Child Soldier
NATHAN KWEKU JOHN
Artillery shells peppered the tin-thatched roofs surrounding the platoon, as Alieu readied his troops. “Boys, we fought very well yesterday, but now we’ll need a new strategy if we want to defeat them.” As he spoke, a pride of cumulonimbus clouds prowled along the skyline, and brown bullets steadily crept towards the encampment. They’d expected a few skirmishes before the main battle, but if the platoon didn’t act quickly, they’d soon lose their favorable position.
His soldiers hurriedly stuffed ammunition into makeshift fatigues. Most wore simple school shorts and singlets; some even came to war barefoot. A few, too eager, soon had their pockets ballooning with ripe ammunition. “Don’t fill them up too much,” Alieu warned, “or you won’t be able to run fast enough.” His platoon of fifty obeyed. As the battle neared, a restless murmur bubbled among his boys.
“Okay, listen up! For today’s battle, we will ambush them,” Alieu barked, struggling to mask the glee simmering within him.
“Ah, what is an ambush?” Modu Lamin queried.
“Yeah, what is ambush?” A number of soldiers echoed.
“Ambush means that we will set a trap then surprise our enemy,” Alieu explained, annoyed at this hiccup in the momentum of his pre-battle speech.
“Why didn’t you just say that the first time then,” Abubakar asked, “instead of using big-big words to confuse us?” He was one of Alieu’s more insolent lieutenants. Alieu couldn’t allow Abubakar’s insubordination to go unpunished.
“Big words? You see the fighting is coming closer to us, and all you can think about is big words? Foolish boy!”
“So then how will we trap them?” Jebbi asked earnestly, hoping, as always, to retain unity among the force.
“It’s very simple,” Alieu said, “we will need ten boys to act as a cavalry.” Cavalry was yet another tactical word Alieu had picked up from some of the older generals. He’d quickly risen through the ranks with his charisma, humor, and fitness. “Before anyone asks a silly question about what cavalry means, it’s just a group that goes ahead to check on the fighting before we arrive.” Alieu picked ten of his quickest foot soldiers to form this inaugural cavalry and tapped Modu Lamin to head the squadron. The patter of shell casings crept closer, and round after round of ammunition pocked the foliage surrounding the platoon.
With the hum of battle growing closer, Alieu knew that he only had a few more moments to deliver his mission briefing. “Listen well boys! The enemy is coming closer, but we have to strike first; the cavalry will go to the center of the battlefield to trick the enemy, then we will strike from the bushes on the sides and rush to join the cavalry in the middle of the field!”
Alieu continued, “The palm nut wars will continue, and we will be victorious!” Cheers of “victorious” rose from the riled troops.
Alieu continued, “Our natural enemies, the Year Five boys, who bully and battle with us by throwing palm nuts will be defeated today!”
“Today!” the platoon cheered.
“The Year Five boys who intimidate us, send us to fetch food for them from the canteen, and blame us for the mess in the bathrooms, will be defeated today! They have grown proud because next term they’ll be in secondary school, so they treat us like small-small children, but victory is ours!”
“Victory is ours,” the platoon chanted. “Victory is ours!”
Alieu split his forces evenly after sectioning off a few boys for the cavalry. Twenty would go with him and twenty with Jebbi, his trusted number two. Alieu had promoted Jebbi as his second-in-command, on account of his near-photographic memory, and level head—traits that saved the Year Four Forces from utter destruction during the First Palm Nut War.
Before releasing the cavalry, Alieu motioned for Modu Lamin and whispered a few final instructions. “Pretend to play football on the middle football field while the rest of us split up and hide in the bushes behind each goal post. The Year Five boys will think we’ve decided to call a truce and join our ten boys on the football field. Then, when enough of them join our boys on the field, you will scream “goal!” and that will be our signal to attack. We’ll rush to the middle of the field, attacking from both sides.” Modu Lamin nodded and gave a brisk salute.
The Year Five boys will never see this coming, Alieu thought, sneaking with his half of the fighting force to the bushes behind the north side of the Bakau New Town Primary School football field. Right on cue, his cavalry began their football match.
“Pass ma ball be.”
“I’m open”
“Cut left, cut left”
“Foul, ah that’s a foul.”
