by Leah Bassoff
Never mind. This situation calls for a very soft song. I sing the song my brother used to sing to his bull:
I love my white bull,
His coat so smooth and white.
“Do you see those buzzards overhead?” the boy asks me. “Perhaps there is food nearby. Maybe that buzzard has spotted some meat.”
I cannot tell him the truth about the buzzards, the real reason they have come.
“Yes, we will eat meat soon,” I tell him, and he juts out his jaw and smiles ever so slightly. The corners of his mouth are oozing white liquid.
“Can you walk some more, boy?” I ask.
He glares at me. “No. I will stay here. Your song has made me too sleepy. I will just close my eyes for a while. I want to be rested when we find that meat.”
A few hours later, as evening starts to fall, all of us get up to start walking again, but the standoffish boy does not.
His death does not match his personality. Like my song, it is too quiet. I walk away from him and do not look back. I do not want to see the gloat in the buzzard’s eye, that look of I-told-you-so.
— 11 —
“WHEN WE GET TO Kakuma, there will be food. In Kakuma we will be safe. The others will be there in Kakuma, waiting for us.” People repeat these phrases to one another like refrains. When my throat becomes too dry to speak aloud, I repeat these phrases inside my head.
This is what keeps me going. I dream of Mama’s hot fish stew, of sleeping with Achii on our mat. I think of swimming in Kinyeti, of my brothers laughing.
At one point we see a group of Didinga people traveling by Land Rover. I am so jealous of them. The Land Rover moves slowly, owing to the fact that there are far too many people piled inside — people hanging out the windows, people on top of people.
Still, we call out to them, “Eh, eh, add me! Give me a lift! I will stand on someone’s head!” We are not trying to be comical.
The soles of my feet are burnt from the hot earth. I am wearing sandals made from tires, but they are so worn that I can feel the skin of my feet burning away and thorns poking through. These dreadful feet of mine are constantly paining me, and yet I am beholden to them.
The white Land Rover passes us by without stopping. I am too numb to feel sad. I simply command my feet to keep walking.
The next day we overtake the remains of this Land Rover. Though the vehicle is intact, there are dead people and body parts everywhere.
“A land mine,” people say.
Maybe some individuals got away. But, from the looks of it, this is highly unlikely. So many people killed in one quick explosion. In my head I add to the list of dangers — starvation, soldiers, bombs — hidden mines which, at any step, might kill me instantly.
———
IN THE BEGINNING, my stomach speaks to me, begs me for food. It becomes its own demanding person.
Here is what I know. When the body is not given enough food it will begin to eat itself up. In fact I can feel my own body chewing at my insides. But then, after a few days I stop feeling this constant pain. Instead I feel lighter.
Suddenly, it is easier to walk, because there is less of my body to move forward. Dizziness allows me to float along the ground, to glide. I begin to view myself as though I’m outside my body. But then, just as I think I have managed to ignore my hunger for good, it takes hold of me yet again, grabs me and shakes me. You didn’t think you could forget about me.
At that moment I know I will eat anything I can find. And I do — leaves, insects, even some grass. At one point I find a snake and eat it raw with its skin still on. When I swallow, I feel the snake’s scales rough against my throat. I eat, and then, a few hours later, I have to walk bent forward like a very old person, because the stomach cramps are so great. When the diarrhea hits, I simply do as the others do and squat right where I am standing. Leave the group in an attempt to find privacy, and you risk being left behind or eaten by a lion.
Too much diarrhea can mean death. I know this. I keep my hands on my stomach as if I can hold all the things I have eaten inside of me. I will everything to stay inside of me. Don’t pour out of me. I command my body to digest the leaves and grass I have put into it. When I feel my throat gagging or my stomach clenching, I force these muscles to relax.
Weeks go by. As we walk, people sometimes fall down dead. As for me, my mouth gets so dry that my tongue splits down the middle. Though it still hangs inside my mouth, it is useless. I can do nothing with it. Part of me wishes I could remove it completely.
I remember Mama telling me that I was going to use up all the questions in the world. Maybe this has, in fact, come to pass. Maybe I will forever be speechless.
———
TIME NO LONGER PASSES in weeks but in shuffling footsteps. It takes food to make your body work. This is a simple fact. With hardly any food inside me, my thoughts spin in very slow circles. Sometimes I can manage nothing more complicated than the idea that I must continue to put one foot in front of the other.
My legs become swollen and filled with fluid. They constantly give me pain, but then, at one point, this pain stops. Though the lack of pain is a welcome relief, I know it is a bad sign, that my legs are slowly going dead. I keep walking, even though I have no feeling left below my waist.
I am no longer aware of the group of people around me. Instead I think about the people I have left behind. I think of Mama and my father but other people also flit in and out of my consciousness. My teacher with his huge glasses. Salva, who used to make such lovely music.
And then, unexpectedly, I find myself thinking of Lokure, the skinny boy who wrote me the love letters. It seems so very long ago that I held that last letter in my hand, stuck it in my pocket rather than burning it. Remind me, why exactly did Lokure write to me? Ah, yes. He wrote because he thought me beautiful. I nearly laugh at this thought. From what I can see of myself, my legs are swollen, my feet burnt and poked through with thorns. I have missing toenails. Even my hair has gone yellow.
