by Minot, Susan
She says, I see you and so I am thinking of Agnes. She takes my hand with her soft fingers and we say nothing more. Such are our reunions.
Suffering has not passed through Carol and she holds it in her face and will not smile. We can look however and understand one another. When Carol was in Sudan at Rubanga Tek she was wife to one they call Doctor. After he died she was kept alone for ninety days before she could be wife to another.
We girls are stone trees walking into the yard. No one says what is in her heart. Maybe we do not even know it.
We see Geoff D’Amillo, the husband of Janet. He sits outside the building on the concrete with his half-leg out and his mouth sagging, very old. He is the father of her child. Janet believes we are blessed in life, and being with the rebels did not change her belief. Some girls are changed and not others. She named her child Miracle. She stands for a time with us then goes to Geoff D’Amillo.
You are a cruel girl, he says when he sees her. You left me.
Janet lays her arm on his shoulder, keeping her face turned away.
You are not looking well, he says. She does not move her arm off, but also still does not look at him. This is the way she forgives. I see other rebels there I have seen before. I look through them. I remember what they did. I might find a kind spot in myself but I do not try.
I dream there is a wedding, my wedding. For five days I wear a different dress each day, one white with red trim, another striped, another long and blue with open shoulders. But I do not have a wedding dress. The groom maybe is Philip, maybe someone old, but I do not find him. In one room there are all the sweets and pastries and wedding cake and I want to go into that room, but it is empty and I must not be the only one.
Today I was playing with Janet’s son. I was chasing him. Miracle just learned to walk and looks back over his shoulder screaming, happy to be chased. When I bang my feet it startles him and he jumps with fright followed by the happiest smile in the world. Children like to be scared. For a moment his happiness cuts me like a sliver. He was not trying, but I get it from him. Happiness used to come to me from swimming in the river or seeing the sky turn green before it might rain, but happiness from people is most strong. For a moment I thought Janet maybe was right, that it would be okay. I thought, maybe I am not hard as stone.
Then immediately a dark cloud came to my brain, telling me to remember something. It was Agnes I was supposed to remember. I saw her with red earth caked in her shirt and her arms at wrong angles. Some people are so gentle; that was Agnes. I see her chin ducking when she would slap her hand on me, laughing, and I feel that soft hand. So, happiness makes me remember what is gone. But even if it hurts me I would keep thinking of Agnes. The Acholi have a saying, Poyo too pe rweny. Death is a scar that never heals.
We are preparing the dingi dingi dance. When the drumming starts I am not always wanting to dance, but after a small while beside the other girls, I find the beat comes into me and am taken along. We dance side to side with our hips and back to front with our arms. You point your foot forward, then back, stamping heels on the ground, shuffling forward. Our shoulders move like so and our hips shake like leaves rolling. The front dancer blows a whistle and we turn, tipping forward. When we are dancing I let go of thoughts.
There is one morning the mothers come. They come to hear news brought by the recent ones returned. After breakfast Nurse Nancy takes me to them, sitting on the benches by the office, waiting. I see Lily’s mother holding a baby in a sling, and Marie Joseph, the mother of Helen, with her hair in a roll above her forehead. Pere Ben, Charlotte’s father, is there also, wearing a jacket with no buttons. I see Abigail’s mother in a dress of brown and orange pattern with creased triangles at the shoulders, dressed up for her visit. I do not see Agnes’s mother. She would have heard about Agnes from someone returned before me. Grace Dollo is standing with them. She smiles secretly at me.
They all ask, Where are our girls?
I sit beside Nurse Nancy. One speak, then another, Nurse Nancy says.
Marie Joseph takes my hands. Esther. God bless you. We all bless you. And we bless your mother.
Do not hurry her, Pere Ben says. Their faces are sad and worried, except for Grace Dollo, who watches, making sure everything is said.
We are all in Sudan, I tell them.
All the girls of St. Mary’s?
Yes, we are kept together there.
We have heard this, Marie Joseph says. That you are together. And Helen, she is there? With Kony?
