Night Visitors by John Oryem

When the boy woke up, he found himself in the midst of strange people speaking a strange language. He was on a narrow donkey cart. Animals mixed with humans, all moving northwards. The boy still felt drowsy. Opening his eyes clearly, he felt a sharp pain across his wrists. Down at his feet, flies were fighting at the edge of deep wounds. Beyond Abyei, women, children and newborn lambs joined the huge caravan.
“Hey, hey, ha, ha, ha-hee. Ha-hee,” shouts echoed through the valleys.
“Am thirsty,” the boy announced in his Nilotic tongue.
It was the only language he spoke. The man understood his need and ordered his wife in pidgin Arabic:
“Kaltum give Garang water!”
The man descended from his horseback. He too, was in need of water. He grabbed a child’s jerry-can from the donkey’s back, faced the sky and emptied it all down his throat. Knowing the boy had fully recovered, he turned to him and began to speak in some broken Jieng tongue he had learnt during the long years of his raids in Nilotic land.
“What is your name Garang?” He asked the boy. Unable still to speak, the boy shook his head in a strange way – it was neither a confirmation nor a denial.
“I hope you are not like Dr. John Garang….eh? He is a bad man.” The man asked sarcastically. The other nomadic Arabs nearby laughed. They knew how the revolutionary leader had for two decades hindered their incursions into Nilotic land and Cush territories.
The ninth day from the day of fire and ashes in Malual Ajith, the nomads were still roaming between Abyei, Todoc, and Nyama. Heavy rainfall caught up with them after crossing westward towards Debab. Most of them were notified around Sitep that their ammunition supply from the Coordination Office of Popular Defense Force, attached to the 6th Infantry Division had arrived in Muglad.
All along the route northward, the boy was looked after by the same woman and man whose donkey he was riding when he opened his eyes for the first time after dropping from the tamarind tree in his village. The man rejoined the rest of his family before they reached Nyimora River way back at the periphery of Abyei.
As the family entered their Bani Bodur homestead, the man sternly warned him,
“Garang, you are Musa! Do you understand?”
The man had confided to his wife days before giving the name Musa to him:
“My late uncle killed in the land of Kufar (black) was truly an Arab desert warrior. I have to honour his memory by giving his name to my young abid (slave) this year.”
Neither the man nor his wife ever bothered knowing the boy’s previous names before his capture. Up to then the boy had nodded when he was called Garang.
“If anyone asks you, say you are Musa Ahmed Abdallah,” his master said. “Do you hear?”
“Ehyeh, Yes,” he replied.
“Musa, Kaltum is your mother, understand?”
“Ehyeh.”
When his legs grew stronger, Musa began herding Ahmed Abdallah’s cattle. Ahmed Abdallah was known to be a man who never kept his word. Every time he was back from the south, he would swear by the name of the Almighty: “By Allah’s name, this is my last year. I will be retiring!”
“You have brothers and sisters in Muglad. Good food, milk and ….you know.” Ahmed assured Musa as they took the cattle to graze. “I am your real father! Kaltum is your real mother. You are Musa Ahmed Abdallah. Bani Bodur Arab,” Ahmed repeatedly told Musa.
Musa never saw Achol, Anyang or any other boys carried from his homestead accompanying the nomadic Arabs. He could not ask where they had disappeared to. The forest was too big and the caravan had spread out. He had last seen them when their team reached the mouth of Nyimora River near Shigei. Musa could recognise some of the bulls and cows in the caravan – he knew the best cattle of Malual Ajith by their Nilotic names. One afternoon as the nomads entered Tebeldia valley, Mayom, one of Chief Wol Athian’s bulls almost spoke to Musa in Jieng, Musa’s tongue. The bull stooped at him and Musa touched its forehead lovingly while whispering to its erect ears. Mayom’s new owner gave Musa a look that almost brought down the clouds in pieces.
Within six months, Musa was able to trace back nine generations of his Bani Bodur Arab clan.
“Our forefathers roamed for hundreds of years between Kordofan, Nilotic land and Darfur.” Ahmed told Musa often, mentioning all the grazing pastures they would roam through. “When the rainfall is heavy here, we travel further north.”
Almost seven months from the day Malual Ajith was destroyed, the caravan reached the Bani Bodur homestead. There was great joy and thanksgiving among the elders. They praised the Almighty for his generosity rewarding Bani Bodur with many young abid and animals from the land of milk and honey. Bani Bodur’s Sheikh offered a large feast to bless the season saying: “We are great warriors; we once had a powerful kingdom in the heart of this country. But the dogs, the Turks and the British, neutralised our manhood.”
That year, the Bani Bodur camped in the vicinity of Muglad, occupying the valley along the railway lines towards Meiram. Rains fell, the lowlands were green, and cattle multiplied. The family of Ahmed Abdallah settled for the season, with Musa and his new sisters herding sheep and goats together. Ahmed Abdallah and Kaltum had tried unsuccessfully to have a baby boy for years. Allah gave them one girl after another, totaling half a dozen. Like all other Mujahidin, he went several times to the south to get for himself a boy: “The one that might inherit my wealth,” he constantly remarked. The year Ahmed brought Musa, he had travelled in February to the foot of Jebel Marra to consult a local Faki who gave him amulets and herbs.
