Boy Soldier

by Cola Bilkuei

  We got into the bus, and after twenty minutes we came to a police checkpoint. The men told me to hide under the seats. I heard the conductor talking, and the driver motioned me to stay down.

  After another twenty minutes we arrived at a small town, where the men told me to get into another bus that would take me to Arusha. I said: ‘But I have paid you to take me to Arusha!’ They said they would pay for my ticket – which turned out to be no more than three hundred Kenyan shillings. Then they drove off as fast as they could.

  I sat down on the bus next to a woman who was, to be polite, very large. She wore a long grey Western-style skirt with a loose red blouse. As we turned each corner I could feel myself squashed harder and harder between her and the side of the bus. My situation was worsened by the overwhelming smell of chickens, both live and dead (they smelt as though they had been rotting for days), and dogs that, although small and harmless, were vicious when it came to their odour.

  The sun seemed bigger and hotter than ever, and I was covered in sweat. The human aroma on the bus told me I wasn’t alone! Each time the bus stopped for a break everyone rushed out to urinate under the shade of the trees.

  We were now on our way to Arusha, and I felt as though my journey had a new impetus. As much as I was pleased that I had made my next move, I also knew that my final destination was not Arusha. I was committed to a long journey with many more stops along the way.

  Arusha was quite a large town but not well developed compared to the Kenyan cities I had seen. My first night’s accommodation was paid for by the large lady I had met on the bus. I couldn’t speak the native language, Swahili, and she couldn’t speak Dinka, but together we managed a few words in English. It was enough for her to understand that I needed help finding a place to stay. She gave me enough money to eat and sleep for one night in a cheap but comfortable resthouse. I handed over the money at a desk and was given a key. The single room was bare, but warm enough and safe enough to rest my soul for the night and it was certainly better than I was used to.

  The next morning I caught a bus to Dar es Salaam, the capital. There were no tall buildings I could see; compared to Nairobi, it was a confusing and scattered place. Once I arrived at the bus station, I began searching for my next place to stay. I found a hotel, but could only afford one night. The next morning, as usual, I focused on a church. I found another Catholic convent, where I spoke to the sisters and brothers, catching them early in the morning and joining them for their morning prayer. I thought that if I could show I was a good Christian, they would be more likely to help me. I was wrong. No sooner had I finished praying than they kicked me out, locking the gate behind me. So much for the power of prayer! I walked for the rest of the day around the town, trying to find somewhere to stay. I tried seeking out other Sudanese or foreigners in the hope that they would help me.

  I was wandering outside a church when I came across some kids playing in the street. I went up to them and asked where I could find Sudanese people. One of them, a tall, well-built Tanzanian about my age, replied in English. He said he would help me find the Sudanese embassy. We introduced ourselves. His name was Douglass.

  Douglass hailed a taxi, gave the driver some money and told me to get in. He assured me that we would find a place where I could get help and perhaps somewhere to live. We drove through the streets of the capital, which were narrow and dusty, with cars and bicycles flying in every direction. When we arrived at the embassy we went to reception. The staff asked in English what we wanted and instructed me to sit down. Douglass left, giving me his phone number on his way out. I spent half an hour waiting for someone to see me, and was given tea while I waited. Then I was called to the office by a short, muscular man who wore dark glasses – he looked like someone out of the Men in Black movies I’d seen in Ogujebe. When he sat down next to me I noticed he had a pistol strapped to his side. I became shaky. An instant ago I’d been thinking I was getting help, and now I was needing help – fast.

  He asked me where I was from, what tribe I belonged to, what language I spoke. He shoved a map of Sudan in front of me and asked where I was born. Most of all he wanted to know how I came to be in Tanzania and if I was a member of the SPLA. My answers were vague and didn’t seem to make him very happy. He asked me again why I had left Sudan. I told him that it was because of the war, and he told me there was no war. No war? I thought he was either from another planet or some kind of spy trying to trick me.

  I was taken into a white room where they took my photograph. They told me they were going to make me a Sudanese passport. I was taken back to reception and given some money for food. They told me to go and buy some lunch, then to come straight back. This I took as my opportunity to run. The combination of the gun, the questions and the photographs made me nervous enough to risk giving up whatever help I may have received. I didn’t think I was about to be made more legitimate. I thought I was about to be deported.

  I ran to the nearest public telephone and rang Douglass. He told me to find a taxi and gave me directions to his house. When I got there, the evening was already dark and cold. He was living in a nice house with his parents. Douglass gave me a blanket, some hot tea and bread, and told me I could sleep outside. His mother didn’t seem happy to have me, so I was even more grateful to Douglass for helping. I slept there for three nights.

  Throughout my journey, some people have helped me and some have turned me away. Some have listened to me with open hearts, and others have suspected me as if I was a conman. Some people have been scared of me because I have such dark skin, and others see an honest man in desperate straits. I have wondered about the reasons why one person can be so different from the next, and I can only say that it comes down to their different experience of the world, the disposition of their heart, or even their mood on the day. In Douglass’s case, he understood my English and simply felt sorry for me, and he felt so strongly that he was doing the right thing, he was prepared to defy his parents. He was a good man.