She is a wife to Kony, I say softly.
Marie Joseph nods with a strong frown. Pere Ben says, Yes we have heard this.
Charlotte, his daughter, she was once a wife to Kony, but I do not say it. Maybe he knows it. If she returns, they will learn it. Maybe it is better if they do not know it now.
One at a time they speak. Grace introduces them. Here is the mother of Linda Ollo-Ollo. Do you know this girl Linda? She was not a St. Mary’s girl. Say hello to Lily Nyeko’s mother. She’s here to discover what you know of Lily.
Yes, Lily is there. In the Jebelin Camp.
And she is well? She keeps her hands on the baby, who makes no sound.
Yes, I say. Mrs. Nyeko turns her ear to me, asking me again, thinking I am lying. She has probably heard Lily has the AIDS sickness. Grace says, We want to know it, Esther.
Sometimes she is not so well, I say. Must we say everything?
Charlotte was moved to Aruu Camp after leaving Kony. I say she was moved. I say I have seen this girl Linda Ollo-Ollo. She has a daughter named Sparkle. I tell Mrs. Ollo-Ollo, a wide-faced woman with plastic earrings and a plastic necklace. She smiles with tears in her eyes.
I think of my mother. When she would come with the other mothers, what would they say about me? That I was still alive. That my baby was not. Being alive is the only news a parent wants to hear.
Abigail’s mother sat listening till her turn. She was not a big woman, but suddenly she took up a lot of space in front of me. And my Abigail?
I do not look in her direction. I am looking at the hem of my shirt and making pleats with it. It is a new white T-shirt. God help me, I whisper.
Abigail’s mother seems to come near. What?
I shake my head and see her face out of the corner of my eye, frightened.
What can you tell us? says Nurse Nancy. I look at her. You can say it.
I cannot. Nurse Nancy whispers in my ear. Is she wounded? I shake my head. Is it sickness? I concentrate on my shirt. Is she dead? I look at her eyes. Nurse Nancy faces Abigail’s mother. It is bad news, she says.
Abigail’s mother’s face jerks as if someone has hit her. No, she says.
I stay looking down. I do not want to tell this story.
She turns to the mothers beside her. What is she saying? No one answers.
Nurse Nancy touches my arm with one finger, as if more would be too much force. Esther, tell us.
She tried to escape, I begin. Behind them Grace is nodding at me.
Abigail’s mother takes my fingers off from pleating my shirt and holds them, not hard, but not softly. And what?
Grace comes forward. Florence, she says, and puts her arm around the creased wings of Abigail’s mother’s shoulders.
Abigail’s mother says, Tell me. I look to Nurse Nancy. My hand is being clutched by Abigail’s mother. Esther, she says, please.
How can I say it? A rebel named Mali tried to get Abigail to go with him and she refused, so later he came back and forced himself on her. She was crying so hard afterward she told us she would escape now. Even to die would be better, she said. We saw she was not thinking carefully. She was not waiting for the right time. That evening when we went to fetch water, Abigail bolted into the bush. She ran, without knowing where she was or caring if they saw. So they caught her right away. I do not tell this to Abigail’s mother. One day I maybe will have to say it. But now …
Please, Esther. In the name of Abigail.
I whisper into my lap. Abiga
il tried to run away and was caught. So they killed her.
Abigail’s mother starts rocking back and forth. She shakes her head, saying, No no no. Grace is still holding her and helps her stand and leads her away to the van which brought them. Nurse Nancy pats my leg. It is okay, she says.
This is what people say. I wonder when anyone might say, It is not okay.
That ache in my throat gets no better. It feels like a boulder blocking a cave and it aches, that boulder in my throat.
VIII
Air Pocket
17 / The You File
YOU WAKE in the morning, shattered. Your dreams batter you like rapids, people trying to kill you, waiting in the woods. You are lost and the road is strange. You are late, you are weeping. You shut your eyes, holding down the saucer of your soul. Help, you say, not praying to God, but you keep saying it anyway. Help. Help me. Sometimes you even say, Help me, God.