The Faki said to him: “This year, Allah will give you a son, don’t care from where, just believe in his generosity. Say amen!”
“Ameeeen!” Ahmed confirmed.
Musa’s shelter was by the front gate in the settlement. “Men must protect two things in life, wealth and women.” Ahmed told him.
Nafisa, Ahmed’s eldest daughter was fond of her new brother, though Musa’s skin was as dark as their mother’s tea kettle. She would talk to him openly, defying the practice of not looking at males directly. The rest of the girls exhausted Musa – sending him around to do their chores. He fetched water, firewood and cleaned the whole compound.
That very year, three weeks after they broke the fast at feast of fitr, Musa was circumcised on the withered grass by one of the elders in the village. A goat and lots of coffee were consumed by Bani Bodur men and women who came for the occasion. “Musa, abid of Ahmed is circumcised!” News flared around. Red tape stayed on his forehead until the wound healed. Ahmed Abdallah’s brother brought him a white cloak from Sitep Market.
“You circumcised your slave?” Some women asked Ahmed. “These people don’t circumcise.”
“But we have to make them human beings,” Ahmed told his tribesmen.
In the afternoons Nafisa would hurriedly gather some scraps of food and sneak it to the valley where Musa was herding cattle. “Eat Musa, eat,” she would insist.
Kaltum, their mother, was not in favour of the girls getting close to Musa. By five in the evening, the animals would push their way back into the kraals where the women were waiting with calabashes to milk them. The calves had crowns of thorns which would prick their mothers’ udders if they tried to suckle before the cows were milked. Dark came and smoke from cow dung chips clouded the homestead. If the moon was bright, Musa would steal to the Nugara dance where young men courted their future spouses.
One windy day, two Arab boys sat under the shade of a miserable heglig tree arguing if the pregnant female slave negotiating for fish a few yards away was carrying twins.
“They are two,” the first one announced.
“No, only one,” the second one said.
“Two.”
“One.”
“Two.”
“One.”
Another boy appeared with a knife and a stick in his hand.
“What is it Hassan?” the boy asked.
“Amin said the abdi has twins in her womb.” replied Hassan.
“You are all wrong,” said the teenager, his long warrior’s knife by his side.
Hassan was enraged by the boy’s disapproval since he was younger than him. He rushed and grabbed the knife from the boy’s hand, removing its case, and ran towards the Nilotic woman. Without knowing what was going on among the boys, she turned to lift herself from the ground, only to be forced down by pain inflicted on her pointed stomach. Clouds covered her eyes, she only cried once: “Maa yeeeee, Nhialic yeee, mith die-eee”, her voice fading in the surging crowd that thronged the market. Helplessly, she fell on bare ground like a piece of wood. From her dissected stomach poured a set of twins, each fighting to grasp the hot air to survive. The two boys who were arguing about her pointed stomach remained at the scene undisturbed. They knew it would not cost them anything. A few sympathisers carried her lifeless body and two small objects covered in a cotton sheet. Later that evening, the fish trader, in company of other youth fleeing from war among the Baggara nomads in Meiram areas, helped to bury the woman and her twins a few meters away from the railway line. No Sheikh would endanger his life or risk being ostracised by granting burial ground for mere Kufar. Musa went straight home and never talked about the incident with anyone. The following morning, he overheard Juma Khidir narrating the event to Ahmed Abdallah. Juma was on a donkey, heading to the central market. The death of a Nilotic was nothing unusual in Bani Bodur country.
Musa and the other captured children were always warned to avoid contact with travelers on foot or in lorries coming to and from Nilotic land.
“Avoid the Jiange. Abid eat strangled animals, they are rebels, infidels!”
Often the travelers on lorries would pity these Nilotic children herding for Arabs along the dusty, muddy Abyei-Muglad-Meiram roads. The lorries would rarely stop. The violence and threats of the nomadic Arabs were legendary.
“We were fierce people. The British were the ones who reduced us into being cowards,” the elders delusively boasted under shadowy trees, reminding the new generations of their ancestors’ foregone strengths.
“We are warriors.”
“We can threaten any government in Khartoum.”
“Khartoum should know that we are the shields against the Kufar. We are the wall that blocks them from reaching Omdurman.”
The politically savvy ones try to convince the rest of their own rights:
“We have to demand for our own State in the Federation! Yes, Rijl El Fula was the Headquarters of our province including our far off neighbours.”
By the time the civil war engulfed their territories, some began to be revolutionary in their discussions under trees. “We shall join the Kufar and defeat discriminative Khartoum’s boys. After all the Kufar have been our neighbours for generations!”
