6

AMERICA AND BULL’S BLOOD

Young guards sporting small guns with wooden handles stood watching the boys enter the school. Were these the extra guards his father had asked for? They looked bored, or maybe angry. Certainly they did not look as though they would or could fight off the LRA. One guard in particular glared at the boys with loathing. Jacob understood why. The students at George Jones Seminary for Boys were special, lucky. They would have an education, feed their children, have a sweet–sweeter life.

Once through the gates they saw the familiar square of green grass with a sprawling mango tree planted in the middle. Classes were held under the tree, and students often ate under it, too. The grass had been trimmed that very morning. Women from a nearby displacement camp would come often with babies on their backs and cut the grass with long slashers.

To Jacob’s eye, everything looked welcoming. The white-and-turquoise stucco chapel, which was also the assembly hall, was directly ahead. Classrooms in red-brick buildings with big, airy windows were to the left, and a large, one-storey building housing three dormitories sat to the right of the open square.

Shouts and welcomes greeted them. The air was filled with names and cheers. On the first day of school everyone was a friend.

“What took you?” Paul, as large and gangly as a baby zebra, came out of nowhere and tackled Jacob to the ground. Tony flung aside his mattress and bucket, took a giant leap into the air, and pitched himself on top.

“Get off! Get off !”

When they eventually rolled off him, Jacob lay flat out, his whole body convulsing with laughter. He looked up at the sky. School felt like home. Jacob’s grin spread from ear to ear as he crawled back up onto his feet.

“Catch.” Paul flung Jacob’s mattress at him. He caught it and fell down again.

“BOYS! Enough!” Mr. Otim, the assistant headmaster, took long strides toward them. Dressed in a Western-style blue suit, white shirt, and striped tie, he gave each boy a hard stare. Mr. Otim could throw a sour face across open ground like an Olympic athlete could throw a javelin.

Paul reached down and yanked Jacob to his feet. Tony banged his head into Paul’s butt, then fell back into the dirt. Paul and Jacob nearly exploded with laughter. Mr. Otim just rolled his eyes and walked away.

“Hurry. I’ve already picked out your beds. You have to unpack before prayers.” Paul hoisted Jacob’s suitcase onto his shoulder, Jacob and Tony picked up their mattresses and buckets, and the boys raced each other all the way to the dorm.

There were three dorm rooms at their school. The dormitory building was shaped like a T. All three dorms were connected by a common room at the top of the T. In each of the three rooms, a long line of brown-painted iron beds greeted the students, twenty cots on each side, forty beds to a room.

Jacob, Paul, and Tony had been assigned to dorm room number one. The cot Paul had picked out for Jacob was the third on the right, the one closest to the door.

“Tony, you are in bed number five.” He pointed to a spring cot. Paul had cot number four. He liked being in the middle of things.

Paul hurled himself onto Jacob’s bedsprings and bounced up and down, for no reason whatsoever, making a rackety creaking noise.

“Off!” Jacob grabbed Paul’s arms, hauled him off the bedsprings, then rolled out his thin mattress.

“Ah, there you are. I have been waiting to talk to you three.”

It was Mr. Ojok, their don. He also taught chemistry, mathematics, and algebra, Jacob’s best subjects. He had even studied in England. Everyone thought he was a very good teacher.

“We have a new boy, Okello Norman.” Mr. Ojok spoke in what Jacob thought of as his “teacher voice.” “He’s younger than the rest of you, only twelve, but he has excelled in all his classes. He is here on a full mathematic scholarship. Given your interest in mathematics, Jacob, I thought you might make him feel welcome.”

Mathematics? Jacob frowned. The boy must be good to have won such a scholarship. But how good? Imagine losing the mathematics prize this year to a twelve-year-old!

“Jacob, are you paying attention?” Jacob’s head snapped up. “Yes, sir.”

“Good, because I want all three of you to be responsible for him. See that his first few weeks go smoothly.”

