The snake was as surprised as the child. Asleep beneath the wood piled against the large hut, the snake, jagged scales, brown, red and round-headed was hidden, unnoticed by the boy. Neither were a danger to each other, but did not know it.
The end of the stick is what caught Jumma’s eye. It was the color of butter, a favorite of his, when his parents had it. Pulling the stick from the pile brought the snake out, its nose against the end of the stick, the squatting child in its path. Before young Jumma could move, the fleeing serpent sawed his way through the dirt between the boy’s legs, fast enough to be past him before the child could move. So frightened was Jumma, he wet his shorts, spraying the ground beneath him, missing the quick snake. Frozen in place, bawling hard enough that he shook, Jumma remained there until his mother came running to find him squatting and crying. Seeing he was near the wood pile, she took him to a grassy area, stripped him of his tee shirt and shorts and checked him for bite marks. Seeing none, she carried him, still wailing, to a communal water pipe, rinsing her son and his clothes. Dressing him again in the wet shorts and tee shirt, Jumma’s mother then continued her work, the sobbing and wet boy trailing behind her, his hand out, wanting to be held. Jumma remembered all this like it was yesterday.
His other childhood memories were not as clear. Those were jumbled, from between the day the snake taught him what fear was and the day when strangers continued the lessons. The one notable exception was the day the dog made his father laugh.
When the troubles came to western Sudan, they spread rapidly throughout the region. Those nights were spent listening to his father explaining what he knew of the war, the various reasons and who was involved. The government in Khartoum and their support of the Baggara and Abbala tribesman who formed a group called the Janjaweed, murderers riding horses and camels. One night, while the family ate its evening meal, a mush of wheat and goat meat, some fruit and bread, all bathed in the yellow light of four candles, Jumma’s father began talking of the war, and what might happen. Jumma was ten years old. They would not leave their home, he told them. This war is the work of men who want what farmland and water there is in western Darfur, a fight among tribes, he said, as he chewed his food. “This will not come to visit this area,” he said. Jumma’s mother and two sisters listened, his mother’s head bowed low, her dark eyes closed, as she worked a string of beads through her fingers, red and black with tiny holes drilled through each, black thread, knotted on the side of each bead, holding them together, minutely spaced, someone’s prideful work. The beads were decorative and she was nervous.
***
His father drank water from an old blue metal cup with white speckles, a cup Jumma had seen his grandmother drink from, then said, “I know I have said the troubles will not visit us here. But, this has changed. We must talk of how we can protect each other should the war make its way to this village. We will talk about it, we will practice it, like we practice your school lessons, for someday, you may need these lessons to help each other. We must not be afraid, but we must be smart. Do you understand?” his father asked. Jumma remembered nodding at the question. Drinking again, his father reached for him, rubbed his head and smiled. Jumma also remembered the warmth of his father’s hand, could still feel it, the recollection of the touch brought him joy, as he flew with the American to Kenya.
The discussion and the lessons of his father continued in the days before the men on horseback arrived. The instructions, the lessons, were simple suggestions repeated each evening. If separated, they were to make their way to Rumbek, farther south, away from the fighting. Each family member was to say their father worked as a laborer for a company that constructed roads and dug wells. If caught, they were to say the family went to Abyei, the ancestral home.
His father worked in a shop in Uwayl, making sandals, belts and pouches. The shop, like a cave, dark and deep, its walls were a faded stucco, his work table near the rear, kept the family fed. He did not talk of moving. Their home was sound, a good place for Jumma and his family. A small productive garden, some chickens and goats also helped keep them fed. It was a good life. Their good life may have continued, had the war not come to them. His mother called the war the loss of sunshine, or sometimes the darkness.
Blinking rapidly, Jumma woke to a rattling sound in the distance. There were gaps in the sound, no rhythm to it. The duration of each packet of sound lasted but a few seconds, a thrumming, like rocks thrown against cement blocks. Listening, he heard the sounds of the house in between the rattles, the creaks and murmurs, the sound of breathing, his sisters and parents. Years later, he would remember the sounds of his family breathing, the last comforting sound before the darkness descended on his family.
It was autumn in Sudan, not a season much noticed. Light gray smoke rose from the fires between the huts, the sun faded