One late April weekend, Musa and his friends were lurking with their sticks and knives at the edge of the market while their animals drank at a nearby reservoir. The reservoir was one of the many pits left behind by one of the Chinese oil concession companies along Muglad-Abyei Block Q Areas. A ZY Nissan lorry had disembarked in the middle of the market. Its occupants were tired and hungry, dreading imminent banditry attacks. Almost all the passengers rushed to buy food , toothbrushes and body cream. Sitep was busy with market day activities with many Arab women carrying butter, chicken, ghee, watermelons and wild fruits to sell. They expected to go back to their settlements with coffee beans, oil, romantic perfumes and sugar for the rest of the week.
Three of the Nilotic traveling youth, with Jieng tribal markings remained near the lorry, stretching their legs and arms. They started mocking Musa in their language: “Mith muony jieng, mith muony jieng.” Musa’s dark skin set him apart from the other boys in his company. Realising that the travelling youth were about to engage them in conversation, Musa and his friends moved away.
“Hey come here!” said one of the boys.
Musa’s mind flashed back to his father’s warning: “Keep away from strangers especially the kufar and abid traveling around!”
The boy took courage and followed Musa. Musa wanted to avoid the rage of the troublesome Baggara flooding the market with their weapons. The boy caught up with Musa and began to address him in Jieng.
“Muony (boy), what is your name?”
All the other four nomads with Musa laughed.
“Muony, e yin nga?” asked the boy.
“Who is muony?” Musa answered back furiously.
“Who are you?” the boy asked in pidgin Arabic.
“My name is not muony,” said Musa.
“But you are Jieng, Nilotic!”
“No, I’m not……Who?” Murmured Musa.
“Are you Deng, Garang…who?” the boy insisted.
Musa was silent, looking in the opposite direction. The other boys smiled at the prolonged dialogue.
“Where are you from?”
“Muglad,” Musa answered.
“No, I mean……from the south.”
“South where?”
“Were you born in Muglad?”
“Yes, no, but am from Muglad. My father is Ahmed Abdallah. We are Bani Bodur.”
The other Baggara boys laughed and said sternly to Kon Akech:
“He is not muony…not Jieng.”
The truck driver, pushing his head through the broken glass window of his ZY Nissan, rebuked the traveling boys, “You! We want to cross Nyimora Bridge before sunset. You don’t know the stubbornness of the army in Abyei?”
Back on the lorry that had already started moving, the boy was badly reproached by one of the Nilotic youth travelling with him. Another one shouted as well:
“Why are you always after these lost Jieng children always?”
“But I have to know them,” he said.
“Don’t you know these Baggara are dangerous? Do you want us to get killed?”
“These children are in servitude, they were abducted from Nilotic land!”
It was an ordinary sunny morning, as though God wanted to hide a disaster from humans, and there was no clue of what was to come later in the day. At about 4pm, dots of cloud started to form around the eastern skyline that was the rain route in Muglad. Musa and other herders curbed the straying cattle towards their homesteads. Half an hour later, clouds rumbled nearer, quarrelling with the humans and animals below. Musa guided all the sheep, cattle, and goats inside the kraal. He abandoned the donkeys at their usual place behind the shelter, and placed a heavy log across the kraal gate. Musa rushed to gather his bedspread from his weeping house, then made sure everything of value was secured. Kaltum would not allow any of her daughters to help Musa though rain drops were already wetting his back. Rain and hailstones poured uncontrollably. Thunderbolts threatened as if it was the day of vengeance. Ahmed Abdallah and other neighbouring men had gone to Nyama market at about midday. The heavy downpour found him far from the homestead. At about eleven at night the family dog, Zuruf, barked wildly. The barking however lasted for a short time. When Zuruf calmed down, Musa went outside. He tumbled in the puddles in front of his house. Water was all over the place. The moon was bright, illuminating Kaltum and her daughters fighting water from their rooms. They struggled with trays and baskets to control the pools finding outlets under their beds. Ahmed Abdallah soon appeared – his shoes, cloak, turban and walking stick folded in his hands.
“That’s you father?” asked Musa.
“You are……are OK?”
“There, cross from there!” Pools still separating them.
“House? Fence, cattle?” Are they all…?”
Trees fell down, half of the fence carried off by wind, scattered. Donkeys began chewing the softened grass. Hearing her husband’s voice, Kaltum emerged from her hut. Though shivering with cold, she came out in a light sleeping garment. She smelled sweet in taleh smoke and was prepared to try and have Ahmed’s baby boy. Ahmed could be stronger in the cold that night.
“Bring me chair.” Ahmed said to Kaltum after damping his clothes down. She grabbed them like a camel picking green leaves.
“The rain appeared simple in the skies,” Ahmed commented to his wife.
“I hope it found you outside Nyama? The river is wild.” Kaltum said. The night lovebirds of Bani Bodur relaxed in the cold.
“Kaltum, the Land-Rover of Zurgan Suleiman overturned at the valley there. God saved us only.” exclaimed Ahmed.
“This rain, bad rain.” Kaltum remarked surprisingly.
“Very bad.”
“No one got injured?”
“No”
“The rains poured here badly too.” said Kaltum.
“Yes, the Ulama said it will rain heavily this year.”