Three hearts plummeted. That’s all they needed—to care for a brainy ongee. And one who would probably cry himself to sleep, too. As long as he didn’t wet the bed. There was no protecting a bed-wetter.

“Do I make myself clear?” Mr. Ojok repeated.

Jacob’s, Tony’s, and Paul’s heads bobbed against their chests.

“Look up. May I have your word? Each of you?”

“Yes, sir.” All three boys straightened up and nodded smartly.

Mr. Ojok looked down at the clipboard in his hand. “There are thirty-eight boys in this dorm. Two more will be joining us in a few days. See that all the new boys are made welcome.” And with that, he bustled away, all business.

“Have you met Norman?” Jacob dumped his clothes and shoes in the footlocker at the end of the bed. Tony didn’t have much to unpack—a pair of shoes from the UN bag, an extra shirt, and some school supplies given to him by the nuns.

“No, but I have seen him. Otidi.” Paul put his hand mid-chest.

Jacob rolled his eyes. Not only was Norman twelve years old, but he was a short twelve-year-old.

“That’s his bed.” Paul pointed to a bed across from Jacob’s. “But never mind him, we’ll be late for prayers if you don’t hurry.”

Paul pressed his face against the iron bars on the windows. The bars had been installed last term to prevent anyone from climbing in. “As a precaution,” Mr. Ojok had told them all, adding, “You boys are perfectly safe here.”

Paul looked past the mango tree and across the grass to the far building. A line of students had already begun filing into the chapel. The prefects could cane a boy for being late for prayers, or worse, dispatch him to the kitchen to peel heaps of potatoes. Caning only lasted a few moments, but peeling vegetables—or worse, planting cassava in the school’s gardens—could take a whole day. The dorm room was filling up with boys all trying to unpack as quickly as possible. Paul was getting very impatient.

“Enough.” He booted Jacob’s suitcase and bucket under the cot, then yelled, “Run!”

The three boys raced out of the dorm, bodychecking each other as they went.

They barged through the common room at the entrance of the dorm, jostling and nudging each other. Once outside, they raced across the grass, kicking an imaginary football between them. Their laughter mixed with the noise from one hundred and fifty students as they all tumbled into the chapel. Each made the sign of the cross at the end of the pew before shuffling along the row and plopping down on the hard bench. Hands covered mouths as they tried to muffle their giggles.

Paul nudged Jacob. “Over there. That’s him.”

There was no mistaking Norman. He sat by himself, shoulders slumped, eyes riveted on his feet.

“How did we get stuck with him?” Jacob grumbled to Paul. Then he looked around at all the boys, and instantly his spirits picked up. Maybe they were stuck with babysitting a twelve-year-old, but it didn’t matter. The kid would find his own friends soon enough. This was going to be the best term ever.

Father Ricardo, the school’s priest, said a prayer. Then Assistant Headmaster Otim welcomed them all back to the school and introduced Headmaster Heycoop.

The headmaster was a formidable man with a bus-sized torso and a pushed-in hippo head screwed onto a brick of a body. There were rumors that the headmaster had once been a heavyweight boxer before he’d heard the voice of God calling him to the priesthood, and after that to the seminary. He was almost deaf, so Jacob thought that God must have had to really yell.

“I have great news!” Headmaster bellowed. He compensated for not being able to hear by talking a lot, and talking loudly. “I am happy to announce that the building of our new library will commence immediately, with a completion date set for the new year. And the budget will allow us to buy a hundred new books.” Headmaster Heycoop paused, allowing the ohhhs and ahhhs to subside.

Headmaster wasn’t finished. “George Jones Seminary for Boys exists to produce scholars who will take our great country of Uganda into the future. We must therefore avail ourselves of the world’s knowledge, both past and present. Knowledge is infinite and waits patiently to be both discovered and rediscovered. And yet our lives are finite.” Headmaster Heycoop’s voice began to wobble, as though he might burst into song. Please, no, thought Jacob.

