A Hole In The Ground

A short story.

YESTERDAY

Don’t they say yesterday is just another tomorrow that came too early? Whether that was true or not, it didn't matter to you with the sun swearing against your back.

“Saro,” your mother had called you from under the dying palm tree where she was seated. “Please rest a little, eh.”

Your first thought was your name. Saro. You had always thought of it as a lazy name. After all, it merely meant first son. Mama and Papa hadn’t even taken the time to name you something else. Something strong, like Zor’yee. Maybe your luck would’ve been better if your name had translated to wealth.

But you didn't say this out loud. Instead, you raised your hoe and struck the ground again.

“Saro, come. Rest,” Mama had said again.

You were tightening your blistered fifteen-year-old fingers around the hoe, and hmming and humphing and striking the ground again. It didn't make any sense to stop just because you were tired.

“Nwi,” Mama had called you child in your native tongue. “I said it’s okay, we can always continue tomorrow, eh.”

You had dragged your eyes to the tattered old thing hanging shamefully on her beautiful, frail body, fighting the word ‘old’ in your head. Mama’s hair, braided in cornrows was streaked with grey weaving through the dusty black mass. Barely a season before, she would have asked you to help weed off the errant strands. But that battle was long lost.

“Saro, I said—”

“Leave me alone,” you had snapped.

See, you were not a stubborn child. In fact, you were not a child at all. Ever since Papa’s death, you knew you had to be the man of the house, and a real man hadn’t stopped until he was through.

“Would you rather work yourself to death, my son?” Mama had asked you.

You knew the answer that day. That is why you knew she wouldn’t like it. So you kept ignoring her and struck the ground again, and again, and again.

“Saro, I cannot lose you to this farm too.”

In the searing heat of the sun, you felt the temperature change in the farm that day. It was at that moment that you threw the hoe away and wiped your hands against your khaki. It used to be your school uniform back when Mama could still afford books. Without as much as a sigh, you had raced to where she sat beneath the palm tree and threw your frail body into her arms, wrapping yourself around her.

For the next few minutes, the muffled sound of your crying had mixed with the endless hum of farm insects as Mama patted the wild hair on your head. The last time you cried on that farm had been three years ago when Papa had fallen from the same now-dying palm tree.

But that brief peace, like every other kind, hadn’t lasted. A familiar bicycle bell rang close by. You didn't even need to look to recognise your Uncle Nwinee’s rickety bike that afternoon. You could already picture him parking his bicycle in front of the farm and scanning the place with his remaining eye, a dirty chewing stick bobbing from the corner of his mouth.

“Ote Kanamue,” Mama had greeted him in your native dialect.

“Wife of my brother,” he had said, “I see you’re being lazy again.”

You held Mama tighter, fighting the urge to smash your Uncle Nwinee's head into the dirt.

“And who is that one you’re holding that cannot greet, eh?” Uncle Nwinee added.

“Get out.” You sounded as brave as only a broken fifteen-year-old could.

When he laughed at you, you freed yourself from Mama’s arms and stood tall, glaring at him like a boxer.

Today, Papa would have to understand if you beat his only brother here. If he didn’t, you will remind him that this same man had claimed every piece of land Papa had left behind. You will remind him of the night he let you and Mama go hungry after seizing every yam you both managed to harvest.

If Papa still felt anything like sympathy for his one-eyed brother, you were ready to remind him of those nights when his brother would try to force himself on Mama.

“I see the boy now fancies himself a man,” Uncle Nwinee had laughed in your face.

“Anyway,” he continued, “I came here to tell my favourite nephew that Captain will be leaving for camp in an hour.”

With that, he had mounted his bicycle and ridden off.

Captain Baridole, or simply “Captain” was the only one from the village who had joined the military. After nearly a decade away, he had returned with a promise to help boys from the village get into the force. Only Mama knew that you didn’t meet the official minimum age of sixteen. To everyone else, especially to the Captain, you already turned sixteen last month.

“You’re not going with Captain,” Mama whispered, barely holding herself together. But by then, it didn't matter anymore. Up till that moment, you had been failing Papa, but not anymore.