Kaltum went inside and came out with sandals for her eager husband. Musa had left and coiled himself like a millipede in his wooden bed, nylon strings pressing his ribs. Kaltum and Ahmed remained outside in the cold, trying to find more between themselves in the devastating rains that left damage all over the Bani Bodur terrain. The night looked like it was not advancing, the moon maintained a deceptive mood. Kaltum returned to inspect the water heating inside her room so that her husband could have a warm bath, but found him missing . She looked around and saw him prowling behind the damaged fence. About ten minutes later, Ahmed was back shouting:
“Musa, you donkey, where are my bulls? Where? Where?” He rushed towards Musa’s hut, kicking his door mercilessly-hurling sticks ahead.
“Come out you slave.” Ahmed ordered. Sleep had stolen Musa.
“I am coming Abuyi-father! I am coming.”
Musa’s voice was beginning to mix with some crying.
“Heyi humar, where are my cattle?”
Musa shrieked and answered in a low voice; “I closed them inside father.”
“Musa, where are my three bulls I brought from the south this year?”
“Before the heavy rains, I have-had…” he murmured.
“Was it before the wind?” Ahmed asked Musa again.
“Yes”
“You must find my bulls this very night!”
Before Ahmed could finish interrogating Musa, Kaltum came calling; “What? What Ahmed?”
“He lost my bulls, woman!”
“Who?”
“This Musa abid here!” Ahmed answered his wife’s question.
Musa , confused by the scorn from Ahmed, rushed like a dumb man to his room. His mind lost between the valley and thunderstorm mixed with hailstones.
“From where shall I begin? Nhialic, Nhialic help me.” he invoked his God for intervention.
Ahmed took his AK-47 and put on his black overcoat, combing up the shrubs around the settlement. He went as far as the valley where Musa had stayed with the animals before the downpour. The footprints had washed away. Musa trod the forests alone like a sorcerer. At ten in the morning, Musa met Hassan Adam Nur, the head of the tribe, with nine teenagers looking for Ahmed’s lost bulls. They met near Mugadama valley; a spot where most runaway cattle, donkeys and dogs were found loitering in the thick valley offering lots of dried fruit. Musa, tired and wasted, looked and waved at the youth accompanying the Umda. The youth, after seeing him, taunted: “Abid will be slaughtered, abid will lick Baggara knife.”
“You stupid rascals.” shouted Umda Hassan Adam Nur.
“Any findings Musa?” asked the Umda.
“No Hajj Hassan.”
Some of the boys started scolding and abusing him.
“Be careful boys, let’s go.” ordered Umda Hassan Adam Nur. The search took the villagers far, tiring them. Reading from the events, the team reached a unanimous conclusion that the bulls were heading beyond Bani Bodur country.
“These are Kabbabish who stole our cattle.” A young man in the expedition accused the far desert neighboring nomads.
By the next market day, Ahmed Abdallah had sent messages to all the surrounding villages. He even put a handsome prize reward for any information leading to the recovery of the bulls valued at 1.5 million Dinars. Many self appointed agents offered their services.
“I will find them Insha Allah,” each promised;
“I will reward you in full.” Ahmed told each broker.
Kaltum was the most affected person by the lost of her husband’s bulls. Whenever she saw Musa in her compound, she would rush to say, “Now be happy! That was what you were looking for.”
If other women came to sympathise, she would hurriedly say, “Did I not tell you before? This abid! I know him well! He will do worse things soon, just wait.”
Ahmed Abdallah sold another one-eyed bull from his kraal to visit famous Feki Haroun in Umm Batikh. “You will be successful!” assured Kaltum. Feki Haroun placed a copy of the Koran in front of him, some pounded herbs and censer, his long religious beads swinging in his right hand throughout the process.
“Son of Bani Bodur, you are here for a worthy cause.” said the diviner. There was a long silence, only broken by a braying donkey at the back of the house.
“Yes son, what is it?” asked Feki Haroun.
“My troubles have increased sir. My, my……”
“I know that. I know that son! Solution is here for you. You have sought refuge in a right place. Allah will not let you down.”
“Insha Allah, Insha Allah.” confirmed Ahmed.
“What happened son, Bani Bodur warrior?”
“In the last rains, I lost three, three bulls of mine sir.”
“The heavy rains of last Wednesday.”
“Yes sir. Exactly Feki.”
Feki Haroun wasted no time with his far-travelled client. He introduced the event with verses from the Holy Koran. He recited verses that referred to enemies, adversaries and of humanity created by the Almighty.
In front of Feki Haroun, thick incense kept burning, encircling the whole room, sending heavy smoke upward, and penetrating their nostrils. “Come closer Ahmed.” Feki insisted, incensing Ahmed’s body and asking him several questions not related to his lost cattle. Ahmed waited for his verdict with patience. When Feki Haroun turned to him, and said : “Son of Bani Bodur, I have no solution to your case. Your cattle came from the south……taken from…. But…but….”Ahmed shook his head in dismay. He was silent, his eyes cast in the direction of Feki Haroun, hoping for impossibilities from the man who had raised broken hearts.