“From our country’s long past, which touches Creation itself, to our greater future”—the headmaster stretched out his arms to embrace the air—“we who are in this House of God have mere moments to determine the truth before we are called back into the welcoming arms of our Creator. Now, let us pray.”

They prayed. They sang. Headmaster Heycoop was the loudest. He was tone-deaf and threw everyone off. Paul started to giggle, then Tony, then Jacob, and finally the whole row of boys was shaking with laughter. Headmaster’s arms went up and down with the music. The laughter was a fire spreading up and down the rows. Teachers stood up and shot angry glances, but how could one punish an entire school? Some of the boys managed to swallow their giggles, but not all.

With the last prayer, led by Father Ricardo, the laughter subsided and the congregation of boys murmured “Amen.” Finally they all sang the closing hymn.

As soon as they could, the boys all leapt out of their seats. Paul and Tony were caught in a wave of students that bunched up at the door, pushing and shoving, calling out to each other, laughing, then spilling out of the chapel.

Jacob pressed himself against the wall and waited. He might as well say something to the new boy and get it over with. As Norman moved along with the crowd, Jacob elbowed his way toward him.

“Hi, I’m Jacob.”

Norman looked up, eyes wide, lips slightly parted, as if he were about to yell or make a run for it. I know he’s twelve, Jacob thought, but he looks ten … nine, even. And just as Jacob had suspected, there were tears circling in the boy’s eyes.

“You like mathematics?” Jacob was almost yelling now as the crowd of boys surged around them.

The boy nodded.

“Know your times tables?”

Again the boy nodded, and for a fleeting second there might have been the hint of a smile. No, it was more of a grimace, as though someone was stepping on his foot. Wait, someone was stepping on his foot.

“Hi.” Tony leapt up and hollered over Paul’s shoulder.

The two had managed to worm their way back through the crowd. “I’m Tony. This is Paul.”

“We hear that you are good in math.” Paul nudged Jacob. “Give him a question.”

It seemed a little mean. Jacob shrugged, but he figured he might as well put this Norman kid in his place as soon as possible.

“What is 981 times 97?” Paul and Tony snickered.

Startled, Norman looked up at Jacob. His eyes narrowed. Jacob sucked in air. He’s seeing the numbers, he thought. Speaking slowly, his lips barely moving, Norman enunciated one number at a time: “Nine, five, one, five, seven.”

“Atoo tin!” Jacob muttered under his breath. Normally he did not swear.

...

The three boys sat on Jacob’s bed, with a jar of peanut butter to share. The school’s evening meal of potio might have filled their stomachs, but it hadn’t left them any less hungry. It was the only thing about school that Jacob really didn’t like—the food.

“Look at him,” said Paul.

The three glanced over at Norman. Despite only one meager, bald, dim light bulb dangling from an overhead beam in the middle of the dormitory, Norman sat on his bed with his knees up and his head buried in a book. Jacob sighed. They should do something with him, talk to him maybe, include him. They had promised.

“We’ll take him to class with us tomorrow,” suggested Tony.

Jacob and Paul nodded vigorously. The idea eased their guilt. They would make friends with the new kid tomorrow.

Jacob carried on with his story.

“So the two bulls charged at each other, and the head boy yelled so loud he fell out of the tree!” Jacob could hardly finish his tale about school break before convulsing with laughter.

Paul had the most exciting story of all. He told them about his father, about how he had stood in front of many important people in America and given a speech. He was obviously very proud of his father, Jacob thought, although he was trying not to show it. Paul didn’t want to look like a show-off. None of them did.

“Tell us about America!” Jacob prompted him.

“Well, in New York City there is a team called the Yankees. They play a game with a hard white ball and bat, like cricket but not at all like cricket. They play at night but it looks like day.”

Jacob and Tony nodded their heads, although neither understood. Night was night. How could night be day?

“And there are moving staircases, and they eat dogs in buns. And Jacob, your father has many bulls on his farm, but I drank Red Bull in a can.” Paul howled with laughter at that.