  Realising that Douglass could not solve my problems, I again contacted the United Nations. It was a dead-end: they told me to go back to Kenya. If I stayed in Tanzania after my illegal entry and without a passport, they said, I would be in breach of the UN Convention. I had travelled to one country too many. If I was to be resettled in a country like America, it had to be from Kenya, the UN said. But there was no way I was going to return to Kenya, and they couldn’t force me.

  I stayed in Tanzania for ten days. On the ninth day, I went to the Church of Christ where they gave me money and told me the same thing I had heard at the UN – go back to Kenya. I was hemmed in. Kenya was not an option, and to stay in Tanzania would mean risking jail or, even worse, forced deportation back to Sudan where the government, realising I must have been with the SPLA, would either throw me into jail or even, I feared, kill me.

  I couldn’t go back, and I couldn’t stay here. I could only keep going forward; and forward, now, was Malawi.

  CHAPTER 7

  Malawi

  THE BUS TRIP TO MALAWI TOOK TWO DAYS. Having learnt from my previous experience, I decided to take the bus only as far as Kyela, the town before the border. The rest I would cover by foot.

  The bus had to stop in the town overnight, so I used the vehicle as my accommodation, lying to the driver that I would be continuing my journey the next day. I don’t know whether he believed me, as I certainly must have looked like an illegal, but he consented.

  During the night I went into the town to gather information on how best to cross the border. I went to outdoor food stalls and asked the sellers. They had nothing to gain from deceiving me, so I thought they would be the most reliable sources. I asked what the border was like, how to cross it and what would happen to me if I was arrested. Near the bus station a woman in her forties, with a scarf covering her hair, wearing a pinafore that she stuffed with the money she earned at her food stall, offered to organise some people to help me across the border but she wanted me to pay her. I agreed, and fi
fteen thousand Tanzanian shillings changed hands. After that, I had about a hundred and twenty thousand Tanzanian shillings left (about 100 Australian dollars) – it sounds like a lot, but it wasn’t, and I felt very vulnerable to being swindled because I had no idea what a fair exchange rate was into Malawian kwachas.

  I returned to the bus to sleep, waking up constantly throughout the night, worrying about what would happen and how my crossing would be achieved. I was worried that if the police didn’t get me, the local magicians would, or the traders that sold human body parts, all of which I’d heard about in this area. I was being overtaken by my fears, but for good reason, I felt.

  At 4 am I left the bus and returned, as agreed, to the woman I had paid. We met at the plastic-covered stall where she worked. She was with two men in their early twenties who would take me across the border, but not in the way I had thought. They now told me there was a safer route that would take us twenty kilometres upstream of the town, along the Songwe River that divided Tanzania from Malawi and flowed into Lake Malawi. We would travel by bicycle. One of the men would ride one bike, while the second man and I would share the other. I didn’t have any suspicions about the change in plan. They were open, friendly seeming people, and I had placed my fate in their hands.

  The roads were winding and very bumpy. This trip was a pain in the butt – literally! We were told that the point where we would cross the river was shallow enough to wade across, but when we got there we found that it wasn’t. The banks sloped down gradually, and a lot of cultivation took place on the edge: it looked tranquil enough. But the water was deep and the currents strong, especially for someone with my sketchy swimming ability. The men decided we would have to use one of the small wooden boats being hired out by ferrymen waiting on the riverbank. This trade was low-key and certainly illegal.

  The boat was so small that only three people could cross at any one time, two of whom were the men running the boat. They needed to be paid (everyone needed to be paid), and they would take me on the first trip, coming back for two more trips to collect my escorts. I was suspicious. How was I to know that once I had crossed, the other two, whom I had already paid to take me all the way to the first main Malawian town of Karonga, would join me? I decided to take some security: I would carry one of their bikes with me. If they wanted their bike back, they had to follow me across. I figured the bike was worth more to them than not following.

  I could tell they weren’t happy; they spoke to each other in their own language, but I knew from their body language that something was going to happen. Eventually they agreed and gave me one of the bikes.

  I got to the other side and waited anxiously for them to follow. The boat brought them across. I breathed a sigh of relief and the journey continued.

  We were now on the Malawian side of the border but still had five kilometres before we reached Karonga, from which I could catch a bus to the capital, Lilongwe. My two escorts started to become aggressive. They wanted more money, whatever I had. I told them I had no more to give. They suddenly became angry, threatening to kill me and reminding me that we were now in the middle of nowhere. We were only five kilometres outside a small town but we may as well have been in the middle of a desert – they could do what they wanted. I was scared, and they knew it.

  Again I told them I had no money, and one of them pulled out a knife. I was sure they were going to kill me. Backing away, I scrabbled behind myself and found a stick. I told them that if they attacked me, I would attack them right back – if they were going to kill me, I would not die alone. I only had the courage to do this because my back was to the wall. My experiences had taught me some cunning, too. They looked at me and saw a weak civilian, but I knew I was more powerful than that, I had army skills, and I wanted to give them the impression that I was a hardened ex-soldier. I might have looked aggressive and angry, but really I was scared. Yet this is no contradiction. I had learnt early in life, in Sudan, that the most aggressive and dangerous people are often the ones who are most terrified.