“The spirits of the owners are in the bulls. That is why the bulls refused to stay with you. If they stay, someone dear to you may die in your homestead. You see these people?”
“But I came here! What can I do?” Ahmed asked Feki.
“Yes I know that. Well, you can use these, that, and that one there.” Feki Haroum was pointing to small pieces of nylon bags placed next to a praying mat. Inside the bags were powdered roots.
“Use them for three days consecutively. Morning and evening. Pour that black one first in a basin before you bath. Burn the white one after bathing; incense your whole body with that one.”
Exactly nine days after the mysterious disappearance of Ahmed’s high-priced bulls, dark clouds started to form again as if the sky would repeat its devastating assault on Bani Bodur’s valleys. At eight in the evening, Zuruf barked fiercely behind the family compound. Everyone was awake. Zuruf continued barking as Ahmed, who had been quiet most of the day, jumped up and exclaimed; “O yes, they should be the ones coming.”
“Who?” Kaltum asked.
“I have guests coming tonight! My Neseem bring your Baba torch.” He touched her hair softly. Neseem ran and pushed her hands under her dad’s pillow. She walked out with a torch dangling in her hands.
“Baba, baba….”
Zuruf became fiercer with the approaching strangers. Ahmed stepped out of the gate and flashed his torch in the direction the strangers were approaching from. The torch’s light blindfolded the leading camel, whose owner shouted from a distance. The other men riding behind also struggled to restrain their camels; “heyi, heyi, heyi.” Within minutes, all the four camels squatted without grievances. A donkey was attached to the first camel.
“Welcome, welcome brothers.” Ahmed Abdallah told his disembarking guests.
“Your dog is fierce Ahmed!” remarked Hamza Ateyeib, the man leading the guests. He acted formally with Ahmed.
“Yes the dog is good………..Zuruf. I brought him from Darfur two years ago!”
“Zuruf?” Hamza asked. The rest laughed passionately at the name of Ahmed’s dog.
Ahmed followed his wife into the kitchen to arrange for something for the guests. Musa and his sisters retired in their respective rooms. As the guests might have come with some information about the missing bulls, Musa kept an alert ear on their conversations with Ahmed. His room was only metres away from where the men sat, discussing the affairs of Bani Bodur.
When Ahmed returned where the men were seated, he cleared his throat and went straight to the crux of the matter. They moved their chairs and formed a small circle to keep the discussion private.
“Night covers mountains,” said Hamza.
“Yes!” All responded.
In his room near the family kraal, Musa had already eaten his daily meal of asida and ghee. He was tired that night but he didn’t want to be accused of carelessness during the fateful rains. All he wished to hear from the visitors was good news about the bulls that went missing for nine days. Musa thought they had brought serious information. But they could also have travelled to bring blood-money. Ahmed was a respected elder in his own right and revenge deaths were common when Baggara came back from the south and harvests were good.
“Brothers you are highly welcomed!” introduced Ahmed.
All the four men roared: “Thanks!”
“As we talked two days ago in Sitep, now we can…….” continued Ahmed.
“I think we shall not differ.” said one of the guests.
“Ahmed, our offer…..I hope it will not disappoint.”
“You know the deal people. I need not to….” said Ahmed, folding his hands. One of the men even stressed, “let us hear exact offer from the one that owned the right……..”
Musa stood on his feet to adjust his ears but he could not hear. Discussions went on for some hours among the guests and Ahmed. Finally, Hamza took out a small money-bag.
“You can count!” Hamza persuaded Ahmed. Ahmed hesitated but only answered;
“No, is it the agreed price?”
“Exactly!”
“No it is fine.”
“Just to count.”
“No.”
Ahmed went to Kaltum with the precious bag, already wrapped in a thick Nigerian-made plastic bag. ‘Abakar Ara’a,’ the harsh plastic noise grabbed Kaltum’s attention. Ahmed couldn’t hide his happiness from his wife.
“I got my compensation. My bulls!” he shattered the dead night, punching his right hand in the air; “Allah Akbar, Allah Akbar.. Much to the surprise of his wife, she woke up and curiously inquired;
“The bulls are found Ahmed?”
“I will tell you more in bed……..later.”
Shortly after, Ahmed arrived with a huge, smoked-painted kettle of tea for his guests.
Ahmed rushed to wake Musa up with a colourful smile on his face.
“Musa, Musa, come out. Musa please!” He repeatedly shouted.
The visitors kept on whispering to themselves; “Is he the one? Is he the one really?”
Musa, always ready for duty, began to sense something unusual.
“Musa, Musa…..Musa.” Ahmed went on. He never called him with derogative names in front of the visitors.
“Musa, Musa.”
“Yes Aba.”
When Musa arrived where the guests were, he greeted the men cordially and sat down. His eyes still cloudy.
“Musa, these are my brothers, Bani Bodur and Bani Suleiman are one people. You will be going with Hamza to Meiram! Take your things quickly.”
