by Majok Tulba
‘In the wild,’ Priest says, ‘the lions fight for territory, but you and me, People’s Fire, we’re the other animals that are in the wild just because they happened to be born there.’
When we get back to the camp, I’m actually glad to see the officers. They take the kids away and I finally get to take off the backpack. An officer opens it. It’s full of packaged snacks, which are like gold to us. For helping lead the march back, he gives me two bags of peanuts. I open one and eat as I walk towards Priest’s hut. The government troops left it standing because, Priest jokes, it looked ransacked already. Some of the rest of the camp has been rebuilt, but most is still in ruins.
‘Baboon!’ I hear as I’m walking. It’s Christmas. She stands at the gate to the Commander’s hut, one of those that has been fixed. There are no guards now, they were killed by the government troops, but there are officers nearby.
‘Christmas,’ I reply with a nod.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Just to see Priest.’
‘Ah.’ She’s silent for a second. ‘Did you bring me anything?’
‘What?’
She glances behind me. An officer is watching us. ‘Surely,’ she says louder, ‘my husband wouldn’t fail to send me a gift.’
‘A gift?’
‘What about a letter?’ She winks. ‘Didn’t he give you a letter? Come with me.’
‘What?’
‘Silly, I can’t read. You’ll have to read it to me, and I don’t want to embarrass my husband by having his letter read out loud where anyone can hear it.’
I stand at the gate. A lot has changed since I stood here last, waiting to play guitar.
‘Of course, usually my guards do this, but I’m all out of guards.’
I think of Akot. I haven’t seen him since he was taken on as a bodyguard by the General. I look around. The officer has moved on. I follow her into the Commander’s house.
Inside is one room with a table, two chairs and a bed. ‘Well,’ Christmas says, sitting on the bed.
I stand just inside the door, slowly looking around the dark musty space. ‘I don’t have a letter.’
‘Of course not. My husband would never write to me.’
‘He’d kill us both if he knew I was here.’
Christmas looks at me for a moment. ‘Aren’t you going to offer me one?’
‘One what?’
‘Peanut, stupid.’
I still have half the packet in my hand. I’d forgotten about it.
‘Open your mouth,’ I say.
‘What? No. Just give me one.’
‘Come on, open your mouth. I have a good aim.’
She rolls her eyes, then opens her mouth wide. I throw a peanut and she tries to catch it, but it bounces off her nose.
‘Don’t move your head!’
‘Whatever,’ she says. ‘You’re a terrible shot.’
I try another one and it almost hits her eye.
‘Okay, just one more.’
‘All right, fine.’
She opens her mouth again and closes her eyes. I watch her sitting there on the bed. Then I throw. The peanut hits her back teeth, and she coughs once before chewing it up.
After that we talk. She tells me how bored she has been while everyone was away. A lot of the other wives were taken by the government troops.
‘Why didn’t you run away?’ I ask.
‘Easy for you to say, you know where to go. A couple of the hospitality girls ran for it and they got killed by a landmine. Here is better than dead.’
Then Christmas tells me that Akidi was one of the girls who got blown up by the landmine. My heart aches. But I’m happy that she feels pain no more.
After a little while, Christmas says, ‘I miss your guitar playing.’
‘It almost got me killed.’
‘Not playing here, it didn’t.’
‘For you and the Commander,’ I remind her.
She pauses. ‘It’s a shame you don’t dance. You never learned to dance at school?’
‘At my school,’ I say, a bit slower than usual, ‘we learned useful things.’
‘And dancing’s not useful?’ Christmas laughs.
‘How could that be useful?’
‘What? Were there no girls in your village?’
‘Of course there were.’
‘Then it’s useful to know.’
‘I don’t know if anyone is left in my village now.’
Christmas jumps to her feet. ‘Come. I’ll teach you!’
‘No. Thank you. In fact, I must go now.’
‘Baboon. Come here. Don’t you like me?’
I don’t know what to say. But I don’t leave. ‘How are we supposed to dance without music?’