Beautiful, ha!
Lokure is surely dead, dead like so many others. Maybe knowing this allows me to admit something. He was sweet, that boy. True, I didn’t think him sweet while he was pestering me with his letters. Nor did I think him sweet when I was beating him up. But for whatever reason, I think it now.
As I continue to walk, I begin to have imaginary conversations with him.
“Lokure, you really thought I was beautiful once? Is this true?”
“Of course. Didn’t I tell you so in my letter?”
“You did.”
“Ah! I caught you. So you read my letter after all.”
“I meant to burn it, but your words... Well, I might as well confess that I liked your words very much.”
“I see. So having your cousin beat me and then beating me yourself was your way of thanking me?”
“I had to do it. Maybe if I see you again in this life or the next, I’ll be able to explain it to you. In the meantime, can I assume that you regret having written me?”
“I regret nothing. You are beautiful, Poni. I stand by my words.”
“You’re mocking me. Look at me now. My tongue is so dry that it is like a dead lizard in my mouth. In a matter of weeks, I have turned into an old woman. Back when you knew me, I didn’t want to be beautiful, didn’t want you to notice me.”
“But now?”
“Now I am just so hungry. I am hungry for food, but I am also hungry for words. I wish I could hear more of your beautiful words.”
———
FOR DAYS, I CONTINUE to have silent conversations with Lokure and with other people I can no longer see. The conversations I have in my head don’t require the use of a real tongue.
Mostly, I speak to Mama.
“Mama, I wish I could smell your braids once more, put my head on your neck. When I ran, I didn’t realize I
would lose you.”
———
SWEET JESUS. I have accepted the fact that no one is coming to save me or offer me a ride. I keep walking on my tattered feet towards Kakuma. This place is no longer real. Only a word, a hope.
At one point, our group finds a small puddle of water. One of the men touches it with his finger to make sure it is not a mirage. I do not bother about the flies, mosquitoes or the mud. Without hesitating, I move my face close and drink. Together, as a group, we suck that puddle dry. We bump heads as we try, all of us, to place our lips in the sludge. Mud fills my mouth like blood.
This bit of water makes my tongue burn, a sign that it has not died completely, yet my tongue still hangs in pieces inside my mouth, cut-up ribbons.
As we walk, I look to the moon. Like me, she is losing her roundness. She is growing smaller and smaller each day. Soon she will disappear altogether.
———
THEN ONE DAY, JUST like that, our walk is finished. We have reached Lokichoggio. None of us cheers or celebrates. In Lokichoggio the police receive us and assign us to white United Nations Land Cruisers that will transport us across the desert to Kakuma, the refugee camp where we have been promised safety. We obediently pack ourselves into these vans, our bodies pressed up against one another, bone against bone, and from there we ride to the refugee camp.
I feel no joy as we approach the barbed-wire fences. My eyes are so stiff that they can barely move back and forth. The sights around me come into focus slowly, and when they do, I am filled with a dull disappointment.
Perhaps my eyes have not yet cleared, but why does Kakuma look so dry and so brown?
— 12 —
INSIDE THE CAMP, the foolishness of my hopes is revealed. Did I really believe I would find paradise here? A place filled with mangoes and streams in the middle of the desert? I should have taken my lesson from the Bible. God punishes, not rewards, those who hunger for fruit.
I do not know what I was expecting from Kakuma, but certainly not this. Not thousands upon thousands of displaced people. Not a dust bowl that passes as a camp.
Kakuma is as far from salvation as one could imagine. In fact, the minute I enter the camp, the wind hits, stirring up a dust storm that stings my cheeks and eyes. I am sure that my eyes would be watering were it not for the fact that I am out of everything wet — saliva, sweat, mucus, blood — anything liquid that my body might have once produced.
We are given small cups of water, and I gently prod my tongue with my dirty fingers. My tongue is rutted and torn just like the bottoms of my feet, but I think it may mend.
The first security guard I see is a Kenyan man. He tells me his name, Kamau, and points to his guard’s uniform. I have a great deal of difficulty talking because of my damaged tongue, but I manage to slur out my name as though I have consumed too much of Mama’s home brew. Kamau fills out some paperwork, then hands me a card.
“This is your identification and ration card,” he explains. “Don’t lose this. Otherwise there will be no food or water for you.”
I take the card in my hand, but where should I put it? I have only a tattered skirt with no pockets, and I am wearing only half a blouse.
How did I lose most of my skirt? It takes me a moment to remember. Then I do. I used part of it to make a bandage for a girl who got bitten by a scorpion during the trek. I do not remember her name, that one, but she was a girl who was always talking to herself. Our group was sitting and resting when she got bitten. I heard a clicking noise, then saw the scorpion scoot away.
As quickly as I could, I bound this girl’s leg. It did no good. First her eyes began to bulge. I was really frightened that they might fall out. Then her tongue became swollen until it filled her entire mouth, and she was writhing on the ground, unable to breathe.