Musa never asked his father when he was going to be back in the family, nor did he ask the nature of his abrupt journey.
“Musa you will be going with Hamza.” repeated Ahmed.
Hamza stood on his feet, adjusting his white turban, “It is going to be fine Musa, I am your father, you will have wonderful moments in Meiram! Your brothers and sisters are there, plenty of milk!” Hamza assured Musa.
“Ahmed, I think it is ripe, we have to go,” said Hamza.
“Good night, good night.” The other guests wished Ahmed.
Musa returned to his hut and gathered his things. He emerged out as a true Bani Bodur Arab nomad, who has traversed the valleys and terrains of Kordofan and Darfur. Musa picked his old tyre-made shoes, dagger and stick. If it weren’t for his skin and constantly being called abid, it would have been hard to disprove his Baggara heritage and affiliation.
When the camels rose up to start their journey, Zuruf barked for the send-off. The donkey that accompanied the camels had grazed enough at the backyard, and had the occasion of braying freely.
“Allah ma’akum, God is with you,” Ahmed sent his guests with blessings.
Thick clouds gathered above the men as they began their journey. Musa coiled himself and followed them like a lamb. Now one of them was his new father. Zuruf barked after the camels in the dark. He followed Musa and the men until the valley where they used herd cattle.
“Go back, go back.” Musa shouted pitifully to Zuruf, his droplets of tears mingling with murmurs. The two had been herding together for years.
“Go back, go back.” Musa warned Zuruf. At one time, he pointed angrily at him with his cane. Zuruf remained defiant.
Occasionally, camels could push their grazing heads towards some soft growing leaves from the shrubs. After about four valleys, Hamza told Musa to climb onto the back of the donkey attached to the camel in front. The donkey continued braying in protest while being pulled violently by the stubborn camel mounted by Hamza.
The travellers never used the Muglad-Meiram main road, nor did they follow railway lines. The men followed the forest route they knew best, rather than meet some activists and suspicious passengers on lorries, or even some Canadian or Chinese oil exploration teams who commonly cruised the Bani Bodur and Abyei territories.
Musa followed his new masters with an undivided heart. “Let them be kinder to me than Kaltum and Ahmed.” He prayed.
“Musa, you shall be happy in Meiram. Your bothers and sisters are there…many.” Hamza remarked in the dark. The night had advanced.
Whether Hamza meant fellow abid from the south or Arab Baggara brothers and sisters in his family did not bother Musa. It wasn’t important for him to know about every abid scattered far and wide among Baggara families. Every woman in a family was a mother, as was the head of every household, a father.
At about midnight, the caravan reached the banks of Nyimora River from the western wing of Abyei town. “We can sleep here,” announced Hamza to his companions. “Yes, yes,” they all agreed after getting closer to an abandoned dry season market. The station was once a battle scene between the Arab militias and Cush insurgents. They ruled out fear as the rebels were far deeper along the Kiir River, guarding the great passage to Jieng land.
The shelters were swollen up with grass. Some mating goats and donkeys ran among the wooden poles left behind by the Arab nomads. The smell of burning dung filed the air. Echoes of barking dogs and mooing cows entangled in the valley below. The men quickly tied down the animals, downloading their sleeping mats and mosquito nets as they disappeared into various abandoned shelters. Musa took cover under an old table, half eaten by insects. Opening his skin bag for a match, he lit a big fire, wadding off invading insects from his body. Dung smell over-scented his shelter; smooth abandoned stone served as his pillow for the remaining hours. While the others snored, Musa’s hands were twisted by mosquitoes from Nyimora, rumoured by travellers to be capable of lifting nets spread over human beings. Their feeding tubes found ways through his soft skin. Though it was cloudy and very dark, the sky gods spared them, probably his ancestors intervening from Malual Ajith, he reasoned.
It was at the banks of Nyimora that Musa knew his fate rested on a deal between Hamza and Ahmed Abdallah. Perhaps the meandering Nyimora wanted to recount his odyssey back to his Nilotic homeland. “Were Ahmed’s lost bulls being compensated through his blood?” He wondered in his dreams. Mosquitoes roamed below his ears. “Nhialic help me to be alive with these people.” He pleaded to his God and ancestors. What disturbed him was how he was going to be inserted into Hamza’s family and his Bani Suleiman’s tribesmen once in Meiram. But why had Hamza reassured him of ‘a happy life ahead?’ He questioned himself.
It was at that point that Musa first understood completely why most Nilotic boys and girls ran away from their masters to freedom. The sad story of Macham Kachuol had pre-occupied him all night. One day, Macham attempted to escape after leaving all the cattle of his Bani Bodur father in the forest. He was tracked down by members of the Popular Defense Force incorporated into the Bani Bodur tribe. When he was recaptured two days later near Muglad, he was taken back to Mugadama and publicly castrated. Macham’s ordeal was repeated to Musa all the time. Years later, Macham fulfilled his ambition when he was abandoned, tied to dig out a family well. When his father went to retrieve him from Abyei town one day, the local authority had recognised Macham by his fingers; “He is the very one. He is the one!” The man vanished northwards, towards Nyama.