So you throw yourself into Mama’s arms one final time. If you don't make it back from camp in one piece, it would have to last her the rest of her life.

Then you ran, all the way to the Captain’s van waiting at the village square.

TODAY

You hear Captain Abdul’s hoarse voice ring through the parade ground. “Attention!”

You raise your tired right foot knee-high and slam it to the ground. Your body still aches from the journey from Luawii to camp.

Captain Abdul is unlike any man you've ever met. His very dark skin seems to taunt the sun itself. His face is a collage of scars with three deep ones carved permanently into his left cheek. If your head wasn’t pounding, you’d probably whisper how his face looked like your uncle Nwinee’s heart.

“All of you, no rights at all in zis place,” he echoes, thick northern accent mangling his grammar. “Nothing anybody can do por you here. If you be stubborn, we kill you and bury you in za bushes oba zer.”

You mutter, “Empty threats.”

Captain Abdul goes quiet. Then he smiles and for the first time in your life, you witness how someone can get uglier with a smile.

“Who said that?” he asks, almost amused. He has heard you. No doubt.

The fat boy in front of you twitches. You are surprised he hasn’t already wet himself. Captain Abdul runs two fingers over the scars on his cheek, nodding slowly.

“Oh, I see. Kwomreds abi?” he says.

For the next minute, all you can hear is the wind howling threats in your ears. That, and Captain Abdul’s quiet laughter.

“Abia state!” he hollers and cocks his gun.

They all salute. He strides over to the nearest cadet, grabs his rifle.

“One ferson, one minute,” he says. “I no repeat myself.”

He cocks his gun. The fat boy finally pees himself. It’s clear what his intention is. Shoot one person by state until he finds out what he is looking for.

“I will say it, Captain Sir,” you call out with your eyes ahead.

“Fall out, bloody civilian.”

The smile is gone now. You prefer him this way.

“Yessah!” You salute, unsure if you should march or stroll to the front.

It doesn’t matter. You hear the stomp of boots rushing toward you. You lift your head just in time for Captain Abdul’s boot to crash into your face.

TOMORROW

Don’t they tell us that tomorrow is just another yesterday we haven’t met? Whether that is true or not, it will not matter anymore when you wake up with a bandage around your head.

You will look around, but you are not in a sick bay. It will be a large hall with bunks in every corner, serving as a room to over fifty boys. Everyone will be scurrying out of the hall like their life depends on it.

“What is your name?” The fat boy from the parade ground. The coward. You will ignore him.

“It is time for lunch. If you like stay here,” he will say. You will stand up to follow him, wordlessly.

The dining hall will be even bigger than the one you will bunk in. You will follow the fat boy to the front of the hall where the cadets will be serving. Soon, you will collect your helping of beans and a loaf of bread. The next issue will be finding a free table to eat.

“I will not believe these people will prepare beans without any sort of fish or beef,” the fat boy will murmur. You will not answer him.

A soldier will suddenly appear at the door and holler, “Cadets, you will have five minutes to finish eating, wash your plates, and file in the parade ground.”

You will sigh and drop to the ground with your bowl of beans and simply stare at it. The fat boy will sit next to you and begin eating the hot bowl of beans. He must think five minutes is a lot of time.

You will pick up your bowl of beans and quickly pour it into his bowl.

“How will you expect me to—” he will begin.

You will not wait to listen. You will race towards the tap where you will wash your plate.

That night, you will not sleep. Mama will keep calling you in your dreams. She will say that the yam seedlings are dying off since the rain has not come yet and the sun is too hot. You will wake up and try taking a walk, only to return after meeting the stern warning of the night guard.

Before cockcrow, Captain Abdul and some other soldiers will barge into the hall.

“Wake up!”

You will spring to your feet. A few deep sleepers who remain in bed will be roused with generous lashes from Captain Abdul’s koboko.

“Get up. Gib me pipty” he will order.

Immediately, you will drop to your hands for fifty pushups. You will not reach thirty when your arms begin shaking, but it will not matter, you are a man.