They were just loud enough to convince the Year Five boys without attracting suspicion. About fifteen of them approached the cavalry slowly, pockets brimming with palm nuts.
“Saful, saful,” Modu Lamin cautioned, assuring the older boys that he and his friends had come to the field to play football. Some of the Year Five boys began emptying their pockets on the side of the field, excited to lay down their arms and partake in Gambia’s national pastime. Nearly a dozen more followed suit, and promptly hopped into the impromptu match. After a few minutes, the game grooved with jazzlike quickness: solos, shouts, and responses; a chorus of foul-calls and appeals colored the turning air.
Out of nowhere, Modu Lamin yelled, “Goal!” Mustafa, a Year Five boy immediately stopped dribbling. “Ah but no one has—"
The Year Four Forces pounced, all yelling “Goal!” A few teachers laughed as the boys sprang into battle, engaging in their near daily recess skirmishes. At the start of each rainy season, palm nut trees released their acorn-sized seeds in a deluge, providing the primary school boys with a new game to pass break time.
Alieu’s platoon pelted their enemies mercilessly. Palm nuts whistled through the air finding home in Year Five flesh. “Aim for their stomachs and backs,” Alieu commanded in the heat of battle. He wanted to avoid any war crime charges from aiming at the head or, god-forbid, below the waist. The throng of thin, sunned bodies attacked in unison like a pack of hyenas zeroed-in on a single prey. Some boys leapt before launching their projectiles, hoping to pack more oomph with each throw. The rogue ones broke rank and sought to settle personal vendettas against their primary school seniors.
Alieu slung his palm nuts with precision, sending his targets scattering in all directions. He’d grown impressively since the last rainy season. His once lanky arms now rippled with crystalline definition. The attack unfurled a cloud of dust from the grassy field, adding an ominous haze to the battle ground. The ambush overwhelmed the Year Five boys, who couldn’t act quickly enough to grab their deposited ammunition from the sides of the field.
“Fall back boys, fall back!” Alieu called to his unit, hoping to avoid any friendly fire in the dizzying haze. Unfortunately, his voice didn’t carry far enough, as one of his boys on the far end of the field launched an errant palm nut into the fog. Alieu watched it sail soundlessly, across the field and towards the no-fire-zone. “No, no, no” he mouthed, as the projectile began to dip towards a group of seniors on the secondary school side of Bakau New Town’s campus. The nut struck Abdul’s neck and startled him so much that he dropped his tapalapa sandwich.
“Who the hell threw that?” Abdul howled. As dust settled, Abdul locked eyes with Alieu. “We need to put these useless primary school boys into their place,” he sneered rallying the older, secondary school seniors sitting near him. The promise of squashing any threat to street cred propelled Abdul and his squad into action. With late adolescence, the decorum of palm nut warfare faded. Alieu saw Abdul and his crew grab stones, sticks, and other non-palm-nut regulation ammo from the surrounding school yard as the secondary school boys prepared to mount their own counter attack.
“Run!” Alieu yelped to his shell-shocked troops. Heavier artillery rained from the rocket arms of their teenaged assailants. Compared to primary school palm-nut conflicts, where friendly fire ran rampant since both sides wore the same uniform, the fight between primary and secondary school boys brought about a new marking. Apart from the physical size differences between Alieu’s mates and Abdul’s crew, Abdul and the rest of the secondary school boys wore full length trousers with their ivory-and-sky uniforms, while the primary school uniform required shorts. This allowed the attacking teens to more easily identify their targets. Less pant fabric, and boom, the secondary school boys knew who to neutralize.
Alieu’s gangly legs carried him easily toward the shelter of the Year Four classroom blocks. Many members of his platoon weren’t as lucky, suffering from a barrage of stones, soda cans, and palm nuts. Modu Lamin, the fastest warrior in the group, quickly found shelter with Alieu, as did many of the primary school brigade. As Alieu’s foot-soldiers streamed back into safety, he began a headcount to approximate any damages or losses in personnel.
“Lieutenant, Modu Lamin,” he asked with a compassionate firmness. “What is the state of your troops?”
“My troops are well, General Alieu, sah,” Modu Lamin mustered.