When it was the usual time for the second aza’an to call for prayers, Hamza woke up slowly and went for nature’s call, carrying a pitcher for cleaning the remains of his bladders and bowels. He performed his morning prayers and woke the others. “The sun is up, get up.” His companions quickly assembled their goods on their animals and took off towards Meiram. It was almost midday when the caravan arrived at Kherega village. Everybody knew Hamza in the small station. They entered a house whose owner resembled Hamza, but shorter than him. They ate fresh millet asida accompanied by heavy black gahawa. Hamza emptied two pots with heavy Kenana white sugar.
Throughout the final lap of their journey to Meiram, the men spoke of the progress of their wealth, the Strategic Battalion escorting trains to the south and the defeat of the army at Tulushi Enclave, where it was rumoured that Osama Bin Laden was infuriated and disappointed by those who lied to him about the north-south war. Hamza constantly referred to the poor harvests his large farms suffered in Makwa. “This year, I must bring lots of Jieng to work hard and compensate me,” he remarked.
“Just provide them with dried sardine from Kosti, flour, powdered okra and…oil…enough you know!” One of the talkative companions on the camel added knowingly.
“This year okra is cheap, the jiange like such smelly things, they eat fatish.” said Hamza.
There were few onlookers when the caravan entered Meiram town. Some children threw stones after the camels. Hamza’s mother, his four wives and his younger brothers were present. It seemed everyone knew about his mission. The mood set by Hamza’s return with Musa was festive. “Your abid is young eh?” his mother teased him. One of Hamza’s wives called Musa politely: “Garang-Deng, please sit down.”
One of Hamza’s sons who was not present when Musa arrived went to his father running: “Abui there is Jiangai in our compound!”
Hamza quickly assured his son: “No, no he is not Jiangai, he is your brother Musa Hamza.”
“Musa Hamza?” the boy asked his father. Hamza just shook his head. Later Musa was told to go and sweep the goat-pen, his new accommodation. The children observed him suspiciously for many days. Some had never seen a Nilotic abid before.
Musa acquainted himself with the clan names of Bani Suleiman. Knowing Musa couldn’t do much before rainfall between January and May, Hamza arranged for a horse from Darfur with a well equipped double-barrelled tanker for sale of water in Meiram town. He was briefly coached by Omer, one of Hamza’s uncles, a military deserter.
“He is very intelligent abid,” Omer reported back to Hamza.
Hamza introduced Musa to the owners of water wells and reservoirs in the town. “The whole house, you and the horse itself must eat from the back of this animal,” Hamza told Musa. Musa’s work would begin at five in the morning to six in the evening, except Fridays when he was to assist Hamza’s four wives. At the end of the day, Musa and his horse would be dead tired. The Darfur horse earned compensation of 7kg of dried sorghum and 36 liters of water in a dusty tray. Musa on the other hand would receive his yoghurt and solid bread and on some days, leftover-bones and wheat bread on others. He pleased his new father Hamza by bringing in a lot of money. Many Baggara women would humiliate Musa as he went about his business. “Jengai water, jengai water, jengai water.”
Musa’s pain was borne in private.
While his business progressed, Musa received a new Jalabiya (cloak), plastic shoes and a new bed. He became the first good son of Hamza. Hamza’s fourth wife Zeinab had two sons, Majid and Khalid. She claimed Musa as her first son. Amal, her daughter was still suckling.
On one of its outings into the south the PDF, fully transformed into Baggara’s militia force, encountered one of the most humiliating defeats in the hands of insurrectionists along Meiram- Aweil-Wau railway lines. Rain had begun falling. In the convoy, the Arab nomads accompanying the Strategic Battalion as a reinforcing brigade had submitted their allegiance for Jihad. Musa, like every Bani Suleiman nomad, was excited to watch the ‘send off’ of his clan’s Brigade to the south. Many Bani Suleiman youths were prevented by Baggara elders from joining the convoy. They wanted to go and teach the ‘infidels, enemies of Arab race, Zionist collaborators in the corridors of sub-Sahara Africa!’ an unforgettable lesson through the barrels of AK-47. That morning Musa stopped his horse-tanker to praise the holy warriors. Shots and ululations cracked the skies.
“May Allah bring you back with wealth.”
“Amen.”
“May the infidels surrender in thousands.”
“Amen.”
“May their wives become widows.”
“Amen.”
“And their children orphans.”
“Amen.”
“May Allah defeat his enemies forever!”
“Ameeen!”
It was everyone’s wish that the mighty army come back victorious from the south. Musa harbored heavily the idea of becoming a militia or a soldier, to wield freely his own AK-47 like other Arab nomads. His whole life, he had only fired once, near Abyei, one season when he was on his way to Muglad from River Kiir. Seeing a whole Baggara Unit on horsebacks was a fascinating thing.
The night before, the soldiers spent heavily on bootlegging and flesh buying.