You will jog outside with the rest, singing like excited kindergarten pupils. Only, you will not be excited.

After rounding the field the third time, the fat boy from the day before will fall to the ground. Captain Abdul will not seem fazed. He will signal one of the other soldiers to carry the body out. You wonder if he is being carried to the sick bay or to the bush as the Captain mentioned the other time.

When you round the field the fourth time, you will hear Mama’s voice again. She will be calling out your name. You will look forward and you will swear you see her from the corner of your eye, beckoning you to come to her. Unlike in your dreams, she will not talk about the farm anymore. Mama will need you.

Your heart will jog faster than your legs now. You will wonder if Mama has died, and now her ghost is appearing to bid you goodbye? You will cringe at the thought, silently reprimanding yourself for even thinking it. But the nudge in your heart will be too great to ignore.

“Captain Sir,” you will call out to Captain Abdul. “Permission to fall out of line, Sir.”

Captain Abdul will whip his koboko in the air and turn in your direction. “Kwom here,” he will command.

You will do as ordered, while the rest jog on.

“Captain Sir, I need to go home, Sir,” you will say. Some of the other candidates will laugh. Captain Abdul will walk close to you so much that hour foreheads almost touch.

“You say?” he will whisper, barely above breath.

“Captain Sir, I need to go home, Sir,” you will repeat as loud as the first time.

“Attention!” he will holler, and all the candidates will stop jogging at once. “Little boy wan go house,” he will say, circling you like a predator circles prey.

“Why you wan to go house, little boy? You miss your Mama?”

“No, Sir,” you will consider replying, but it will not be any time for that.

“Ofun za gates,” he will order. Still at attention, you will hear the sound of the heavy bulletproof gate being pulled open.

“You wan go house?”

“Yessah!”

“Then go.”

You will turn to see the gate wide open with two soldiers standing on either side. The rest of the candidates will watch. You will grit your teeth and take a step toward the gate. All at once, the soldiers at the gate will raise their guns and aim at you.

You will freeze.

“Ip I no go in za count op ten, I no go again. You hear me kwo?”

You will take another step forward and the soldiers will cock their guns. Captain Abdul’s orientation threat will suddenly echo in your ears. Will they really shoot you, and bury you in the bushes? Will you never get to see Mama’s face again?

You will shake your head and look up at the soldiers. You would rather be buried in a bush than look Mama in the eyes as a coward. You will take another step.

The gunshot will be deafening. The bullet will land a little away from where you are. The other cadets will gasp. You will too, but your legs have already made their choice. You will walk on toward the gate as two more shots ring out.

You will not stop. You will not run either. They are the real cowards.

“Stop there, little boy!” Captain Abdul will holler. You will stop and turn to face him. His face will twist in his usual ugly looking smile.

“Pollow me.”

THE DAY AFTER TOMORROW

Captain Abdul will drive you to the village by himself. It will appear that your lack of cowardice can impress a man like that.

He will drop you off just before the village square when he gets a call to report somewhere else. You will not mind. You will come down from his Hilux feeling twice as tall in the metal-studded army boots Captain Abdul will gift you.

Immediately after he drives off, you will run all the way home to Mama without waving him goodbye.

The house will be unusually quiet. Even the chickens that usually make noise around the compound will be nowhere in sight.

You will walk into Mama’s hut quietly, fearing the worst. It will be there that you see him. Your one-eyed uncle Nwinee will be half-naked with your mother pinned helplessly beneath him.

You will not think. There will be no need. You will race to meet him with your boot raised as high as possible and kick him on the head, just above his ear.

Mama will cover her mouth with both hands to muffle her crying as Uncle Nwinee will tumble and drop motionless, blood dripping from his ear. The smile that will fill your face is Captain Abdul’s.

You will try to console Mama but she will not understand. She will mouth Papa’s name and blame him for dying, for ignoring her tears while he lies there in the grave merely filling a hole in the ground.

Quietly, you will stride to the backyard to get a shovel, still smiling. If Uncle Nwinee does not wake up by nightfall, he too will fill a hole in the ground.