In Thula’s sedated state, the twins would undress her from the waist down. One of them would spread her legs apart and keep them open while the other inserted the semen inside her, rubbing her belly as he chanted to the ancestors, declaring her victorious, proclaiming that the child of the Spirit within her would make her a woman above all men, anointing her the Mother of a people ready to be reborn. After the procedure, we would carry her back to her bed and lay her on her side to stop the semen from leaking. In no more than two days, all who looked upon her would see what the Spirit had done.
—
We were the first to notice the change, eager as we were to see the results, so much hinging on it. She was still the same size, and yet there was something about her, a glow and a majesty that could only be from the child growing within her. She was a woman, finally, beyond woman even, and everyone could see, though they could not tell why, they could only conclude that she was deserving of their devotion. She was no longer a childless old-girl whom loutish elders could laugh at, or the enigma her friends wanted to marry off; through the power of the Spirit-child living within her, she had transcended her body and become sublime.
The twins had told us that she’d never know anything of it, and we could tell it was so. The seed within her would stay dormant, and she would never question why she’d become a recipient of greater deference and admiration from men and women, old and young. When we asked the twins about the child she was carrying, they told us that the child was in no rush to depart the host of the unborn. On a day of the Spirit’s choosing, they said—it could be months or years away—whenever it was that Thula woke up in the arms of a beautiful man, the Spirit would cause the seed within her to start growing.
The revolution began, as she’d dreamed it, on a November evening in 2005, at the field of our former school in Lokunja. We set up stools for the old to sit on, and tables on which we would stand to speak. Our brothers and sisters and friends, mothers and fathers, relatives we would never have supposed cared for our message, arrived from all corners of the eight villages. Young men took buses from distant towns; young women dressed as if for weddings, hoping to find husbands. The enterprising brought one thing or another to sell. At one end of the field, drummers practiced for the finale while little children danced. We hadn’t planned for a festival, or a day for relatives to reconnect and for friends to meet to pass gossip, but that was what we got in the first hours. The entire district seemed to be there, the crowd spilling past the school compound. In the distance, soldiers stood with tight faces, their guns pointed. No one feared them; our bliss made them invisible.
—
In our welcoming remarks, we told the crowd that this day was their day, the day for them to declare their readiness to take back their lives. Their roar could have caused all our dead to rise. Our children had rehearsed a song for weeks but decided that they no longer wanted to sing, so one of our wives led the crowd in a chorus about how magical it was to be alive, everyone clapping as they moved in rhythm. Three of us climbed onto the table to introduce Thula Nangi, our sister, back from America, ordained by the Spirit to lead us to victory over our adversaries. The people shouted for joy as we lifted her to the table and handed her a bullhorn.
“Power to the people,” she cried with her fists clenched up.
“Power to the people,” the crowd cried back.
“Who are the people?”
“We are the people.”
“Yes,” she said, “we are the people, and our moment has come.”
The multitude roared. With every declaration she made, they roared louder, raising clenched fists alongside hers.
“This land is our land.” Roars.
“We’ll take it back whether they like it or not.” Roars.
“We’ll no longer be slaughtered, poisoned, or trampled upon.” Roars.
“Let those who stand in the way of our peace and happiness be warned. Let them know that we’ll march through the streets of Lokunja and district capitals around the country. We’ll clench our fists until we get to Bézam. We’ll roar until they give us back our dignity. Our voices will be the fire that will burn down every system of injustice, and from the ashes we will build a new nation.”
“Fire,” someone shouted.
“Fire,” the crowd sang.
“Yes,” Thula cried, “we are the fire that will leave nothing immoral unburned. My brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, we have seen the light. There will be no return to darkness for us. We have awakened, and we will not stop raising our voices until every man, woman, and child in this country is free.”
Juba
What does it mean to be free? How do humans behave when they start believing that their definition of freedom is at hand? I saw how, that day in Lokunja. I saw men standing tall, strutting as they headed home. I saw little girls waving and smiling at soldiers as if to say, Hello, look at my pretty dress. I saw women throw their heads all the way back when they laughed. I sensed the air around me vibrating from the burdens that had momentarily been cast off shoulders. Possibility was written on the faces of the multitude, an unguarded anticipation of the future. I saw it over and over as I followed my sister to