“We must drink and fuck, what is there in this world?” they constantly shouted to themselves during the spending spree. The last pay-sheet authorisations were left behind to wives, concubines and sugar mommies in Babanusa and Muglad.
Whatever took place beyond Malual remained unknown that week, except for the occasional heavy sound of artillery penetrating the skies back at Meiram. With the long wait, news gradually leaked out that just before Maker Station, the train convoy was ambushed. Armed nomads and their horses, weaponry, money bags, food stuffs and spare parts were captured. Some were killed. Others ran in disarray. Khalid Osman Kheir, the colonel commanding the convoy narrowly escaped with remaining force to Aweil town. The resistance forces of the south out-maneuvered the combined government-Baggara forces with their military might. It was blood, death and soil. The BBC and Al-Jazeera announced that it was the first victory of Cdr. Kuach Athian Awan in his new assignment as overall Commander of the Third Front.
Twelve days later, a few defeated Baggara forced their worn-out feet into Meiram, traumatised to break the news – they gathered enough strength only to preach hatred against the Nilotics, abid who were all over their villages. The returnees could not regroup and go back to the south to wage battle again, so they borrowed some horses and went all over the Bani Suleiman camps and settlements, convincing others to ‘revenge on the infidels and abid,’ no matter their individual status among the Bani Suleiman families. “Injuries must be caused….” They went on preaching extending the call as far as Darfur.
Hamza, who remained closed to the affairs of his tribesmen, rushed home one afternoon with a long, worried face. He met one of his wives by the gate to deliver his message.
“Where is Musa?” he demanded.
“He came around midday only.” The woman answered.
“He must be found now….the children?”
“Is everything all right?” the woman asked.
“Yes!”
Musa remained unperturbed, trading his water, cruising one area to another. “Water, water, water”, he shouted as always from his horseback, with his deep Baggara ascent. After inquiring from other children in the neighborhood, Hamza traced Musa to a restaurant where he had gone to empty his tanker. As soon as Hamza’s face met with Musa’s, he said: “Musa go home, do not return to the pump.”
Hamza proceeded to the edge of the market where the whole Bani Suleiman elders were gathering.
Reaching his gate Hamza asked Saida, one of his wives giraffing across the fence, “Where is Musa?”
“I don’t know.”
“Has he….. not?”
“I don’t know if he is around.” answered Saida.
“Have you not seen some men carrying weapons?”
“How can I see people outside the compound Hamza?”
“No, I mean people passing around. Things are not easy at River Kiir and the railway lines.”
“What happened?” asked the inquisitive wife.
“I have to go…they are at the vicinity…Musa….”
Musa who had pre-empted what was to befall on all the southerners residing among the Bani Suleiman, abandoned his tanker and horse by the gate of his father’s house. He never took his belongings.
“I have to flee towards Muglad or Babanusa.” He said to himself and fled towards Bu’uta Station. At daytime he would rest under certain shadowy trees, praying not to be discovered by herders. He would keep watch at passing cattle and their armed Baggara owners. After several days, Musa reached a town with many fuming locomotives and climbed into a smelly carriage. The train was taking off eastward. He hid under groundnut sacks.
A patrolling policeman spied Musa coiling himself at the angle of the carriage, “Hey boy where are you going?”
“To Fulla.” Musa answered.
“Bring LS 20,000.”
“I don’t have!” Musa said shyly.
“I will throw you off the train! I know you are escaping from your master, isn’t?” said the infuriated policeman.
“No, no, my father is in Muglad,” He lied to the policeman to forge his way out.
“I will take you to Fulla Police Station!” announced the policeman. He was a Baggara himself.
He had planned to carry out his threats if the train slowed down at the nearest station. It was only a matter of minutes. Musa kept silent at the corner of the carriage, thinking about what to do next as fate mutated faster in front of him. Three days ago, he had escaped from Meiram; from the jaws of Bani Suleiman Baggara, feeding on wild desert lemon along the railway lines.
As the train jerked onwards, its chest approaching Baboya station, Musa threw himself off the carriage.
“Catch him, catch him.” The policeman shouted as Musa vanished into the forest.
For some hours, Musa remained hiding in nearby bushes, densely overgrown with hardwood trees. He knew the policemen in the train could not come after him. They were notorious keepers of the law: every week they would chase runaway children travelling out of Darfur off the carriages. Often, the wheels would pound them like raw pepper.
It was hard for Musa to pursue another train eastward from the next station for fear of meeting the same fate. He began trekking along the railway lines, drinking rainwater in the puddles. He fed on watermelon and continued eastward towards Fulla. A few kilometers into the town, he saw heavy smoke from one of the locomotive tankers pulling itself lazily out of the town. He jumped across to the left, then the right, disappearing into the tall grass in the valley below Fulla Town. Realising Fulla was the Baggara headquarters, he turned northward to Dar Hamar, the homeland of Muneim Monsur, the Great Hamar paramount Chief, whose homeland was a free territory for the Nilotics. Before crossing the deadly Fulla valley, he swore to his God:
“At least I better be second class citizen if I can reach Dar Hamar.”