Tony and Jacob sat confounded. Liquid animal juice? Blood? Did Americans drink bulls’ blood out of a can?

“And the telephones are attached to the wall with a wire.”

Wires on a telephone? How could it fit into a pocket?

“Are American streets filled with wires?” Jacob asked.

“No. There are telephones that are attached to the walls, and they have cellphones too.” Paul said all this with great authority, but still none of it made sense. Lots of people in Africa had cellphones, lots and lots. But why would Americans need two kinds of phones?

Jacob looked at Tony. “So, what did you do on your holiday?” he asked.

“I read the entire book of Matthew in Italian. Father Ricardo suggested that I study Italian. After all, the Vatican is in Rome.” Tony stopped, looked down at his hands, and started to mumble. “I mean, if I ever went to Rome, it would be ….” Paul and Jacob plastered perplexed looks on their faces, which made Tony stumble even more.

Jacob tried not to laugh. Everyone knew that Tony wanted to become a priest—Tony, always last to leave chapel and first to raise his hand in religious studies class. Did he really think his friends didn’t know?

The peanut butter jar was licked clean and Paul’s crackers—meant to last the whole term, or at least the week—were almost gone before the boys said their prayers and crawled into bed. Some of the boys in the dorm wore nightclothes, although most, like Tony, wore their school shirts and shorts to bed.

The prefect flicked off the overhead light and the humming generator outside the barred window was instantly silenced. The lock on the door clicked. The boys were locked in to prevent them from running off in the night to the girls’ convent school a few kilometers down the road. That’s what they were told, although not once had Jacob known anyone to do such a thing. There was a deadbolt on the inside door too but no one bothered with it.

Jacob lay in the dark, hands behind his head, and thought that he couldn’t have been happier. Once, old Bella had said that cooking made her happy because it allowed her to share her happiness. It was true, he thought. A person could be content alone, maybe even at peace, but happiness was real only if it was shared.

Someone farted. The dorm erupted in laughter.

“Put it back! Put it back!” yelled someone down the row of beds.

Then another voice in the dark, “Farts can’t be caught.”

The whole dorm roared with laughter all over again. The prefects didn’t barge in and turn on the light. Even the prefects this year were great. It took a while for everyone to settle down again.

“Paul,” Jacob whispered across the space between their two beds, “what was it like to fly in the air across the ocean?”

“I was scared, very scared. But I did not want to embarrass myself so I did what my father did.”

“What is the food like in America?” Tony leaned out of his own bed.

“Very bad. It tastes like dust and comes in packages.” Jacob was not surprised. People from America, Canada, and even England and Australia sent food over to Africa that tasted terrible. He thought that maybe they sent only the food they refused to eat, but maybe their food really was terrible. Maybe they did not know how to cook.

“But many American people are very fat,” said Jacob. He had seen many pictures and he wasn’t being mean. He admired fat. “If their food is so bad, why are they so big?”

“They eat a great deal of the bad food and there is much food available. It is hard to explain their markets that they call super …” Paul’s voice faded for a moment. “I think that even when they are full, they eat,” was all he could think to say.

“Do they all eat twice a day?” Tony’s voice rose up in amazement.

“More than that. Maybe three, four, five times a day. They call it snack,” he said quietly.

“What is snack?” asked Tony. They were taught English but none had come across such a word.

“I do not know,” said Paul.

None spoke for a moment.

“Do they all smell sweet?” Despite his amazement Tony could not stop his questions.

“Even the black people in America smell white!” laughed Paul.

Jacob, who was listening intently, flopped back on his mattress, stared at the ceiling, and tried to picture the sweet-smelling fat people, telephones attached to walls, and wires hanging out of pockets. The full moon shining through the barred window cast stripy lines on his bed. Smiling, Jacob drifted off to sleep.

It was two o’clock in the morning when the entire dorm awoke to the sound of gunshots.