Alieu continued his headcount, and got up to thirty before balking, “Where’s Jebbi?”
A number of heads fell among the tattered unit. Modu Lamin mumbled, “They got him, General Alieu, sah. Abdul’s boys took him captive.”
Alieu’s face hardened. He knew first break would soon expire.
“We will need to begin peace talks at the start of second break,” he said. “Lieutenants Modu Lamin, and Abubakar will accompany me.”
He turned to a distraught Abubakar. “Please write the peace treaty.”
Then, to his downcast warriors, he finally sighed, “Dismissed.” They all plodded back to their respective classrooms to the clangs of the closing bell, which tolled in honor of their captured comrade.
In the classroom, Alieu preemptively announced to Mrs. Fukundo, “Jebbi, cut his leg while playing and is in the nurse’s office.” But when she noticed the caked sand on the uniforms of Alieu and the rest, she kissed her teeth in disgust.
“Now you’ve gone and hurt your own classmate,” she said, “you should be ashamed of yourselves—you boys and your rough games.”
Meanwhile, Alieu and Abubakar passed notes to each other, hoping to iron-out the right plan of action. They wanted to ensure Jebbi’s freedom without appearing too genuflective towards the secondary school bloc. Not unlike Jammeh, who after seizing power from President Jawara, still allowed him to live peacefully in his Fajara estate.
Abubakar, who outside of the force served as class prefect, finished the peace document just a few minutes before the start of second break. He folded it neatly before passing it back to Alieu through the class’s tested channel of couriers: Abubakar to Aminatou who sat directly behind him; then Aminatou back to Aisha a row behind, then Aisha to Ibrahim, whose signature pencil-drop technique allowed him to make the final stretch and slide the document onto Alieu’s desk. He swept the front of the class for Mrs. Fukundo’s omniscient gaze before unfolding the document. Alieu gave it a quick read, and then he scrawled a signature to the bottom of the document and sent it back through the courier channel.
Modu Lamin was tasked with delivering the correspondence with all deliberate speed and secure a meeting with the teenage faction before the start of second break. Modu received the folded treaty and looked back to Alieu, nodding tacitly to signal his understanding of the assignment. Modu Lamin then raised his hand and said, “Mrs. Fukundo, could I please use the washroom?”
“Can’t you wait?” the teacher said. “It will soon be second break.”
“Please, Mrs. Fukundo,” Modu Lamin pressed “I really need to go!”
“Ah be quick then.”
Modu Lamin hurried out of the room affecting the restlessness of a boy who needed to ease himself. Once outside the classroom, he took the leafy back route behind the football field to creep beyond enemy lines. Modu Lamin timed his foray just at the start of the secondary school’s second break which began fifteen minutes before the primary school students were let out. His gut told him that Abdul and his crew would likely be in line to grab food from the main canteen. Though he moved quickly, Modu Lamin’s height and primary school uniform betrayed his hopes of stealth. As he zigzagged through a throng of teenagers, he heard gasps and murmurs from the adolescent and post-adolescent chorus around him: “Ah-ah what is this small boy doing here?”
The divide was strict and ancient—any primary school students found in secondary school territory could be subject to hazing. The secondary schoolers got better food, got to drive their own cars to school, and took field trips outside of Bakau. Naturally, they viewed all those without these privileges as their inferiors. Modu Lamin finally reached the palatial canteen located in the heart of the secondary school campus. It stood majestically between two thick baobab trees and was at least twice the size of the primary school’s canteen. Though he had strict orders, Modu Lamin ogled at the mass of teenagers in full trousers, and long skirts. He couldn’t help but think that this would be his new campus in just two years.
Modu Lamin found the canteen’s back entrance and eased in, scanning rapidly for Abdul’s broad shoulders and sharp fade. Modu Lamin also kept an eye out for Jebbi, who he thought might be paraded as a spoil of war, like how Jammeh paraded those generals still loyal to Jawara after the coup, before executing them. Still nothing. He continued to the middle of the canteen, wading through more stares, scoffs, and sneers. They have to be here somewhere. The air in the canteen began to grow heavy with an influx of even more bodies and warm voices.
“Modu Lamin!” a familiar voice shouted. Modu Lamin turned around. It was his older cousin, Allima.
