by Leah Bassoff
The book is like the rest of my life. Some day I will piece it back together.
— 15 —
I CANNOT STOP THINKING about Lokure. For so long my body was deprived of food and water, but my mind, too, was deprived of its food. Now my head is swimming with words: Lokure’s words and Achebe’s words mixing together. I look forward to returning the book because it will give me an excuse to see Lokure again.
The unaccompanied boys have their own sections within the camp. When I reach Block II where Lokure is, I have to scan many faces before finding his. Several boys look up at me when I enter, as though they can sense my female energy. I can see the longing in their eyes. I am the wife they left behind, the mother, the sister. Many of these boys have been without women for so long now.
When I do spot Lokure, something goes limp and sad within me. He is bent over a cooking pot stirring grains. It used to be unusual to see a young man cook, but these boys have become both mother and father to themselves.
I stand and stare for a moment before Lokure notices me.
“Ah, Poni. You have found me doing my woman’s work.” He seems happy, though, his face shiny with sweat.
“Lokure, you were right. It is an incredible book, one I won’t forget.” I give him the book. Then, not knowing what else to do, I turn and get ready to leave.
“You’re not leaving? No, no. Sit down. I want to know more about what you thought of it.”
Lokure’s request surprises me. Most of the men I know, even wise men like my father, usually aren’t interested in hearing a woman’s opinion.
“I see why this book changed you,” I begin. I fold my legs under me as I sit across from him. He is gazing at me expectantly.
Then it is as if something cracks open within me. Suddenly, I find myself spilling all of my thoughts and ideas.
“There was plenty of violence in Okonkwo’s village, and he is often a vicious man, but still, I could understand his wanting to keep his tribe’s traditions alive. The Igbo people were able to work things out among themselves before the missionaries arrived. Sometimes they worked things out in a violent way, but it was the only way they knew.”
“Do you think it was better when the missionaries came and told the Igbo people that they shouldn’t practice such outdated traditions?” Lokure asks, and I feel as though we are my father and his friend sitting and discussing issues together, feel as though we are equals.
“No. I think the missionaries make things worse. They take over, all the while knowing nothing about the Igbo culture, not even the language.”
“You are clever,” Lokure says. “I thought the same thing.” He looks so pleased with me, and I can’t help noticing his open smile again. At the same time, a part of me begins to feel uneasy. I shouldn’t let my guard down like this, shouldn’t be gazing at Lokure in such a way.
Maybe it is this thought that causes me to speak more sharply. “Still, I’m mad at you for giving me a book with no ending. How can you be content not knowing how the book ends? How is it that you seem to settle for so little all the time?”
“Some book is better than no book, isn’t it? Besides, you’re smart. Invent your own ending.”
“Listen. You may be happy with a partial book. You may be happy with this camp.” I realize I am straying from the topic at hand, but I can’t stop myself. “Well, not me. I want to get out. I don’t know where I’ll go, but I’ll die if I stay here. Maybe my body won’t die, but my brain will. Don’t you feel it, too?”
If Lokure is surprised by my outburst, he doesn’t show it.
“I miss my old life so much,” he says, softly now. “But I have to tell you that finding you has made my life here suddenly bearable.” He takes my hand in his. “I thought about you all the time. Even after your cousin beat me, even after you beat me. No one could beat the feelings I have for you out of me.”
“You’re crazy,” I say.
“I think if I can just keep visiting you, if we can keep having these conversations about books and other things, we can save one another, keep one another from going mad.”
I want to tell Lokure about the boy I carried on my back. I tried to save him, but I couldn’t. I had to put him down.
Don’t pin your hopes on me, Lokure. I will disappoint you.
“I have to return to my foster mother now. I have been gone too long,” I tell him.
“You’ll visit me again,” Lokure says, and this time it seems to be more of a command than a question.
“So that we understand one another, I don’t take orders. Not from you, not from anyone.”
At this Lokure begins to laugh. “Poni, don’t you think I know this already? Believe me when I say that I know you don’t like to be bossed around.”
“Well, good.” Though I am annoyed at Lokure’s chuckling, I gather myself up to my full height — not very tall. “Then I might visit you again. If I have time.”
This last statement is the biggest joke of all, of course.
All I have is time.
— 16 —
VISITING WITH LOKURE gives me something to look forward to. He makes up poems and funny rhymes about the sights and sounds inside the camp. I introduce him to the dancing boy, whom he finds as amusing as I do.
Most days I am restless and hollow with hunger. Worry circles me like a swarm of flies. Yet I seem to forget this when I am with Lokure. With him, I feel lighter.
From time to time, charities bring in big bags of donated clothing, and I manage to grab a blue scarf from the disorganized heap. I decide to wear it like a sash. Although my dress is dirty and sweat-stained, the sash covers it with a bit of color. I make sure I wear it when I visit Lokure.
Lokure and I talk as we stroll through the camp together. One day, as we walk, a huge windstorm picks up, stirring everything in its path. Sand pelts our faces. I try to shield my face with my hands, but then I remember my scarf.
