Ndika’s eyes widen and return to size. “It’s not going to work,” he says. “You can’t scare me.”
I move away from the cliff and crouch down behind some tall grasses. I beckon him to do the same. He obeys. We stay crouched and silent. Minutes pass. Nothing happens. Suddenly, we hear sniffles and a muffled cry. The sound neither approaches nor wanes. Whoever-it-is is hiding somewhere nearby. Listening out for us, perhaps. If it is one of the others, planning to jump out from the bushes and surprise us, then why is he crying? We wait. Whoever-it-is waits too. He wants us to move first, and we want him to move first so no one does anything. More minutes pass. Ndika fidgets. I warn him not to get up. My whisper is raspy and breathy. I hear boots. Sounds like a soldier is approaching. It is too close for comfort. I hear a conversation. I can’t hear it clearly because it is low and panty. My heart is beating fast. It is trying to thump out of my chest. My ears are alert to any disturbance around me. I hear Ndika crying. Shrubs are blocking my view of his face.
We remain flat on our bellies. The men are speaking in low growls. They are telling someone to be quiet or else they will shoot him dead. If he shouts, they will shoot. If he runs, they will shoot. If he does not walk straight, they will shoot. Soldiers. They have captured some of the others and they are looking for us. I wish I could turn into a snake and slither away. The men move off and everywhere becomes silent again. Just the fizzing noise of tree leaves. They are not far, I suspect. They have probably picked a different spot to listen out for us. Ndika is breathing hard. He keeps making the pig grunts of someone sucking back mucus. When he cries, he always has a catarrh. A strong wind swirls around us and fades. I hear footsteps. Panting.
I hear bushes shifting. There’s lots of shifting. Someone is running.
“Stop,” a man says in Hutu.
People are running. It’s a chase. Someone howls. I think they have caught him because I hear him pleading. They are beating him.
“What did I tell you?” they say. “Did you not hear me saying you should stop? ”They call him a cockroach, a disgusting thing on the face of the earth. They kick and slap him. His screams end in soft cries. Others are crying with him. Their sniffles grow into wails. There is a gurgling sound. The soldiers are choking the runner. They warn those crying to stop crying and they obey. The gurgles of the strangled peter out like the sound of a tap that hisses as you close it. Silence. The boots move off again. I am sure they have left a body somewhere. But whose is it? Paul’s? Junior’s? Koroma’s? Or Samuel’s? We remain in our positions long after the sound of boots has faded. Finally, I crawl over to Ndika and slump down beside him.
“We have to go warn the others,” I say. He nods.
“Bastards. They were waiting for us here.”
My thoughts are broken when I hear someone call my name. He calls Ndika’s name too. And Paul’s. And Junior’s. It’s Souza. He is asking us to come out—to stop playing and start getting ready to cross the bridge.
One of the scouts calls out to him. It sounds like Paul. He says he has sprained an ankle. He needs some help.
“Where are you?” Souza shouts.
“Down here,” he responds.
It’s Paul. I recognize his voice. But there is a shakiness in it. I know he is not wounded. The soldiers are making him say he is so they can draw Souza in.
Souza inches down. I hear him calling Paul’s name like he usually does: ‘Paulie’. His machine gun is slung around his shoulder, I imagine. He never goes far without it. They plan to kill Souza. After that, they will kill Paul too. They will kill us all. Unless… Unless someone alerts the tribe. Alerts the tribe to them, those murderous men hiding in the trenched jungle. Souza continues to descend.
“I’m coming,” he says. “Paulie, where are you?”
“Souza, it’s a trap. Don’t come! They want to kill you.” Those are not my words but Ndika’s. He beat me to it.
Where the hell is he? It is too dark to see.
