Junior, Talloi, and I jumped into a canoe and sadly waved to our friends as the canoe pulled
away from the shores of Mattru Jong. As we landed on the other side of the river, more and
more people were arriving in haste. We started walking, and a woman carrying her flipflops
on her head spoke without looking at us: “Too much blood has been spilled where you
are going. Even the good spirits have fled from that place.” She walked past us. In the
bushes along the river, the strained voices of women cried out, “Nguwor gbor mu ma oo,”
God help us, and screamed the names of their children: “Yusufu, Jabu, Foday…” We saw
children walking by themselves, shirtless, in their underwear, following the crowd. “Nya
nje oo, nya keke oo,” my mother, my father, the children were crying. There were also dogs
running, in between the crowds of people, who were still running, even though far awayrom harm. The dogs sniffed the air, looking for their owners. My veins tightened.
We had walked six miles and were now at Kabati, Grandmother's village. It was deserted.
All that was left were footprints in the sand leading toward the dense forest that spread out
beyond the village.
As evening approached, people started arriving from the mining area. Their whispers,
the cries of little children seeking lost parents and tired of walking, and the wails of hungry
babies replaced the evening songs of crickets and birds. We sat on Grandmother's verandah,
waiting and listening.
“Do you guys think it is a good idea to go back to Mogbwemo?” Junior asked. But
before either of us had a chance to answer, a Volkswagen roared in the distance and all the
people walking on the road ran into the nearby bushes. We ran, too, but didn't go that far.
My heart pounded and my breathing intensified. The vehicle stopped in front of my
grandmother's house, and from where we lay, we could see that whoever was inside the car
was not armed. As we, and others, emerged from the bushes, we saw a man run from the
driver's seat to the sidewalk, where he vomited blood. His arm was bleeding. When he
stopped vomiting, he began to cry. It was the first time I had seen a grown man cry like a
child, and I felt a sting in my heart. A woman put her arms around the man and begged him to
stand up. He got to his feet and walked toward the van. When he opened the door opposite
the driver's, a woman who was leaning against it fell to the ground. Blood was coming out
of her ears. People covered the eyes of their children.
In the back of the van were three more dead bodies, two girls and a boy, and their bloodas all over the seats and the ceiling of the van. I wanted to move away from what I was
seeing, but couldn't. My feet went numb and my entire body froze. Later we learned that the
man had tried to escape with his family and the rebels had shot at his vehicle, k**ing all his
family. The only thing that consoled him, for a few seconds at least, was when the woman
who had embraced him, and now cried with him, told him that at least he would have the
chance to bury them. He would always know where they were laid to rest, she said. She
seemed to know a little more about war than the rest of us.
The wind had stopped moving and daylight seemed to be quickly giving in to night. As
sunset neared, more people pa**ed through the village. One man carried his dead son. He
thought the boy was still alive. The father was covered with his son's blood, and as he ran
he kept saying, “I will get you to the hospital, my boy, and everything will be fine.” Perhaps
it was necessary that he cling to false hopes, since they kept him running away from harm. A
group of men and women who had been pierced by stray bullets came running next. The skin
that hung down from their bodies still contained fresh blood. Some of them didn't notice that
they were wounded until they stopped and people pointed to their wounds. Some fainted or
vomited. I felt nauseated, and my head was spinning. I felt the ground moving, and people's
voices seemed to be far removed from where I stood trembling.
The last casualty that we saw that evening was a woman who carried her baby on her
back. Blood was running down her dress and dripping behind her, making a trail. Her child
had been shot dead as she ran for her life. Luckily for her, the bullet didn't go through the
baby's body. When she stopped at where we stood, she sat on the ground and removed her
child. It was a girl, and her eyes were still open, with an interrupted innocent smile on her
face. The bullets could be seen sticking out just a little bit in the baby's body and she waswelling. The mother clung to her child and rocked her. She was in too much pain and shock
to shed tears.