THE NEARBY SOUND of automatic gunfire nearly throws me out of my skin. Eyes pop open. Instantly awake. It is dangerously close. It is safer to stay put inside my tent—in this instance only inches above the ground—than go out to investigate who is shooting whom.
Minutes later I peer outside, expecting to see the militia storm the base. It is just dawn. One of the workers outlined by the rising sun returns through the mist down the runway, rifle in hand, proudly carrying a lifeless guinea fowl by its tail feathers. I am surprised there is anything remaining but a feather or two, filled as it probably is with a clipful of bullets.
Robbie and David putter away from the camp. I don’t see them off. Their departure has increased the doubts about our value here. I suppose we can expect a call from Nairobi within the next few days, moving us to another location with a new mission, new people. It is the nature of relief work to zip in and out of people’s lives, for them to flit through mine. It would not surprise me that I will never again see Robbie, David, Amelia, or Andrew. I could see Gabriele again, but will I? The ones we work with, those with whom we have shared so much—one doesn’t get to know them intimately. It is not as if we had trained together as soldiers in preparation for combat and together were tossed out onto the front with a common purpose. It is not as if we expected to be lifelong friends.
We are now two boats, and one of them is driven with a learner’s tag on the hull. Where Amelia goes, I suppose I should follow. I had always assumed responsibility for her but had known there were others here who could help. Now there is no one else and it is forced on me.
She approaches and, by her body language, I know there is a problem.
“You are coming?” she asks hopefully.
“No, Amelia.”
“I’ll get lost, I just know I will.”
“Yusuf will show you how to get there. He’ll help. Just keep your eyes on the road and you will do fine.”
“Please come!”
“Got things to do. You need this solo flight, Amelia.”
She frowns, pouts, and turns toward her boat. My heart aches for her. She acts the little girl who has been unfairly scolded, and I cannot help but feel a little accountable.
A Twin Otter lands at the strip, and now that I have no one to race, I wonder if I should go out there at all. I do. I have nothing else to occupy me except for some old magazines, and I don’t want to attempt another effort at Dante’s Inferno.
There is something amiss on the way to the plane, something different. That sentinel figure in the chador is gone. Perhaps she got a lift with Robbie and David—in any case, it is no longer my concern. The Twin Otter pulls up, shuts off one engine and keeps one spinning in idle. The side door opens, and a uniformed crewman in white shirt and black pants walks forward with some boxes to be delivered to the Red Cross camp.
There is a commotion by the nose of the plane; the copilot shouts angrily. A purple blur of color dashes toward the open door. More frantic shouts. We all start screaming. Motherfuck! STOP! It is too late. The blades of the right engine slice through fabric and skin and bones in an explosion of human debris. Asha’s body lies in the dust. I stand in shock, unwilling to move, unable to help.
Day after day, it just goes on and on, one miserable event after another. As David said, God favors no one, not those who perish, not those who serve. The misery of the world will continue with or without our gallant efforts. Let others replace me; let others try to save the damn world.