Nineteen

Ken walked steadily to him. He knew he was a victim of the war. Even if he were a runaway soldier, he would prefer him to shoot him now. He was only thinking death. Death was better this time than miserable life that he would continue with. When he was quite up to him, he held his hands and said his sorry twice, pulled him up and took him by the hand. Not satisfied, the young man kept pressing to hold his father. They were walking out of him. Their dead loved ones would rot away and be eaten by birds in this desert. They could not be sent home. Home was far, too far to carry them to.

The young boy got home after few days. He was fortunate; a face he knew saved him when he was preparing to be recruited. The man was his fathers business associates and had proved a good neighbor.

He met his grandfather, the father of his father. The old man had long been expecting the homecoming of his only son. He was anxious to see him, his figure, to hear him, his voice. He was now over old, ninety-seven years of age and an ugly sight he had, thin out of hunger and trouble of the mind; thinking, stooping, bald with face patched with plasters out of the wound he got while he was running to meet a comeback.

When his sickness started, its symptoms were those of rapid consumption. He lost his color and weight within days and coughed out blood whenever he coughed. He would die within a very short time. 

         This region knew they were the target and so had formed a strong body to resist more attack, though they presented coup and political intolerance as the cause of the war. They had lost almost everything they struggled all these years to make outside home to this war; money, houses, shops and offices.

The patched desert of Africa was no good sight to behold, ranging from the pathetic sight of starving children to hundreds of young men in death rolls, then the young and able-bodied women who sold their body to lustful soldiers to supplement their limited income and daily meals. Soldiers who could not be allowed in barracks ran to the billets for the safety of their lives. Wounds of these ones wrapped up in rags and it stinks. They found out how slowly, or how quickly, it takes people to die. The men, women and female children with their loads, running for their dear lives, passing screaming ambulances that had collected the wounded and moving them to the hospitals. Disintegrated families were seen all around in fear of the next action. Women, young girls and children stared mutely at the space with their eyes aglow, with a strange accusing pity and in fear of the steady boom of artillery which was having a dislodging effect on them. For many, their men were gone. Almost every young man of marriageable age and below had been recruited for the fight, and almost every family had lost a baby and too many women their husbands. More still to be lost.

There were recurrent sound of small arm fire grenades bursting, mingled with the scream of women and their children. Shelled homes, schools, hospitals, police barracks in target of easterners.  Listening to the cries was more than flesh and blood could stand. Many lives were lost. Wailing and screaming with hands up head were a common sight as they saw the victims of the bloodied casualties. To many fathers, they watched as their son put off under the sun in their presence. They watched these ones being tortured to death before them and then their friends and then he too would be mercilessly clubbed to death until his skull was shattered and he would fail upon his son and then died. The young men, the seeds of the nation, the seed of this region withering and dying in the most alarming manner ever known. Sometimes these ones ran deep into the bush to avoid being detected. They were searched, caught and enlisted. Nights and days, they go deep into hidings in these bushes and these solders followed, slowly and sometimes forcefully and dragged them along. Could this sin be forgiven? Only time would tell.