putting myself out of reach of the Rebels for good,’ he adds.

  ‘You will be jumping out of the path of a stampeding elephant into the mouth of a hungry lion,’ Ochan says. ‘Even if you obtain permission to leave Kakuma, how will you get to Dadaab?’

  Obulejo shakes his head silently. The boys in his shelter have become the closest thing to family he has here in Kakuma. He is loath to lose them. But he has to go. He isn’t willing to wait around while there’s a chance of being taken by the Rebels.

  ‘Many times I have teased you for bearing the name “Trouble tomorrow”,’ Ochan says, ‘but I fear this mad plan will now make it come true.’

  They put their many arguments to him all over again, but nothing persuades Obulejo to change his mind.

  Finally they give up. ‘You will leave Kakuma, whatever we say, we see that now,’ they say.

  Obulejo nods.

  It takes him another six months to gain permission to transfer to Dadaab. Six months!

  Six more months struggling to get enough to eat and drink and to stay clear of the Rebels; six more months of heat, hunger, thirst and violence. And six months of struggling with UNHCR forms, interviews and meetings, having his hopes dashed then raised again until at last he gains the necessary documents. It’s a tortuous process, and success is only made possible by the efforts of Father Angelo, who takes pity on him and manages to successfully plead Obulejo’s case to the camp authorities. The priest also provides his bus fare and a few extra Kenyan shillings.

  ‘Divide the money into separate bundles and keep these in different pockets,’ Father Angelo advises. ‘You will meet several people, soldiers or officials, who won’t let you proceed unless you give them a cash “consideration”.’

  Then he thrusts a camera and a spare pair of trousers into Obulejo’s hands.

  ‘I have little to spare, but these may prove useful in your new life. You can always sell them if you need to. Godspeed, my son.’

  Obulejo shakes the priest’s hand warmly. There are still good people in the world, he thinks. And perhaps, when he has shaken the dust of Kakuma off his feet, he will be able to make a new start, and begin to behave in a way that will give this kind priest and also his parents more reason to respect him.

  The bus journey takes two days – long, dusty, tiring, frustrating and heart-stopping days, along winding, broken roads, passing through endless checkpoints manned by security guards with guns.

  At several checkpoints the officials stare at Obulejo’s papers for several minutes before muttering that ‘something seems not to be in order’ and this means Obulejo cannot travel on. Then they quietly suggest there is a way to fix the problem. Obulejo hands some money over, thanking God for the priest’s gifts and advice.

  One guard is more blatant, saying that there will be no proceeding past his checkpoint until money passes hands. Obulejo dares not refuse. He keeps his eyes lowered and calls the man ‘sir’ and ‘baas’, but it sticks in his craw, making him smoulder with frustrated rage.

  A guard at one checkpoint accuses Obulejo of smuggling. He insists on stripping and searching him. He makes Obulejo wait, naked, in the guard-house almost to the moment the bus is due to depart. Obulejo hears the bus engine grinding into life. If he misses the bus he will be stuck in this guardhouse indefinitely, with no friends, no one to help him, no one even knowing where he is or caring why he does not turn up at Dadaab. Just another lost boy in this war.

  He considers making a naked dash for it, but realises that even if he reaches the bus, the driver will not let him on.

  At last, when all seems lost, the guard hurls the clothes at him. As Obulejo dashes for the bus, running and jumping and hopping as he struggles into his trousers, he hears the guard’s mocking laugh behind him.

  15

  JUST AS THE boys predicted, Obulejo arrives in Dadaab to find himself in an even worse situation.

  ‘We cannot register you as a bona fide refugee,’ the UNHCR official says, when Obulejo is taken to his office along with other new arrivals. ‘Dadaab is for Somalis. Kakuma was set up for Sudanese boys like yourself. That’s the agreement your government made.’

  Obulejo keeps his face expressionless but his stomach is roiling and his mind spins in panic. His position is perilous. Without refugee status he will be given no rations. How will he survive?

  ‘So why have you come here?’ the UNHCR officer demands.

  Obulejo begins to explain but is cut off mid-sentence.

  ‘You should have stayed in Kakuma,’ the officer says.

  With that, he bends over his papers and begins to scribble furiously. Stricken, Obulejo remains standing before the desk. What can he do now? He has no way of making the return journey on his own, and nowhere else to go.

  Finally the officer looks up. He sighs. ‘But now you are here I suppose we must find somewhere for you.’

  Obulejo is escorted to a section of the camp where the few Sudanese inmates of Dadaab are housed, huddled together. This section is heavily fenced with thick thornbushes banked up against and twined through wire mesh, to protect the refugees from attack by the Somalis, who deeply resent both the presence of the Sudanese and the incursions of the Kenyans into an area they consider to be theirs by right.

  The enmity between Christians and Muslims is
severe, Obulejo learns, as it is between different races and tribes. The Sudanese sector in Dadaab contains people of many different tribes, some of whom, Obulejo is well aware, have always hated one another back home. But in this foreign land they have been forced to set aside their differences and to look upon themselves as all Sudanese together.

  The Ma’dis welcome him as a brother, find him a place to sleep in their crowded quarters and offer him maize porridge, which he accepts gratefully.

  They gather round and fling questions at him.

  ‘Why have you come to Dadaab?’ an elder asks.

  Obulejo explains.

  A younger man asks, ‘But how did you get permission to leave Kakuma?’

  ‘And how are things there?’ another says.

  ‘My family – did you see my family there?’ another wants to know. ‘My mother or my children? They are called —’

  And names are flung at Obulejo from every direction till his head spins. Everyone is hungry for any word of the whereabouts or fate of family members. He tells them what he can.

  They quickly fill him in on the difficulties of life in Dadaab: the scarcity of food, of clean drinking water, of coals for their cooking fires or adequate protection against the dreadful sandstorms that sweep through from time to time. And there are constant attacks by their Somali neighbours.

  ‘It is not safe to leave the Sudanese area on your own,’ a grizzled elder says. ‘Even going about in a group has its dangers. The Somalis shout insults and hurl stones at anyone who steps outside. At night angry people bang on the fences, shouting and firing at random. And you risk being shot if you venture beyond the camp’s perimeters.’