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Matthew
Why didn’t it land? Why didn’t soldiers emerge and capture Matapa? The helicopter lights sent dappled beams through the tree canopy, revealing the terrifying scene below. Matapa held the baby and the witchdoctor danced ecstatically as he worked his magic on the flames of the campfire. Mr. Rory lay unmoving on the ground with Sarah kneeling beside him. One of the boy soldiers stood over her, guarding her with his AK47.
Matthew emerged from his hiding place. He had promised to stay hidden but what was the point of that now? The bright white light of the helicopter revealed everything and hiding was impossible. Sarah’s guard was a brutish boy, twice Matthew’s size. Matthew couldn’t fight him one on one, but if he could distract him, surely Sarah could escape.
He would have to go down into the valley. Well, down was easier than up. He gripped his crutch and prepared to slide on his backside. The sound of the helicopter covered any small noise he would make and at least he would have the element of surprise.
He was almost at the road when someone kicked him and then landed on top of him. He rolled over, determined to protect himself from the blows of his attacker but no blows came his way. Whoever had landed on him was as afraid as he was, breathing ragged, sobbing breaths. The light from the helicopter showed him a boy struggling to his feet. It was the boy who had been selected to make phone calls – the one he had seen learning to use the satellite phone. The boy stared down at him and raised his voice to be heard above the thrumming of the rotor blades.
“Don’t say anything,” the boy pleaded. “Don’t tell anyone I’m here.”
Matthew tried to recover his breath and make a plan. He had to get to Sarah and this boy was in the way. He was smaller than most of the boys, but Matthew knew he couldn’t fight him off.
“I lost the phone,” the boy said. “Matapa will kill me.”
The phone? Why would anyone care now about the phone? Couldn’t the boy see what was happening?
“Matapa’s not going to kill anyone,” Matthew said. “It’s all over.”
His mind was racing, trying to find some advantage – something that would give him a fighting chance against the boy who was guarding Sarah. His eyes locked on the handgun thrust into the waistband of his assailant’s shorts. He scrambled to his feet and retrieved his crutch. He took a deep breath. Now or never.
“If you’re planning to escape,’ he said, “you should leave your weapon behind.”
The boy’s hand went instinctively to the butt of the weapon. “I need it.”
“No,” Matthew said. “If you’re found with a weapon on you, people will know who you are. If they think you’re one of Matapa’s soldiers, they’ll kill you.”
“Kill me?” the boy repeated weakly.
“Of course.” Matthew hobbled a step closer to the boy “They’ll take your gun and kill you,” he said. “Give the gun to me.”
“How can I go without a gun?” the boy asked.
Matthew suddenly remembered Cecelia. She had not been returned to the valley. She had escaped and was waiting for him. “Climb to the top of the cliff,” Matthew said. “There’s a girl there, and you can go together. Tell her that I sent you. She’ll help you, but not if you have a gun. You mustn’t make her afraid. Give me the gun.”
He held out his hand, forcing himself to keep it steady. “Give it to me. I need it.”
The boy handed him the gun. “Do you know how to use it?” he asked.
“Of course I do,” Matthew lied.
He tucked the weapon into the waistband of his shorts, hoping that he was not about to shoot himself.
The boy turned away and disappeared into the bushes, and Matthew resumed his painful descent. When he reached the road, he stood upright. Here on the valley floor, so close to the witchdoctor’s fire, he could feel the evil spirits summoned, not by the colored flames, but by the evil of Matapa himself. He ignored them. They had no power over him. He had his faith, and now he had a gun.
The King’s Soldier
Sergeant Okolo attempted to maintain his dignity in the face of Habati’s impetuous driving as they hurtled down into the gorge. He was not accustomed to such speed but he understood the need. In fact, it was possible that he understood even more than young Aguma and his companion.
The helicopter that had appeared out of the night sky, and now hovered above the tree tops shining a searchlight into the gorge, was not so much a help as a hindrance. It presented a real danger for the impulsive young man, but Aguma seemed to be ignoring the danger for the moment.
The helicopter meant one of two things – Ugandan Army, or Americans. Whichever was the case, it would not be a good idea for Aguma to be involved. Okolo knew enough about politics to know that Aguma’s father was a real threat to the government in power. As for the Americans – well who could say what would happen if they felt threatened or embarrassed and had to save face?
The driver flung the vehicle into the final hairpin bend and then screeched to a halt to avoid a boy with a crutch who was unaccountably standing in the middle of the trail. The boy did not even turn his head. His entire attention was on the scene before him as he took wavering, unsteady aim at a boy soldier who was guarding the mazungu girl.
Okolo was still trying to take in the situation when Aguma sprang from the passenger seat and grabbed the boy by the waist. The startled boy dropped his crutch as Aguma bundled him into the back seat next to Okolo. It was all over in a moment.
“I‘m going to shoot him,” the boy said, making a grab for the door handle.