  They gave a nervous laugh and told me that they had been joking. I told them that they would now have to lead the journey – the two of them in front on one bike, with me following behind on the other bike. I wasn’t taking any chances. I was not going to trust them again.

  We arrived at Karonga without further incident. Lilongwe was about five hundred kilometres away. I didn’t know how far my money would take me. One third of the way along was the next main town, called Mzuzu. I kept my expectations low and tried to muster up the fare to get there. I had to exchange the one hundred and twenty thousand Tanzanian shillings I had into Malawian kwachas. My two escorts, on discovering how much money I really had, demanded that I allow them to do the exchange. I still didn’t trust them but I had no choice. They let me know that if I didn’t let them exchange the money, they would report me to the police.

  They made the exchange and handed me back the money – or, at least, half the money. I told them I would check the rate and they assured me that they had not taken anything. But when I insisted that they come with me to check, they ran. I tried to chase them but couldn’t keep up. In desperation I picked up a rock and threw it, aiming it at their heads. I missed – probably a good thing, for if I had got one of them I might have found myself in trouble for assault, not just for entering the country illegally.

  By the time I arrived in Mzuzu it was about 5 pm. All the money I had was gone. I sat at the bus station wondering what to do. Would I now have to steal to survive? I knew I couldn’t sink that low. I had been in this situation before, and it was not within me to steal. I started to think about telling my story to anyone who would listen, hoping they would give me money in exchange.

  Not for the first or last time, my life story was becoming my meal ticket. It might be odd, for an Australian, to see your life story as your sole economic asset. But for me and other Sudanese who have little else to sell, it was the natural thing to do. I never had to create any fictional embellishment to my story, because telling the truth was persuasive enough! Even when people had their own problems, they felt pity and sorrow when they heard about mine.

  People started giving me money, enough for me to invest in my stomach, but not to make my next journey, to Lilongwe. The people in Malawi were very poor and it wasn’t likely that I was going to be able to get the financial help that I needed on the street. Again I returned to the church, this time a Catholic mission. I went there around 8 pm on that first night. Parishioners were filing out after Mass. I tested many people, by greeting them and seeing who would greet me in return. I raised my hand and smiled, waiting for a response. The person with the warmest response would be the person to help me.

  I tried with many people, but not a single one returned my greeting. Then at last one of the priests looked at me with what seemed to be a kind face. He smiled and said: ‘Hello, my son, how can I help you?’

  I replied by giving him my life story, which by now was starting to feel long and convoluted. Between the father and a sister who was also drawn into my story, they decided I could stay in the mission. The sister thought it would be good if I went to a seminary and became a priest. All I wanted was a bus fare to Lilongwe.

  Eventually, after much negotiation over my soul and other matters, they gave me my fare of two hundred kwachas and drove me to the bus station. The sister then prayed for me. She asked for God to guide me along the way, she prayed for peace in Sudan and she prayed for peace around the world. I hoped for her prayers to be answered. As I left they told me of a Catholic church in Lilongwe where I could get help.

  I arrived at Lilongwe at nine o’clock the next morning. As instructed, I went straight to the Catholic church, where the first person I saw was a watchman who tried to stop me from getting in. His presence, and his behaviour, made me worry. Why was there a guard at the church – and why would he stop me? I was a Christian. Was it because of the way I was dressed? (I had multiple layers of clothing, some getting pretty old, and I had
n’t had a bath for three days, so maybe I just didn’t smell good enough to go into a church.) The watchman told me to wait outside. I told him that I hadn’t prayed for days – I was busting for a prayer!

  Finally he let me in. It was a small church and there were only about twenty people at the Mass. I walked up the centre aisle and could sense that everyone was scared of me. I sat up the back and waited as the priest finished the morning prayer. Even though he was speaking to the whole congregation, he was looking straight at me; I felt as though everyone was staring at me. I could see what was going through their minds. I was different – my skin was darker than theirs – and at the very best I was a stranger, at worst a criminal.

  At the end of the service I spoke to the priest. He wanted to know where I had come from and what I was doing there. Again I repeated my story, making much of the kind priest and nun I had met in Mzuzu. He gave me another two hundred kwachas and told me to go to the United Nations to find the nearest refugee camp.

  I obeyed, trying my luck at the United Nations office in Lilongwe. They told me that they only saw people on Wednesdays. It being a Monday, I left, wondering where I would sleep for the night. I decided to go to the police, to see if I could get myself arrested and put in a cell overnight. I wasn’t scared of being deported: this was too far away from Sudan; there were few direct relations between the countries, and this was an English-speaking, Christian country. Sure enough, they didn’t deport me . . . but they wouldn’t arrest me either! They kicked me out, telling me to go to the UN. Didn’t they know it wasn’t Wednesday? I contemplated doing something extreme to get myself arrested, but, remembering that I didn’t have all the appropriate identification papers, I figured I could end up with a longer stay than I bargained for.