‘With our feet.’ Christmas grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet. I let my gun slide from my shoulder and rest on the chair. ‘Okay, one hand here.’ She puts my left hand on her hip, then grabs my right. ‘And this one stays up.’ She rests her right hand on my shoulder.
The curve of her hip fits into my palm.
‘Now, you step forward with your right foot.’
‘Won’t I step on your foot?’
Christmas laughs and presses her face into my chest. ‘I’m going to move my foot too, stupid! Okay, right foot forward.’
I do so, resisting the urge to say ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Now, left foot out to the side. Good. Now, feet together. Then, I’m going to step forward and you step back with your left foot. Wait. That’s backwards. Oh well. Okay, step back. Now, out to the side with your right foot. And feet together and we’re back where we started.’
‘So we just step in a circle?’
‘No, it’s a box. It’s called a box step.’
We go again, slowly. We don’t talk. At first Christmas makes little drumming sounds to keep the beat, and then I hum. It’s one of the songs Priest played on his guitar, but I slow it down to match her drumming. I dance with death.
It’s dark when I leave the hut. There’s no one around. Still, I walk quickly. I take a couple of random turns through the ruined camp.
I step out into the space that had been the barracks. Half a dozen soldiers sit around a small fire, talking quietly and carelessly. I recognise a couple who had been at the village when I shot the mother and daughter. One of them jumps up. He’s angry he didn’t get his turn.
‘Hey!’ he yells angrily.
I keep walking.
‘People’s Fire,’ he yells again, ‘I’m talking to you!’
I hear his footsteps heavy behind me. I turn around and swing. My fist connects with his face and he staggers back. I grab his shoulders and knee him in the groin. He doubles over, gagging, his shoulder presses uselessly against my stomach. Aiming for his spine, I bring my elbow down hard on his back. With a grunt he hits the ground and lies there, back arched. Looking like a turtle in the sun, he’s barely able to move. Blood is running down his face.
His friends are silent. I look up at them and spread my arms. ‘Who’s next?’ They look at each other, then me. My eyes hit each one. Who will rush me first? Instead they slowly clap. Someone starts laughing and they cheer.
My hands fall back to my sides, the rush of the fight drains from my fingers. I salute, turn and walk away. I’ve won. For once. It wasn’t much of a battle, but I won. He won’t mess with me again.
I find my way to Priest’s hut. He’s already asleep and I curl up on the floor, using my arm as a pillow. I can still smell Christmas on my skin.
Days pass and the supply truck arrives. We are rebuilding the camp. I see Christmas sometimes – in the jungle, by the creek, where I know there are no landmines. At her hut, after dark, when the officers get the new recruits into the lights-out routine, even though there are no lights. We talk about love and death.
More trucks come, another batch of recruits. The work on the camp is almost done when the Commander returns. He comes by truck, loaded with girls. We help the girls out of the truck and Mouse emerge
s from the hospitality house for the first time since the government troops found us. As she gathers the girls together, the Commander points to the prettiest two and says they’ve been claimed already. The chosen pair are taken to the General’s hut, now also rebuilt, and Mouse marches the rest of the girls back to the hospitality house.
The Commander orders a new hut, a little one, to be built next to his. ‘I’ve decided to take another wife,’ he announces.
He talks with the officers, inspects the new recruits. He breaks into one of his speeches about the revolution and how important leadership is. The leaders have to be kept safe or the revolution will come to an end, so some of the new recruits will be honoured by being made bodyguards. Some of us soldiers snicker, but we don’t breathe a word to the recruits.
I’m not around for their initiation. I’m on the team building the Commander’s new hut. Christmas comes out to see how it’s going.
‘Why do you keep checking on it?’ I ask.
‘I know it’s for me.’ There’s an odd kind of anger in her voice.
More soldiers trickle back into the camp. It gets busier and busier. There are more and more eyes. As we complete the little hut, I’m given new orders. Another village to hit. Lock and load.
I can’t get the sound of guns and the cries of the villagers out of my head. It makes the taste of blood and the smell of death spread within me like poison.