Okolo, not certain who the boy was, or what was happening, pulled him away from the door, and held onto him.
“I’m going to shoot all of them,” the boy declared.
“I understand,” said Okolo, although in fact he didn’t understand at all, “but we should leave it to the experts. You have done your best.”
“They shot Mr. Rory,” the boy said, “and they’re going to kill Sarah.”.
Okolo drew in a sharp breath. He knew who Mr. Rory was. Mr. Rory was an American, but who had shot him? Aguma slammed the rear door to keep Okolo and the boy inside, and reached into the front of the vehicle for his weapon.
“Stay there,” he said to the boy, or maybe to Okolo.
The driver left the engine running and the headlights blazing and followed Aguma into the clearing where Okolo saw them dodging a hail of bullets.
Okolo grabbed the protesting crippled boy and pulled him down so that they crouched behind the front seats. It was small protection but better than nothing.
Okolo knew that he should remain hidden and out of harm’s way – old men did not belong in modern warfare, but he was desperate to see what was happening. He had a strong suspicion that if anything happened to young Aguma the repercussions would be felt nationwide.
He peered cautiously through the gap between the seats and watched Aguma and Habati in action. He realized at once that these two men had been expertly trained. They kept low to the ground and rolled into the shadows away from the ragged gunfire
Okolo half-expected to see gunfire from the helicopter but no help, or threat, came from that source. Whoever was in the helicopter was observing but not participating.
Cowards, Okolo thought. Whatever side they were on, how could they watch the scene below them and do nothing? How could he himself watch and do nothing? He was old now, but he had been given a medal by the king. He would always be a soldier.
“Stay here,” he said to the boy beside him.
“I’m coming with you,” the boy said.
“No, you are not. Someone has to remain alive to tell what has happened. You stay, and you watch, and you will tell the story.”
“I have a gun,” the boy said.
“Will you use it if you have to?”
“Yes, I will.”
“Stay here.”
With extreme caution, Okolo opened the door of the vehicle and edged his way around until he had a clear view of what was happening. The gunfire was coming from a group of men who had gathered beside an open lorry. They were firing into the bushes where Aguma and the driver had taken shelter.
Okolo looked up at the helicopter whose bright lights were revealing too much. What was really needed was a distraction. Perhaps he was not just a useless old man resting on the citation he had received 70 years before. Perhaps he still had something to offer. He felt around on the ground and gathered a handful of small rocks, and then he moved away from the shelter of the vehicle. He didn’t need to put the crippled boy in danger.
He approached the lorry. He had no need of stealth. The helicopter was making enough noise to drown out any sound he might make, and the witchdoctor had added his own sounds to the chaos, pounding on the drum and chanting.
Okolo saw the American girl clasping the small child and stumbling away from her guard – a boy too young to be holding the massive weapon that he appeared hesitant to use. The white girl’s mouth was moving. She was arguing with the boy. They did not see Okolo.
He turned his attention from the girl and back to Matapa’s men who were firing into the bushes. Surely Aguma and Habati could not survive for long under the onslaught. He would have to help them.
His arm was not as strong as it once was, but it was strong enough. He began to throw the rocks, one after another. The first three missed their targets and then he found the range. His aim was as accurate as it had been in his youth when he had guarded his father’s cattle and was able to bring down a hyena with a well-placed stone. He threw one rock after another, striking the men hard, concentrating on their heads and shoulders.
It was as he had hoped, they turned toward him. He had given Aguma the chance he needed and he saw the men fall as Aguma and Habati burst from the shadows with guns blazing. Without even checking on the fallen men, Aguma headed toward the place where the witchdoctor’s fire was still sending blue and green flames into the night sky to mingle with the bright white light from the helicopter. Aguma fired as he ran, and the witchdoctor’s chant changed abruptly to a gurgling scream and then silence.
The white girl, still holding the baby, ran toward Aguma. The boy soldier who had been guarding her raised his weapon and Okolo let loose another stone. The boy turned in Okolo’s direction, eyes wide with panic. Okolo saw his own death in the boy’s face as the boy took aim at him. He thought of the promises of the Koran, he was Haji. He had a place in Paradise. A gunshot exploded beside him and the boy guard fell, clutching his arm. Okolo turned around in time to see the boy with the crutch, the one who had been told to stay in the vehicle, toppling backwards from the recoil but still clutching the handgun.
“You were supposed to stay in the car,” Okolo said as he pulled the boy to his feet.
Together they watched the white girl hurling herself at Aguma and throwing her arms around him. Okolo had no idea what she said, or whether or not Aguma returned her fierce embrace because at that moment the light from the helicopter was extinguished. Now the clearing was lit only by the firelight and the headlights of the Mercedes.
Okolo saw, or thought he saw, a tall figure slipping away into the shadows. Someone fled the clearing and disappeared into the shadows of the forest. Okolo felt the weight of the last stone in his hand but knew the distance was too great. The quarry had escaped.