Something stays with you, floating over your shoulder, not leaving. Perhaps it will never leave.
You hear someone’s voice then see her face turning, saying your name. She is wondering where you are and where you have been. You do not know what to tell her. You are not sure. You are less and less sure. All you can say which is honest and true is, Here. I am here.
18 / Dusty Ground
THE WHITE TRUCK drove out of Gulu town. Their last stop would be Kiryandongo Camp, an hour south in the countryside. In the cab there was a wrung-out air, as if each person were hiding under his or her own cloak of shame.
Don looked deflated, all his air let out. He had stopped criticizing their every move. Lana was wrapped in a white Ethiopian scarf, attached to no lover. Pierre’s camera, shielding his face, was aimed away from them, out the window. No music played, no one argued, no one cried out when the truck slammed the potholes with a spine-crushing blow. Jane felt the eyes of the children fixed on a wall in her brain. Harry drove with a distant gaze, as if he were already gone ahead.
Everyone agreed to keep it a short visit so they could make it back to Kampala that night. Jane wondered if anyone else still even wanted to stop. Pierre perhaps, the others had had enough. They wanted to get back to Nairobi as soon as possible.
The turnoff to a rough road came in the middle of nowhere.
Here, Jane said from the back. She reached to touch Harry’s shoulder. He didn’t flinch but a coolness received her and she took the hand back. A flush of humiliation spread through her body, the body that had been so mixed up with his.
The road was deeply rutted and they bounced on it gently, at one point scraping the ground with a metal screech felt in their feet. Shit, Harry said mildly, not stopping. No comment was added.
They crossed a wet patch of road bordering a marsh and came around a corner to an empty parking area at the end of a barren field. A spindly goal sat tipped in a triangle at one end.
A man in khakis and a dark polo shirt greeted them. Charles Oringu was in charge of the camp. Please, you are welcome, he said. He had been expecting them. Come this way. Harry got out of the car and, after taking off his hat, disappeared under the car. Jane walked away. Here she would be able to stop thinking of where he was and what he was doing.
Past shedlike buildings were a couple of huts and a cloud of smoke hanging over an open kitchen area where a few figures in aprons stood by black pots. Chickens wheeled by, flapping their wings in the dust. A large tree spread near an open-roofed structure, and behind it in the distance the white sheet of a tent appeared like a drive-in screen. Jane saw children sitting in the shade, and more children farther off, washing dishes in plastic buckets.
THE JOURNALISTS COME as we were told. Journalists have been here before, but not for myself. I see them while we are cleaning our dishes at the spout.
They get out of a white truck which has a cover over the back. There are three men and two women. One man is underneath the truck with his feet sticking out. Then they walk over like people you see in magazines with sunglasses and bags over their shoulders, some wearing hats, some carrying cameras. One woman is small. The taller one we learn, she is from Kenya. She has on long necklaces and a leather cap with silver charms pinned to it and a fringed skirt. She is crouching down to one boy, Adam, talking with him in Swahili. He does not talk back, but she keeps smiling. They are looking at his palms. The smaller woman has a gray army hat on and a light-colored ponytail and a blue dress above her ankles. She carries a straw basket with a finger loop like those we get at the market. One man has dark hair covered by a kerchief and holds a camera. The biggest man is the most white with a light pink shirt and skin like sand. He does not look at the children, but walks about in clean sneakers, looking over Mr. Charles’s head as if there were something more to see. Behind them comes the last man from under the car. His hair is to his shoulders and he has on a white hat. His pants are rolled up and his brown shirt is untucked and his hands hold nothing. He walks separate from the others and goes to another place and sits on a stump in the shade, near boys playing choro in the dirt.
Later this is the one who goes to the bicycle repair and makes a parachute with a figure hanging from it. He is also African from Kenya. When you drop this figure from a tree branch or high place it would sail off in the wind. The boys learn to make more of these parachutes with bits of cloth, so after the journalists leave we will remember that one from Kenya.