It’s them or me. That’s what Priest told me.
They made me do it. They made me do it. They made me do it.
Parasite climbs back on the truck without saying a word. We drive onward, past burnt huts that stare at me like empty eye sockets.
I close my eyes.
The wind whistles. I can hear children giggling. I can see them in my mind, running barefoot in the centre of the village. They chase each other in the grassland. I hear a song in the wind. I can see the thick green trees, the grey evening sky, the sunset of my village. The song whispers in my ears, like the sound of a bird, luring me to sleep. I love this song. I don’t know what it means but the pain is gone, the sadness is gone. Just the voices in my ears are left.
I imagine myself lying on my back in my village, my eyes open as I take in deep breaths of fresh air. Everywhere I look is beautiful. The sky is a bright baby-blue with pure white clouds floating through it. I see the black outlines of birds as they soar above me. I see a twirl of colour in the dust cloud. In a very soft voice, Pina is singing, quietly at first. She sings the words over and over until the others join in.
Her voice is milky, warm and smooth. The sound is glorious. Girls stand up singing, and slowly dance around the mango tree in the centre of the village. The drums and the cowrie shells tied around their wrists and ankles speak the same language. I want to jump into the circle and twirl to the relentless beat of the drums. The sound calls to me to pound my feet and gyrate to the rhythm and lose myself. Pina dances like an African opera queen through the haze of red dust. I bathe in the smell of fresh breeze.
I wake in a cold sweat. I look around. Everything is dark and cold. I stare at the dark until my eyes get sore.
Jungle
Here in the jungle, we are neither humans nor animals. Too intelligent to be forgiven for the deeds of beasts, too unforgiving for the company of humans.
Thick cloud hangs above the horizon, distant and pale, with the morning sun peering through.
Two trucks are packed with soldiers. I sit on the edge. Behind me, more soldiers, some standing, some sitting, but all crammed, taking up every inch of room.
Up ahead, we see a pedestrian caravan. A dozen or so people walking from one village, our target, to another. People get together with as many neighbours as they can, hoping it will bring them safety. It doesn’t, not today. Whether they have ten or a thousand, it doesn’t matter to us. Our bullets outnumber them, nothing else counts.
I’m sitting closest to them. I will fire and I will be watched. Most of the soldiers love these ‘barrel fish’, so easily picked off. To them, it’s like stretching your legs before a run. It’s been a while for me, but I can still see the faces from that last time. I can trace the paths of each limb as they fall. Maybe I can close my eyes and shoot straight out. Yes, I’ll hit plenty, but I won’t have to see their faces.
Last time, we didn’t even slow down – we just drove and watched as the dead and wounded vanished behind us. This time, we take our time. I’ve seen this done before. These people are leaving the village we are headed for, so they aren’t just sport shots. We aren’t just doing this for fun. These people are targets. I can’t close my eyes. The other soldiers want my seat, and if I don’t shoot properly, dozens will tell the Commander about People’s Fire. They’ll throw me down with the villagers, pumping rounds into my chest until they’re bored.
The truck pulls up alongside the caravan. The people stop walking, a fear response. They should run, they might actually live if they do. We don’t wait. The truck stops, we open fire. Aim for the head. If I have to kill, let me be merciful. I’m one of the best shots in the group. Butt secure against my shoulder, one bullet. At this range, it’s nothing. One shot and the pain and fear end. An empty body collapses to the ground.
One woman carries a child in a dirty blanket against her chest and runs. But she runs straight. A soldier next to me shoots at her feet. Those close die quickly enough. I line up and shoot her once in the upper back, barely missing her head. She staggers forward. One arm reaching out, grabbing at the air. The other still clutching the bundled child. I fire again, hitting lower. She takes one step forward. Her head drops and I think she’ll collapse, but she’s looking at her wound. Her head rises back up and she walks again.