Her death was not peaceful like that of the standoffish boy who went quietly. No. I could do nothing to assist this girl. All I could do was watch as her face went green.
I look at the card Kamau has given me and quickly memorize the number on it. From now this will be me, a number. Next, I am given two misshapen metal cups — one filled with dried maize, the other with cooking oil.
“Your food ration.” The guard adds, “We are low on food, so do what you can to stretch these bits. They will need to last a few weeks.” I nod, though really, how can one stretch grains? He might have well asked me to squeeze water from a stone.
“When does this get refilled?” I ask.
“Sometimes the food arrives within a couple of days, sometimes a week. When it is time to queue for new food, you must reach there very early and hold your place in line, because sometimes the supplies do not last.”
The security guard asks me if I traveled to the camp with anyone.
“I don’t know where my family is.”
“How old are you?”
“Fifteen.”
“So you will be given the label of an unaccompanied minor. You will be assigned a foster family.” Kamau takes hold of a woman who is standing nearby. “Loriho.” He reads her name from the paper she is holding. “Where are your children, Mama?” he asks the woman in a loud, deliberate voice.
“God has taken them,” she replies.
“This one here,” he points to me. “She is Poni. She will now be your foster daughter.”
The woman and I eye each other suspiciously for a few moments. Loriho does not say anything, just nods in my direction. I understand that I am to go with her.
She walks stiffly. Mama always had a sway to her walk. Unlike Mama, I can tell that this Loriho, even on her best days, never laughed so hard that she had to press her fingers into the corners of her eyes.
I cannot make sense of all this. One day I was living in my village with my family, and now?
I long for my mother with the deepest of aches. I would give anything, even go through another round of malaria, just to have her with me again, just to watch her cut up onions, hear her laugh.
Though I have come all this way on my own, it is too dangerous to be unattached in the camps. A young girl alone might be grabbed. And so I stay with this new woman.
My foster mother doesn’t look capable of taking care of herself, much less anyone else, so how much protection can she actually give me? She, too, has lost her entire family. In this sense, we are connected, though this is the only thing I admit to having in common with her.
If I knew that running so far and so fast would mean I would not see Mama again, would I still have run? It was so hard to see on the night the bombs fell on our village, so hard to hear. I have images from those terrible moments, but I cannot seem to put them in the correct order.
What of you, Baba? Were you able to talk your way out of whatever bad situation you met? Did you use all of those extra words you kept stored inside your cheeks? And my brothers, so strong, so capable. Were you able to jump your way to safety? Jump straight up into the sky?
———
WEEKS PASS. BACK HOME we grew what we needed. The plants practically pushed themselves out of the ground. The joke was, plant a Coke bottle, and you’ll get an onion.
Here in Kakuma, nothing grows. I should feel gratitude that I am safe, that I am alive, and surely I do, but I cannot help complaining. “Why did I walk all this way only to end in such a dry place?”
When I first arrived, I thought I would only stay for a brief time, would find my family and return to my village. But then I learned the truth. I found out that my village was completely destroyed during the attacks, was burnt to the ground. Knowing this makes something turn hard as clay within me.
On the walk to Kakuma, my body nearly died. Now it is my spirit that I worry about.
— 13 —
THE GROUND HERE IS as cracked and gray as an elephant’s skin. Time barely moves.
I am always waiting. I wait for rations, wait for the guards to s
plit open the big white bags of donated grains. Yet I am secretly waiting for something more miraculous. For the skies to split open and rain meat and bread down upon us, as happens in the Bible. And I beg you, Lord, if it is not too much trouble, might I request some greens to go along with this meat and bread? Greens like we used to grow back home — chards, kales, collards and sukamawiki.
In this land of nothingness, there are no trees to sit under, and the only shade is that which our shadows provide.
Inside the camp I see so many too-thin children. Hunger comes and grabs each morsel of flesh that it can find. Some of the children no longer have any buttocks, the last bit of flesh to go. They can no longer sit comfortably since there is nothing to protect their small tailbones. So they lie sideways, lie on mats near their mothers, or sometimes on the ground itself. Some of them are so still that I can barely see them breathe.
I see a woman who looks old enough to be a grandmother, and yet she is offering a thin, droopy breast to a child. This child looks up at her with dead-cow eyes. He will not make it to the day’s end.
I get used to seeing sights like these. Yet the stranger thing is how life goes on. There are football matches. There is a boy — I don’t know his name — but every time he sees me, he does a little dance.
Life goes on, because it must. I help my foster mother erect a shelter with a piece of corrugated tin and a few chunks of wood. Both of us are short enough that we have to stand on the tops of our toes to hoist the piece of metal up. The shelter is nothing more than sticks covered by a bent piece of metal, yet it offers a small amount of protection. My foster mother spends all of her time under this shelter. She has no energy for activities other than squatting and swatting at flies. When there is grain to grind, she does it, but she does not find time to gossip or visit, as many of the other women do. She is merely passing her days.
However, she does seem to muster the energy to order me about.