Jumma lay on a hilltop above a village he had never seen, the hill higher than any he knew of in Sudan, the village below bathed in a dull light, maybe early evening, he did not know. Lying on his side, his head resting on his arm, he studied the village; it was not his. The ground beneath him began to shake, immediately violent, rolling him over. His head hurt and he felt as if he might vomit, his stomach aching, his chest beginning to burn. “Wake up, you little shit,” a voice above him said. “Wake up, we’re going to talk.”
The smell of cattle was strong in his nostrils. Jumma opened his eyes to a dark ceiling, covering a small room with dirty white walls, a short squat table and an old brass oil lamp, dented with no glass to brighten the flame. Three men stared at him. Jumma tried to sit up, was pushed back down by pain shooting across his forehead. Rolling to his right side, he managed to push himself into a sitting position, leaning back against the wall for support. He was too frightened to speak. Looking again at the men, he realized one was a boy, perhaps fifteen years old, not much more, he thought.
“Where is your father?” one of the men asked. Dressed in a khaki green uniform, he wore a holster on his belt, a black handle visible beneath a flap, also black. Two pens protruded from a shirt pocket, the pens apparently leaking, as there was a large stain beneath the pocket. Several other stains covered the front of his shirt. Jumma looked harder, seeing the stains were not black or blue, but brown. Blood. The boy’s clothes were clean, a tan camouflage, looking new. The second man’s uniform was covered in brown spots, in sizes from tiny to one large one at his armpit.
“Get him up,” the man with the pens said, ordering the other two into action. The boy moved first, crossing the space quickly, bending to take Jumma by an arm, his grip strong like Jumma’s father, pulling him to his feet. Jumma stumbled and was caught by the second man. Lifted from the floor, they carried him to the third man, now seen as the leader by Jumma. Holding him off the floor, they stopped before the leader, who asked, “Where is your father?” Jumma looked dumbly at the man who made a fist and hit him hard, the blow landing squarely in the middle of Jumma’s forehead, knocking him unconscious.
When he woke, the pain in his head was unbearable, causing him to cry, the fright and pain so disorienting, he stopped thinking. Shock was setting into Jumma, a shield thrown around his mind to protect itself. With his arm over his eyes, he wept loudly, his chest heaving, gasping for air. “Momma,” he cried out.
“Shut him up and bring him here,” the man with the pens said, his exasperation clearly showing in his voice. Jumma was pulled from the floor and carried across the room, then slammed down on a chair. He screamed “Please” as a hand grasped his wrist, pulling his arm up, then pinning it to the table. Two other hands held him by the shoulders, the thick fingers digging in, the pain as bad as the pain in his head.
“Boy, where is your father?” he was asked. Jumma cried, tears and snot flowing down his young face. “One more time, where is your father?”
The room was silent except for Jumma’s sobs. A hammer wielded by the younger bandit smashed the third finger of Jumma’s left hand as flat as a cracker, blood spewing from the tip as it burst from the pressure, the nail splintered, the small bits and pieces pushed into the pulped flesh. Mercifully, Jumma passed out again.
***
The French priest and the nurse saw the body by the road, just southeast of Uwayl. It was mid-afternoon, a hot day, the sky clear and bright. They were returning to their mission post in Mapuordit from the small town, part of a delegation from the Diocese of Rumbek to minister aid to the people of the area, victims of the attack by the Janjaweed a week before. Stopping thirty meters from the body, the priest scanned the bush for others, people waiting near the road, the body simply a diversion. After a few minutes, the priest inched the vehicle forward, his head swiveling from side to side, checking as he drove. The nurse gasped, opening the door and jumped out, the old truck still rolling. “Wait,” the priest said, grabbing for the nurse and missing.
Jumma lay on his back, wearing only a pair of faded orange shorts, his dark skin carrying a red sub-tone, the sun burning his skin. Lips puffed by dehydration and the sun were framed by a battered face, large contusions on the side and front of his head. His left hand, wrapped in a blood-soaked white shirt, lay out straight from the boy’s body. It was covered in ants.
“Bring water, Father, quickly please,” Sister Marie Claire said. Father Robineau, carrying a jug of water, walked to where Jumma lay, still searching the bush for trouble. Pulling the nun up by the arm, the priest knelt, scooped the boy from the dust to carry him to the truck.
***
Jumma shivered, the chill of the cockpit always a surprise to him. The Beech had reached an altitude of eight thousand feet, where Hanley would cruise on their trip to Nairobi. The chill may