“Yo, what are you doing here, cuz?” Allima did her best to stay hip with the newest lingo streaming out of America and London. Although she sometimes she peppered her sentences with an unnatural amount of slang, no one was expert enough to check her, so she continued mixing her Wolof and English with heaping portions of “fleek, lit, swag, turnt,” and her favorite, elongated “bitch!”
“Na nga def, Allima?”
“Ma ng fe, Modu Lamin”
“I need to find Abdul,” Modu Lamin said. “Have you seen him?”
“Abdul? Why?”
“Ah, listen Allima, I don’t have much time, I just need—
“Heh, Modu Lamin! Were you with those boys throwing the rocks at the seniors?”
“We didn’t start it. Someone threw a palm nut by accident, and Abdul, with his big head, overreacted.”
“Careful, cuz; he’s crazy. But no, I haven’t seen him. I’m sure he’s in the canteen somewhere. That boy’s always eating something.”
“Okay, I’ll see you later,” Modu Lamin sighed, his back already turned to Allima. He continued, weaseling his way through the mix of bodies in light blue uniforms until he neared the front of the canteen’s lunch line and saw his target.
Abdul stood a head taller than the rest of his posse, and a head taller than most of the school for that matter. His long face, rounded nose, almond eyes made him a typecast of Mandinka features. He was the leading scorer on Bakau New Town’s senior basketball and soccer teams, not to mention an excellent pitcher in rounders. Even though he affected humility, as the son of a prominent imam, everyone could see that his athletic prowess went straight to his head. He was president of the secondary school’s Drama and History Clubs. He played a masterful Puck in the Drama Club’s adaptation of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, entitled A Rainy Season Night’s Dream. The simulated sex scenes, and use of drugs earned him a testy meeting in Headmaster Bah’s office, which ended with a simple slap on the rest.
Modu Lamin approached Abdul slowly. He scanned the line and posse—still no signs of Jebbi. As he inched closer, one of Abdul’s cronies, Amadou, noticed him and snapped, “It’s that primary school boy from the football field!”
Modu Lamin slipped into character as Abdul’s head snapped around to address the intruder.
“Hello, sahs, my name is Lieutenant Modu Lamin Secka, sent on behalf of Commandant Alieu Barrow, chief commander of the Confederated Forces of Bakau New Town Primary School.”
Modu Lamin stiffened into his best salute, with his bony chest puffed so far out, that the clefts of his rib cage bulged through his loose uniform.
“At ease, soldier,” Abdul commanded, coating the leather in his voice with an extra layer of rasp. Modu Lamin allowed his body to exhale from tight salute. He instinctively handed the treaty to Abdul. As Abdul read the terms of the treaty, a self-important smile bloomed across his full lips. He would be the one to put the primary school aggressors in their place; after all, peace was better than war. His name would live forever in the annals of Bakau New Town Primary and Secondary School. He folded the treaty and placed it in his breast pocket.
“Have your forces meet at the disclosed location in fifteen minutes,” Abdul said, “and we can begin peace talks on my terms.”
Modu Lamin nodded in agreement, offered a quick salute, and prepared to rush back to his base. “What is the status of Captain Jibril?” he asked without thinking. He knew that asking about prisoner relations outside the controlled flow of formal negotiations would break decorum. He couldn’t help but worry about the wellbeing of his friend.
Abdul’s face hardened.
“You’ll find out soon enough, he replied. “Trust me, he is in good hands.”
Modu Lamin had no choice but to believe his cordial adversary. He nodded and paced out of the secondary school canteen.
…
“You’re sure he said Jebbi is okay?” Alieu asked as panic lilted his voice.
“Yes,” Modu Lamin assured him. Modu Lamin was now back in the safety of the primary school block. The Confederated Primary School Forces again stood in a neat file beneath the palm nut tree which fed them both bullets and shade.