Unfurling it, I hold it high, trying to protect Lokure and me from the sand’s bite. We sit down. Above us, the scarf looks like blue sky. Dust everywhere, but this blue cloth is as cool as shade.
Lokure and I wait out the storm this way, bathed in blue, watery shadows. Underneath this blue light, my hair no longer looks yellow. Lokure’s skin no longer looks dusty as chalk.
“There is so much I want to know about you, Poni.” Lokure has to speak loudly, so as to be heard over the wind.
“Such as?”
“Well, to begin with, what would you do if there was no war, if peace suddenly arrived?”
Peace seems like trying to catch a fish with your bare hands. Still, Lokure is so earnest that I try to answer.
“I would go back to school. I would find books to read, like the one you gave me.”
“And I would find a way to write. I have always loved this, as you know.”
“You do write beautiful words.” I nearly confess to keeping the letter he wrote to me so long ago but hold my tongue.
“But there is something that I want even more,” Lokure says.
“Ah, you’re greedy. What else could you possibly want?” Lokure looks at me, his gaze so steady that I feel something flap and flutter inside of me. But he does not finish his thought.
“I’ll tell you another time,” he says softly.
Tell me now, I want to beg. I remember when I took a sip of water and felt my split, tattered tongue come back to life. Sitting with Lokure, here under the shady blue of my scarf, I feel the same way. It is as though something dead is now prickling and tingling its way back to life.
Lokure gently pulls my hand down and, with it, my scarf. Everything goes dusky around us once more.
“The dust storm is done.” He motions around us. Somehow the storm ended as quickly as it began.
I wish it hadn’t. Wish we were still huddled together within the sand’s swirl.
But I don’t tell him this. Instead I wrap the scarf around my waist once more.
“Come, Poni. I will walk with you. It will be dark soon, and I want to make sure you get back safely.”
But under the scarf was where I felt safe.
———
OUR METAL ROOF has fallen down again. I am standing up on my toes, trying to prop it back up.
“Poni?”
I look up. Is it possible? Do I really see yet another person from my past?
This time it is Tihou, my old classmate. Tihou, whose name means “big head.” Tihou, who was one of the top students. Seeing her fills me with wonder and joy.
“I cannot believe I am seeing you. You survived. Tihou, you shrewd girl.” We grab hands and squeeze.
“It is a small miracle, yes?”
“You are still the same, still tall,” I joke, for she is a long-legged girl, so tall that I have to squint into the sun to see her. “Tell me, did you get placed with a foster family?”
“No. I entered the camp with my older sister. I convinced the guards that my sister is, in fact, my aunt and that she is old enough to take care of me.”
“You are a good liar.” I pat her on the arm.
“What else do we have these days but our lies?” Tihou’s sentences are slow and careful, as though she has written them out first. “I know we have much news to share, but first I have to tell you something very interesting.”
“What’s that?”
“Have you heard about the debate club?”
“A debate club here in Kakuma? Really?”
“Yes. A group of people gets together to debate and discuss the issues of the day. Everyone is welcome to join, although it is mostly men there, of course,” she says.
“Imagine! You know, I’ll say this. Our people are ingenious. Even when there is no food or water, people still find a way to entertain themselves.”
“You have to come. There is even a real judge who acts like one of our elders from back home. Your mind is so good and bright, Poni, and you have a quick tongue. You would be good at debating.”
I want to tell Tihou that I will go anywhere that she and her beautiful sentences are going, but then I hesitate.
“The problem is my foster mother. She beats me if I am gone too long.” I pause. “Then again, if the debate club is at night, it will probably work for me to slip away.”
“Good. I can meet you, and we’ll go together,” Tihou says, and I really can’t believe my luck.
Just as Tihou promised, there is a sizable crowd at the debate club. Thabon, a well-respected man who comes from a village near my own, serves as moderator for the evening. He announces the topic. “Do guns hurt us or protect us?” After some deliberation, one group lines up behind the side aiming to prove that guns do hurt people, while another group lines up on the opposite side. I do not see any other women lining up to speak. Still, I have no doubt where my opinion lies, and so I stand within the crowd of men.
“To shoot a gun, anyone can learn how to do this,” I tell the crowd. “Even a child of ten or eleven years of age. But guns are not natural. They are cowardly.”
Some of the men click their tongues at me, while others hoot.
A man responds, his voice booming. “So you are proposing that we defend ourselves against the North using sweet words? You must fight fire with fire, sister. If they use guns, we use guns. These guns are our only hope for justice.”
“Sir, do you think you can shout me down? Well, I can shout, too. You believe guns are a positive thing after you have seen mothers and grandmothers dead on the ground by them? What comes next? We use guns and then the North uses bombs. Should we use bombs, too? When does it end? The boys we ask to carry our guns are our sons and brothers.”
I feel alive for the first time in a long while. My tongue, still a patchwork of scar tissue, is working at full force now. I look over at Tihou, and she is smiling. Tihou who, like me, stayed in school.
But then I catch the eye of a man in the crowd. I do not know him, but I see the gesture he makes at me. A slashing motion across his neck.