Shots are fired. I hear feet scuffling back up. More shots. I get up and run. I run downhill. I fall on my belly and roll on my side. I let my body slide down. A thicket catches me. The shooting stops. I lie flat on my back and slowly raise my head to look up. Where is Ndika? I have to go back for him. He could be hurt. Someone shouts a command and several others begin to shriek. Soldiers are stampeding up the valley. I hear the trudging of hundreds of boots. Guns ring out and bombs explode. Flashes of light crackle in the sky. The sound of missile launchers plays a tune with the rat-tat-tat of smaller firearm. The tribe is screaming. People are running scared. I hear squealing. Or is it battle cries, I don’t know? And others I’m too scared to imagine. I’m crying. The noise reminds me of the night jackals raided our chicken house. The ambush had not gone as planned, thanks to Ndika. For God’s sake, where is he? With the stealth of a jungle cat, I claw my way back up to look for him. I find him sprawled on the ground, face down, too scared to move. I can’t call his name: someone might hear us. I edge closer to him. The longer he stays there, the likelier a soldier will find him. We must flee. We must sink deep into the plains of the valley and hide there.
I grab him by the shoulder and give him a hard shake. “Ndika, let’s go.”
He does not move. I try to pull him up but he is stiff. He’s stiff like a full bag of rice. Around his head is a goop of red, a small puddle. There is a red dot on his right temple. My legs carry me off. I run as if I have just seen a ghost. I run, run, run and run. I have to get away from there. I want to get away from everywhere. I don’t want to die. I want to marry and make babies. I want lots of babies. In the white man’s country. I roll down to the bottom of the valley and hide under the leaves of a banana plant.
The shelling reduces to rhythmic gunshots. Sounds like the soldiers are celebrating by shooting in the air. They are singing. And possibly… dancing too. A harvest dance, I imagine. I push away banana leaves to peer up the valley. The acacia on the slope shakes a bit too much. I don’t think it is the wind making them shake. It can’t be soldiers either because I smell fear in them. Some of those who escaped the raid have found their way into the valley. I see two—no, three heads poking out of the leaves. They seem to be thinking of going back up when the coast is clear. They can’t. They will be killed if they do.
“Psst,” I call to the three heads. They look down. Slowly, I stand up from behind my banana plant so they can all see me, their scout, and see that I’m brave. I beckon them down. Come with me, I sign. Slowly, they emerge from their hiding places. They are more than I counted, seven or so. Most of them are children but there are two women among them. They slip down to the base of the valley and gather around me.
“We can’t go back up,” I say. “We must go this way.” I point to the jaws of an even less welcoming territory, the bushy surface where all the tall trees are rooted. “They don’t know we are here. If they know, they will come after us. So relax.”
Some of them nod. They can whisper if they choose to but they want to speak with gestures. Some are not sure they are awake. I know that feeling.
I move and they follow. I creep between thick trunks of massive trees, trying to move in a straight line. I tread as lightly as I can. I think of the old wooden bridge. And when I think of it, it seems more and more like a trap than a passageway. It is an image I know will give me nightmares in the days to come. Something smells. It smells like burnt food. I follow the scent to a campsite, a deserted campsite. The enemy soldiers must have camped here. There are scattered pots, shaving sticks, blankets, tins of water, and jerry cans. The attack came sooner than they planned so they must have left in a hurry. They left boots and soldier uniforms. I smell petrol. I open one of the jerry cans and check the content. Just what I thought. It’s petrol. For setting roaches like us ablaze. The soldiers will come back for their things. They will look for petrol to use in burning those they have captured.
“Quick, grab all the jerry cans you can find,” I say to the others, handling two tall cans.
The group listens. It is as if they know. Climbing up the valley will be harder now, but it will be worth it. When we get to the top, we will pour the petrol into the valley, empty all the jerry cans, and start a forest fire—the biggest fire ever. I hope it burns all their things along with the old bridge.
END
Culled from How Hamisu Survived Bad Kidneys and a Bad Son-in-Law
Check out Percussions by the same author
Charles Opara
Charles is an IT programmer, short story writer and speculative fiction novelist who enjoys the flow involved in creating both programs and stories. In 2015, his horror short “It Happened” was shortlisted for the Awele Creative Trust Prize and in 2017, another story ‘Baby-girl’ was long-listed for the Quramo National Prize in his country. His short stories have been published in magazines such as Flash Fiction Press, Zoetic Press, and Ambit Magazine. His collection of short stories, How Hamisu Survived Bad Kidneys and a Bad Son-in-law, is published by Fomite Press.
