Chapter Ten

African art is functional, it serves a purpose. It’s not a dormant. It’s not a means to collect the largest cheering section. It should be healing, a source a joy. Spreading positive vibrations.

—Mos Def

By the end of the first week, Caitlin ran out of art supplies, so she approached a mission administrator. “I need more materials to do a good job.”

He sighed. “Don’t we all. Do the best you can with what you have. Make me a wish list. I’ll try to get you more, but I can’t promise. Be patient, Caitlin. This is West Africa.”

“How can I accomplish what you want me to do with these boys without supplies? How can I teach them art with one chalkboard and a couple of buckets of house paint?”

“These boys will be grateful for whatever you can do for them. I’ll scrounge paper and chalk, okay? Will that help?”

“Yes, thank you. Maybe I can write some of my friends in the States, too.”

“Ask them for money,” he said.

Caitlin made do with her supplies. In art class, she instructed the boys to draw pictures of their life, to recreate their memories. The youngsters did so, with seriousness, and the drawings and paintings haunted Caitlin. There were burning villages, stick men holding guns and machetes, and people who shed raindrop-size tears as blood gushed from their amputated limbs. Buried in these story-paintings were other more cryptic images of death and loss. In the artwork, Caitlin saw their fears and dreams, all drawn from a bottomless well of suffering and sadness. Caitlin saw demons on the canvas too—cruel jinn who sought escape from the tightly capped bottles of young boys’ hearts.

Yet, the boys’ creativity and emotional honesty touched Caitlin, and she regularly shared their drawings with the mission’s counselors and psychologists in a weekly exhibition. She even managed to organize a showing of their art at the UN headquarters in Freetown. The UN’s staff members were so touched by what they saw that they offered to purchase the entire collection. Caitlin consulted the boys, and they agreed. Once Caitlin received the money, she divided it equally among the young artists. The few dollars each grateful boy received felt like a fortune in his hands.

Caitlin worked late most nights, drawing studies of what she had already seen in Africa, as well as filing some of the boys’ drawings. Already a theme was forming in her mind, and she determined to devote a show to Sierra Leone at the Lost Bizarre once she returned to Louisiana.

Caitlin and the other workers labored to get the children to openly discuss the stories in their art and their experiences, and even to act them out. The stories that did surface in the drama and roll-playing sessions horrified Caitlin. Little boys, who should be playing with balls and toys, had been trained by greedy adults to become killers and rapists and arsonists.

Once past the initial impact and recoil phases of their trauma counseling, the boys were expected to practice sorry-saying, that is, to offer apologies to any they had hurt. Boys who required special attention were assigned social workers as mentors.

While many boys made rapid progress, several did not. One fifteen-year-old had been in the RUF army for six years. He lacked concentration and suffered from depression. A counselor diagnosed him as psychotic. He talked constantly, but like many of the others, his speech and thinking were chaotic and incoherent. On a visitation day, his mother and father came to the mission. They left without him.

After the parents left, Caitlin stared in disbelief. “How can they abandon their own son, Mandy? They didn’t even look back.”

“They’re probably afraid of him. Or if the boy hurt or killed anyone in his own village, then they’re afraid of what the other villagers will do to him and to them if he comes back. Maybe they feel they cannot afford to take him in, or they’re using their poverty as a ruse to try to get money. Perhaps they hate him for choosing to go with the RUF. And after working here, I can understand why they are reluctant to take him back.”

“What will happen to him now? He’s helpless. There’s no way he can survive on his own.”

“I suppose the mission will try to place him in an orphanage, if we can find one equipped to care for emotionally disturbed children.”

“I tried to help him, Mandy. I did.”

“I know, but face it, Caitlin, some of these boys have been so brainwashed that they will never be normal in their thinking again. They will never be anything but soldiers.”

“I would like to think we can make more of a difference than that,” Caitlin said. “Why are we even here if we can’t help them?”

“Because trying to help and failing is better than abandoning them. Oh, by the way, I heard your uncle is here in Freetown. His name is Father Ambrose, right?”

Caitlin squealed. “That’s wonderful. I haven’t seen him in so long. Where is he?”

Mandy pursed her lips and answered cautiously. “He’s in the infirmary at the American embassy.”

“What’s wrong?”

“The RUF invaded his village, and they hurt him. He lost a hand. But the doctor told me he would be fine. They’ve put him on an IV and are giving him some antibiotics, just to make sure there’s no infection.” She hugged Caitlin. “Really, Caitlin. He’ll be fine. He arrived alive, and that gives his story a happy ending.”

****

The next morning, Mandy had breakfast with Caitlin. A school secretary came to them and said, “Caitlin, guess what! Your uncle has been released from the infirmary and he’ll be staying here with us at the mission. He wants you to meet him tonight at Paddy’s.”

“I can’t wait to see him again. He’s all the family I have left.”

Mandy patted Caitlin’s arm. “Family is important, Caitlin. Here so much of the family fabric has been destroyed, and I’ve resolved to never take for granted or neglect any member of my family. Hey, why don’t you help me teach class today.”

“If you want me to I will. What do you want me to do?”

“After I teach them some English, you have them draw something based on my lesson.”

In Mandy’s class, Caitlin noticed a new boy who had been badly beaten. During his convalescence, he lay on a mat at the back of the barracks, and he seemed to study her and the other students as they drew and talked about the drawings. Caitlin took him a pencil and piece of paper so he could draw or write something if he wanted, but he set the pencil and paper down by his mat.

“Tejan no write.” He turned away so that he faced the wall.

When Caitlin gave the class a short break for tea, she brought Tejan a small glass of the green tea called ataya and some starfruit called carambola. He tilted his head and looked at her in a funny way, then shook his head.

“Please have some tea and fruit,” she said.

He shook his head again.

Mandy joined her. “This one came with Father Ambrose’s crew. I understand that some of his workers weren’t too happy that he brought him along.”

“Why won’t he drink the tea?” Caitlin asked.

“He probably thinks it’s drugged,” Mandy said. “The RUF is telling their soldiers terrible things about us.”

Caitlin touched a razor scar on his arm. “What are those?”

“When the RUF leaders ran out of syringes, they cut the boys’ skin, put the cocaine inside the wound, and plaster it. A crude, but effective method of injection. This boy will almost certainly have a drug abuse problem.”

Caitlin took a drink from the glass. “Mmmm. Good. Now you. I know you are thirsty.”

The boy took the glass and drained it, smacking his lips and licking the lip of the glass.

“See? It is good. You are a very thirsty boy. Do you speak English?” Caitlin asked.

“Englais? No, Tejan speak small-small English. Tejan speak Francaiz.”

“Parlez vouz, Francaiz?” she asked.

“Oui.” The smile again.

“What is your name? Comment t’appel tu?”

“Tejan.”

“Tejan. It is a good name, a name of one of the heroes of Salone.” She put her hand on her chest. “I am Miss Caitlin.”

“Miz Kaytlon.”

“Very good, Caitlin,” Mandy said. “This one’s been really quiet. Father Ambrose rescued him. He knows him and wants us to get his story for the doctors.”

“I don’t want to know his story, Mandy. Let my uncle get it.”

“You’re being selfish. You’ve taken a liking to him, Caitlin. I can tell. Get him to talk. They say that he was a soldier for four years in a group that operated out of Guinea. He’s not cooperating with the doctors, and they’re starting to get pissed off. The other boys are suspicious of him. Africans are gregarious by nature, and a loner is either considered a witch or an outcast. See what you can do with him in the next few days.”