What is he saying? That he wishes me to be silent? That he wishes to slash my neck, himself?
I do not look away. Instead I meet his gaze and try to burn him with my eyes.
———
JUST AS I AM preparing to leave the debate, I see Lokure. He leaves the crowd of boys he is with and walks towards me.
“Poni, I heard you speak tonight.”
“And? Did you like what I said?” I am waiting for Lokure to tell me how much he admires my courage, how much he agrees with the points I made. Instead, he shakes his head.
“No. While I might agree with what you’re saying, it doesn’t do any good to make so many of those men angry. Can’t you see that?”
For a second, I feel like someone has stolen my breath.
Still Lokure continues, “Maybe you shouldn’t speak your mind quite so freely.”
I flash back to the man in the crowd, the one who made the slashing motion towards his neck.
“So what are you telling me? That I should keep quiet?”
“I’m saying that maybe you shouldn’t act so much like a man.”
Can this be right? Suddenly, it dawns on me what a fool I’ve been. Did I really believe that Lokure regarded me as an equal? That he cared about my opinions and thoughts? Lokure may have stood and let me abuse him so long ago, but I refuse to do the same.
“I understand, Lokure. Well, don’t worry. You won’t have to trouble yourself with my opinions any longer. I move best on my own anyway.”
I turn away from him and begin to run. This running is natural to me, as natural as breathing.
I let Lokure see what was soft inside of me, but it won’t happen again. It is safer to be alone, to keep moving.
We have a saying back home: “Grass the cattle graze on produces no weeds.”
— 17 —
BACK IN CHUKUDUM, the seasons were what held meaning. In Kakuma, however, the short rains mean little. Our whole way of life is gone. Would it be harvest time back home? What of all the cattle we left behind? For us, cattle were our way of life.
I remember the cool days heavy with mist back in Chukudum. I remember the blankets of blue flowers that used to blossom after the rains.
Everyone here in the camp has lost loved ones, but speaking of these huge losses is too much. Instead, people speak of the smaller ones — that special pot for grinding grains, the beads they used to put on for special occasions. “I wonder where those ended up,” people murmur.
Because thinking of my family brings too much hurt, I think of other people from my past. What became of my teacher with his large black-rimmed glasses, for example? But thinking of him also brings pain, because it reminds me that every month that passes is another month during which I am no longer attending school. Now I avoid going to the debate club for fear of seeing Lokure. My mind is starving once again.
I must leave Kakuma. The problem is, I have no idea where to go. Because I know how to brew beer, I can earn a small amount of money by selling it to those Kenyans working in the camp. The Kenyan guards, aid workers and teachers still have some shillings. I know I need money if I am to leave, so I try to focus my energy on this task.
The only other small joy that I have is dancing. It is what we women do to remind ourselves that we are still alive, to remind ourselves of the joys we once knew. Even those of us who are starving, who are weak, when we hear a certain drumbeat, something stirs in us. Suddenly, even the elderly come alive, turn young, hop up and down, stomp their feet and clap. I push off the ground and send myself up into the air before allowing the ground to pull me back down. I don’t want to stop. When I dance, I can jump out of my pain for just a moment. I can get that much closer to God, to yell straight into his ear.
Have you forgotten that we are still here?
———
ON ONE OF MY BAD mornings when I am sitting outside my shelter running my hands over all the places where my ribs pucker against my skin, Tihou comes to me yet again.
“Ah, Tihou. You are the only one who can bring me good cheer. Have you come to make time?”
“Actually, I’m here on a mission. First, a question. Are you hungry?”
“Is this is a trick question? Show me someone here who isn’t hungry. In fact, just before you came, I was thinking my bones might poke through my skin.”
“Okay, then. So, how many names were given to you at your naming ceremony?” Tihou asks me.
I list my full name for her. “Zenitra Lujana Paul Poni.”
“Good. I have learned something we can do to get more food. You just have to trust me and be willing to break a few rules.”
I do trust Tihou, and I have always loved breaking rules, so naturally I follow her. “We actually have to leave the camp temporarily,” Tihou explains. “Just do as I do.”
I nod. We walk all the way to the west edge of the refugee camp, near the barbed-wire fences. We reach a spot where people can enter the camp. Instead, we start to make our way out.
One of the guards spots us leaving and shouts, “Hey!”
Tihou casts her eyes down, then hands something to the guard. “For you.” It is kitu kidogo, bribe money. I don’t know how she has managed to come by it.
“Do you plan on returning?” the guard demands. I see Tihou eyeing his gun. Her body seems to tilt. She looks as though she may fall down.
It is then that I take over, walk right to the guard.
“We’ll return,” I tell him. “But you’ll let us pass now, yes?” He looks at the shillings in his hands and then signals that we may go through.
“You are braver than me, Poni,” Tihou says. “I was so nervous, I couldn’t breathe.”
“Are you going to tell me what we’re doing now?”
“We have to walk around to the opposite entrance of the camp. When we get there, we pretend that we are new arrivals. This is the clever part. We will receive an entirely new food ration card.”