The others first disappear into Mr. Charles’s office. Then they have a tour. We see them by the tent, standing.
We are under the tree, crocheting, when Christine comes walking to us, bringing the smaller lady beside her. Who will talk to her? we wonder. Janet whispers to me, God will provide.
Christine tells us, This lady has come from America. She wants to hear how it is with us. If this is okay, we will help her know it.
No one says anything, but no one says no. Some keep working their needles. Emily is staring up.
The lady in the gray hat bends down to us, sitting on her heels. The man in the kerchief comes behind her, floating his camera in front of him, away from his face.
My name is Jane and this is Pierre.
She says she wants to tell people outside of Uganda what is happening here. She hopes it will help.
Christine repeats this in Acholi, but we all know what she says. The lady takes out of her basket a notebook like the ones we use at St. Mary’s, with a green-and-white-flecked cover and blue spine.
She asks who understands English and Emily’s arm shoots up. Some other hands go up. Not mine. The lady asks Emily her name and how long she is here and where she is from and how long she was with the rebels. She writes the answers in her notebook with a black pen. Sometimes she is writing without looking at the paper, keeping her face to us with her pen moving, listening. As she is listening she is also looking. I see her look at Carol, who will not look back. I see her spot a new girl, Paulette. She wears a dress with a ruffled collar and is showing a big stomach. The lady moves there by Paulette, who stops crocheting when she is near, keeping her long neck bowed down. What’s your name?
Paulette looks to Christine, worried.
This one is Paulette, Christine says. We have welcomed her a week ago.
Does she know when the baby’s coming? the lady says to Christine, but looking at Paulette’s doily. Paulette answers so softly you can barely hear.
Christine answers, The baby will come perhaps in a month or so.
How old is she?
Fifteen.
And this is the baby of a rebel?
Christine nods, but asks her anyway and Paulette says yes.
Do you have a name picked out?
Paulette’s face suddenly has many thoughts on it. She gives a long answer to Christine in Lor. Christine listens, tapping a twig on her chin, then, taking a breath, says, If it is a boy he will be Komakech, which means I am unfortunate. If it is a girl, Alimochan: I have suffered on this earth.
The lady looks to the man with the camera, and lifts her chin to make him come near. Is it okay i
f we film her? the lady says.
Christine translates to Paulette who listens, frozen. Maybe it is okay, Christine says.
The man steps around some girls, smiling at them. Paulette does not move when the lady asks where her village is and when she was taken. We know that Paulette’s parents have not come yet, but Christine does not say it. The man points the round black circle of the camera at Paulette.
She does not want it, I say.
What? The lady turns to me. The camera?
She is frightened.
The lady glances up to the man who lowers his camera right away. Then I see his face and the most blue eyes I have ever seen, not dark blue, but blue like the sky. I’m so sorry, the lady says to Paulette. Will you tell her? She turns to Christine. Thank you.
Then she speaks to me. Thanks for telling us that. What’s your name?
I am Esther.
Oh, she says, and moves near to touch my arm, which makes me jump. She takes back her hand and puts it flat in her lap. Sorry, she says. I was just—What’s your last name?
Akello.
Yes. She smiles. Grace Dollo? You know her? She told me to find you here. She said, You look for Esther Akello. And here you are. I’ve found you.
I felt a surprise in me too. I looked down from her face. Against her skin, she had on a short necklace with a silver charm on it, a flower maybe or a propeller from an airplane.
I see you’re not crocheting. She took off her hat. Her hair was the color of bread. Would you come talk to me?
Christine moved near and said that I did not choose to talk.
Really? The lady looked to my face see if this was true.
I would not speak as they were always telling us to do. I was thinking, Why say these things when I want to forget them? I do not want these stories to be my life forever. I want another life. So I did not answer.
That’s too bad, the lady said. But she did not turn away from me, she waited. She still watched me. The sisters at St. Mary’s are also white-skinned, and seeing her made me think of them. I would have liked to hear you, Esther, she said.