Africa Story

This is the beginnings of a Story about a little boy in Africa, I won't say its trying to be culturally accurate or even historically, that's generally not my interest in writing. I want to create something interesting worth reading that becomes something unto itself, but is perhaps close enough to reality to fool you. I hope you enjoy it.

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Chapter I:

Carama stood on the ridge, hot dusty winds blew across the plains below and swirled up only long enough to powder his face, before returning to the land below. A line of trucks bounced down the broken road, reformed by seasonal mudslides and re-pounded into a level plain each summer. The white vehicles were a dull white in the obscured afternoon sun, its red heat still felt firmly on Carama’s skin. Their truck beds were filled with supplies in crates, tied down with strips of overlapping rope. Black lettering “U.N.” was stenciled on the sides, foreign to him, but still familiar in its commonality.
Carama ran in full sprint, feeling something like a sparrowhawk in the dive as he rushed down the slope of the ridge into the shanty village that was his home. The village was known as “Red River” by civil authorities, for in the wet season mud slides feeding the flowing river turn it a red color like blood.
Some of the other kids waiting at the edge of the village greeted him at his end of his boisterous return from the top of the ridge. He excitedly exclaimed to them, “Trucks are coming!”
Carama continued his run into the village, informing the adults who were busy doing the labor by the riverside that men in white trucks had come from the road. The village became a bustle of excitement. Carama’s mother pulled him to the side from the gathering crowd, now interested in the road and the peculiar dust cloud that grew nearer.
“You need to calm down,” she told him.
“But men in trucks are coming! I think they are bringing food,” Carama had been worried, the dry season’s plagues had ruined the crops and they had been mostly hungry for months.
“Yes, they may be here with good intentions, but white men often come before dark storms.”
Carama was ushered to their house and inside to his sisters. His mother laid out their best clothing. “When the men from the trucks come, dress your best and ask politely for food. Do not shove and yell like the other children,” she told them, suppressing her own hopes that came with the arrival of the convoy of dirty-white vehicles. She furiously washed dust from their hair and slicked it back in a nice style to complete the look of her beloved children.
The crowd had gathered from the whole village, ending all that afternoon’s work in anticipation.
Black men and white men in blue hats and vests climbed out of the trucks and began greeting everyone. Some of them threw candy to the kids. Carama watched his sister Abbo catch a candy and smile happily as she slipped it into her mouth.
The boy watched as his father, chief of their transient tribe, approached as a spokesman for his vast family and negotiated with the men in the blue hats. He remembered the story that his father told him and his sisters of their tribe,
“Long ago, when I was your age, the land we lived in far South from our current village came under attack. Men with guns had made deals with the Nnandenga, becoming wicked sorcerers who sought to pit brother against brother. Violence overcame the land and soon their evil fed the lindandosa, which dried up the rains and the fields. Nothing would grow and the ground itself cracked open. Dead fish lay on barren land and our tribe knew that darkness had defeated good. We had only one choice, we had to prove that we were worth saving from death to our ancestral mahoka. We did this by marking our bodies with tattoos, showing that our physical bodies were free from the vile effects of sorcery and hate which had overcome so many of our brothers and countrymen. That day a miracle came! An empty boat floated down the river towards the North past our village. My father, who was Chief then and spiritual advisor, took this as a sign that we must move north and so we did. We traveled as far as the river could take us, until we came to this land and found fertile soil. The mahoka had rewarded and preserved us. This is why you must always look to your tattoo to remind you that you are a human of pure heart.”
Carama looked at his tattoos, dominating his naked chest and arms. Each image held magical sway and protected him.
The men in the trucks were now unloading crates of food and jugs of water. At one point a mob of villagers struggled so hard to pull a palette of water jugs off the white truck that the bindings burst and jugs went rolling everywhere. Some people laughed, but Carama’s father was angry, some of the jugs had burst and dripped precious water into the dry dirt. He scolded them and whipped at them with sticks, they did little to promote the tribe’s image to their ancestors with actions like that.