One more bullet, right through the shoulder. No more reaction. She stands there. Soldiers behind me congratulate me on my shots. She staggers forward again, a couple of steps until she’s under a tree. Her shoulder falls against the tree. Her body slowly slides to the ground. It’s so soft, the way she goes down. Like she’s decided to take a nap. One more bullet and I finally get her head. She hits the ground, face first. I’ve seen people bleed to death, there’s no mercy in that.
Cheers and clapping give way to a revolution song. We drive on and I watch her body. Never satisfied that she’s really dead.
Afterwards I sit on a small, black, smooth-topped rock on the hill overlooking the creek. I take gulps of the fresh air to soothe myself. Far out on the horizon are green fields that shimmer in the moonlight. The trees have put out new leaves and the grass has grown lush and green. Here there is new life and hope. I have come from places of death and burning villages. But here the only noise I hear is crickets. A twig cracks, I turn and see a movement in the darkness, the sound of quick footsteps. I tense, my finger on the trigger guard.
Christmas.
I take her hand and place it against my face and press my lips into the cup of her hand, inhaling deeply, and then trace a line down towards her wrist. I pause to nuzzle the smooth skin beneath.
My body shivers from the gentleness.
The moon rises high into the sky. I’m alive and free. The stars become brighter and multiply. The metallic barrel of my AK-47 glints in the moonlight. I close my eyes, her hand in mine, in silence. All I can hear is the night breeze and the crickets. Am I lying next to my own grave?
When the air becomes cold, we get up and walk back to the camp. I hide in the undergrowth and let her go first, just in case the Commander is awake.
She trots to her hut and enters and closes the door behind her without looking back.
Our truck speeds down the dirt road towards another village. My legs dangle over the side. Crazy Bitch is clutched in my hands. The breeze bathes my face. From here I can see the huts spread out in the village like a huge carpet. The sun is the burning tip of a cigarette in the sky, a beautiful day. The truck bumps between the gaping holes in the red dirt road. Soldiers shout and yell and scream and whistle, fantasising about what they will do to the villagers.
&nb
sp; Priest slaps my shoulder, the way you wake up someone sleeping. I turn and look at him. ‘Lock and load.’
I’m here. A soldier, like my brothers. I lock and load. The huts get closer and closer. Soldiers grin like men going to a dancing field.
Huts are easy enough to burn. The raid begins, we start a fire. Pull some grass off the nearby roofs and throw them on top of a woodpile – villages have those every two or three huts. One officer always has a lighter. We bring back more fuel, keeping the fire going until it’s time to leave. You drop a burning chunk of wood on one hut, wait for the flames to spread, then grab a burning log and throw it on the next one. The fire consumes all.
The officers say that fire is scarier than gunshots. When people hear shooting, it might be us or it might be the government. Some villagers are afraid of us, some are afraid of the government, a few are afraid of both. And most people have never been shot – that’s a distant thing they fear, not like fire. Everyone has been burned, we all know that pain. Fire is much more real. And there’s no way to fight it. Fire feels nothing, you can’t be angry with it. Fire isn’t for you or against you, it simply burns and blackens and consumes.
The flames spread from home to home, jumping and licking. Everyone runs. For me, silence falls. I go numb. Everything around me is just shadows and paper. I might be walking, I might be floating, I have no idea. A hundred times I’ve been taught what to do. I’ve been here a dozen times, enough for it to feel familiar. Really, one burning village is the same as the next. The huts look alike, the people run, and we shoot and we burn and it’s all shadows.
So, I kill. The lessons take over and I kill. A man withers to the ground like burnt grass and my heart swells. I keep walking. Crazy Bitch kicks and bucks and barks in my hands, but I don’t hear her. I barely feel her. I just watch through another person’s eyes. A hundred nameless faces fall in front of me. Their bodies burst and they flail and they fall. I walk on.
‘People’s Fire.’ My name is a distant sound in my ears, but closer than all the rest. ‘Go, Fire, go!’ It’s a cheer, I know that. A slow smile creeps onto my face, it’s nice to be cheered. Bang. Bang. Bang. I pull my trigger and people die and I kill them so the rebels can’t.