Carama and his sisters crowded around one of the palettes as a white man in a blue helmet gave out packages of rice and other food products. They politely asked for food, holding out their hands. Their mother’s advice worked well, they were served first with the best food items, over the other rowdy children of the village. Carama confidently carried the boxes back to their house.
“You did good children. I told you this was wise. Now maybe you will listen to my wisdom more often?”
His sisters giggled and ran into the kitchen to prepare the food. Father entered with the water jugs under his arm, he grunted, “I’ll be back with more.”
As Carama looked out the doorway after his father, he watched a puff of dust from the road rise near the foot of a man with a blue vest. The man turned curiously to look up the Ridge across the river. Another few puffs of dust were kicked up from the road and Carama wondered if there was some animal trying to dig its way up from underneath. The man in the blue helmet yelled something in French and dove beneath the truck. Other men in blue helmets took cover and this time he heard the cracks of the rifle shots.
The village burst into an eruption of gunfire between the blue helmets and the mysterious killers across the river. Carama spent the hours of the tense night tucked between his sisters, his mother, and his father.
The morning light brought peace and quieted the guns of the hidden enemy. But something had changed with the men who came in white trucks.
The men had given all their food and water to the village, but despite the chief’s yells and angry talks with them, the men would not stay. They said they had more supplies but could not come back right away and they couldn’t leave men behind to make sure the village was safe. Carama’s father was not pleased. The men of the village got what weapons they could, mostly bows and rifles.
That afternoon the men in white trucks left. The men of the village were on alert.
Carama watched as night fell again, like a black crocodile swallowing the blue sky.
Stars appeared in the nightsky and fell to earth in the village, erupting with thunder and fire. Pieces of metal skewered men, warriors, and others. Chaos filled the night and rifle shots could be heard. Carama stayed hidden in his house with his mother and sisters, but the light of the fires illuminated his chest and he saw the magical symbols. He felt he should fight alongside his father, he was a man and he needed to protect his family.
Carama found a long knife used for skinning and stalked out into the night, trying to find his father. Gunshots whizzed in the air like angry insects looking to sting. In the fire light he saw the Chief shouting and firing his hunting rifle towards the river, Carama saw the boats creeping across. Running up beside his father, he saw another burst of a star into a nearby storage shack, showering food the white trucks had given them like rain. He heard a shout of hateful men from the darkness. His father stood valiantly, firing shot after shot into the boatmen.
Between the crack of a rifle, Carama heard the rumble of the elephantine trucks once again, the blue helmets had come to save them!
“Father, the trucks, they’ve come back!”
“Our ancestors bless us!”
The Chief and his boy ran to the road and saw the silhouettes of trucks rumbling up to the village, their headlights suddenly turning on. In the blinding light of the headlamps, his father could not see to defend himself. The automatic rifles of the killers burst his skin as Carama screamed. The boy was seized by men covered in blood wearing mismatched blue armor and pushed into the truck, a bag forced over his head. He screamed and fought blindly with his knife, but the truck was already moving and his weapon was stolen from his small hands.
Carama felt himself being pushed out of the back of the truck and a bag covered his head.
Suddenly the black bag that covered his vision was pulled free, lifting a curtain to the fearful scene before him. Dozens of armed men in balcavas carrying assault weapons stood around a series of camo netted tents strung below Baobab trees on an overgrown savannah. A hard metal gun barrel was stuck to the side of Carama’s head by a tall man as he pulled his mask off. His face was covered in scars, almost as if a lion had mauled him. “Everyone you know is dead; you are part of the Viral Army now.” The men roughly pushed him towards one of the tents; every step he hesitated resulted in more harsh blows to his stomach and back.
As he was ushered in the tent, he found his captors who had followed him were disrobing. Two of them rushed him, holding him down. The man without the mask was quickly on top of him, pushing his weight into the stretched out mattress and pillow. He was helpless as the Lion-faced man raped him, laughing the whole time. “This is how we treat our new soldiers.” He said. The others quickly followed, joining in on “breaking” in Carama. At some point the young boy did his best to pretend he was somewhere, anywhere, other than where he was: gasping on the floor of a filthy tent.
The morning after, Carama was sore and violated in every way, but he had to leave his tent, which he eventually did. The men did not hold him at gunpoint, perhaps they weren’t afraid he would run away now? He intended to the first chance he got.
“You have nowhere to go to now, young one. You are part of the army now.” One of the guards told him.
“I am just looking for a tree to piss under…” Carama lied.
“You are dead now, don’t you understand?”
He didn’t know what that meant, but it sent a chill up his spine. Carama proceeded to head to the edge of camp and relieved himself. When no one was looking, he ran off as hard as he could. Soon after he left sight of the camp and the midday sun was scorching his bare-back, a rumble seemed to grow closer. At first it was like the pounding of an elephant’s foot, but as it got closer he could hear the chug of the engine as the speeding jeep pursued him. Carama expected to be shot as he ran, but heard only laughter.
The jeep was easily on top of him, but the men did nothing but stay just a ways behind him.
“You will get tired soon, young one,” said the familiar voice of that devil of a man.
Carama ran harder, but only got tired faster; soon he would be too exhausted to run. He stopped, turning flatly towards the jeep, prepared to fight. The vehicle just stopped, the men did not getting out, laughing.
“Little one, what is your name?” asked the Lion of a man.
“I am Carama!” he said defiantly.
“Your new name is Dead,” said the voice.
“Then shoot me, you have already done your worst!” Carama exclaimed.
“He knows then?” asked the driver.
“No, he hasn’t been told,” The scar-faced man said.
Carama was curious, “Know what, that you are demons?”
“No, that you are dead,” he repeated.
“I am still alive until you kill me!” Carama yelled, but the men only laughed.
“We already killed you,” the man said.
“There were many of you, you would not have succeeded alone! This time I won’t let you!”
Their laughter boomed.
“Boy, you don’t understand. We all have the virus and now you do too.”
“Virus?”
“The disease that kills all of Africa, you have it now. We raped you so that we would be sure that you would get it too,” he said, adding, “now you will die, just like all of us.”
“What? You have given me the illness?”
The men laughed, “Now he understands.”
Carama could hardly stand, he fell to one knee, and this was devastating news to him and only comedy to these cruel men.
“Fearless my son, you will be fearless now. The army has you.”
“Why would you do this?”
“You now know you are already dead, you have a few years at most.” The scar-faced man said.
“Who are you to do this to people?”
“I am Azibo and you are now one of the Viral Army. We are fearless because we are already dead.”
“Why would I be fearless just because I am fated to die?”
“Because any death would be a better one than the shame of sickness…”
“Am I really fated to die?” Carama thought this incredulous.
“Yes, did you think you were immortal to begin with?” Azibo asked, the men in the jeep laughing heartily.
Carama hung his head, mumbling a prayer in his native dialect.
“You have to look at the world anew; you may truly begin to live now that you know you are fated to die.” Azibo said, his words confident and persuasive to Carama’s ears. While the young man had never thought of death seriously, now that he knew he would die and soon, it somehow released a burden within him. He had no future so there was no use in working towards it.
Finally Carama returned to the camp and fell into the routine of exercise the men had prepared for him and the other boys. If nothing else, they were well fed from the stolen supplies from the U.N. trucks. Some of the soldiers wore blue helmets from the dead white soldiers.
“Why did you kill my family and my village?”
“They cooperated with the white men.”
“Those white men came to help us from drought and brought us food and water, why kill them?”
“Those men created this Hell at the point of a gun, now they try to fix it at the point of a gun. Africa is better without their help.”