“In that case, we don’t have much time to waste. Bring out our military uniforms and medals!” Alieu ordered to his subordinates. He, along with his military leadership, needed to be donned in the finest regalia ahead of the official peace talks. A designated team of soldiers quickly dispersed to the row of bushes behind the palm nut tree and returned with their arms aching under the weight of this necessary attire. The outfits included elaborate laurels made of palm leaves, cowrie shells, and baobab bark. Ibrahim gently handed Alieu his commander’s laurel which was fashioned as a rounded and tightly woven crown. Alieu accepted it and placed it carefully on his head. It’s domed frame was supported by a system of carefully interlaced twigs bound by twine. As the crown rested on his head, a rush of pride tingled down his spine, and he desperately wished that the circumstances surrounding this display of grandeur were different.
Next, Alieu donned a necklace heavy with pearly cowrie and polished sea shells. His regalia also included a spate of war medallions made of repurposed tin and copper butut coins. Alieu also wore a leopard print sash borrowed from Modu Lamin’s family fabric store, to highlight his chest and torso. A thick palmwood staff, replete with a dazzling array of embedded shells, tribal markings, and coins, completed the commander’s outfit. The staff was capped with a flint spearhead to ward off all who dared threaten the authority of Commander Alieu Barrow. Alieu’s remaining leadership outfitted themselves with ceremonial uniforms of varying extravagance.
It was time. The unit followed the beat of the army drummer, Aziz, who led the procession in a traditional Ndaga beat on his ornamented djembe. The procession marched openly, not bothering to utilize the traditional back route as they made their way to Camp Dāwud’s neutral territory. Teachers sitting on the stoops of their classrooms laughed, as other students cheered, lining the path of these brave, peace-keeping souls. Camp Dāwud, nestled behind the shrubs of the football field’s south goal, doubled as a spot for casual trade and trysts. The clandestine shack was constructed a few years earlier by a group of secondary school students who hoped to engage in deviant behavior while on school property. Word eventually got out between the two schools, and primary school students began using it to play hide-and-seek, with the more adventurous lot using it to engage in a few premature meet-ups of their own.
The shack was built with palmwood, in a simple four-walled floorplan, roofed and paneled with broad palm leaves. By the time the Confederated Primary School troop arrived, the senior guards had encircled the camp.
“Halt!” Amadou bellowed, stepping out to meet the approaching forces. “Who goes there?”
Modu Lamin stepped forward.
“It is us,” Modu Lamin announced, “the Confederated Forces of Bakau New Town Primary School, directed by Commandant Alieu Barrow, son of Ousmane Barrow, grandson of the ocean, the commander who raises the waves and turns enemy bullets into water and causes palm nuts to fall like rain on his enemies.” Modu Lamin ended his oration with a deep bow to Aziz’s exaggerated drum roll. He doubled as Alieu’s griot during such formal ceremonies.
The gauntlet now fell to Amadou to deliver the opening poem of his own leader.
“I am Amadou Mohammad, singer of the mighty Abdul Seesay, scorer of goals, conqueror of defenses, the one who can defeat an entire army with his tongue and confuse aggressors with his sayings. Abdul the rooster, Abdul the leader of the pride, Abdul commander of the senior secondary forces awaits any who dare step forth.” Amadou bested Modu Lamin’s bow with an even deeper genuflection of his own.
Alieu marched past the row of guards, prostrated griots, and into Camp Dāwud. It took his eyes a few blinks to negotiate the dimness of this lightless room. He made out the hazy outlines of Abdul’s sharp, high-top fade. He kept scanning the room and almost gasped when he saw, to the left of Abdul, the quivering mound of Jebbi, kneeling in the corner. With every ounce of restraint left in him, Alieu refrained from screaming out Jebbi!
Instead, Alieu gave a quick salute as Abdul motioned with a wide sweep of his left arm for Alieu to sit in the chair opposite him.
“Good afternoon, Commander Barrow.”
“Good afternoon, Commander Seesay.”
The two exchanged their greetings curtly, wading gingerly into negotiation.
“Rest assured,” Abdul started, “that your lieutenant was treated with the utmost respect and care, as outlined in the Camp Dāwud Accord.”
“Isn’t that right, Lieutenant Jassey?” Abdul asked with a growing smirk.
“Yes, yes of course,” Jebbi eeked, avoiding eye contact with both Alieu and Abdul. “Commander Seesay, my treatment was very good here.”
“Alright then, let’s begin.” Alieu interjected to limit the heavy silence following Jebbi’s coerced admission.
“I’m sure you received the treaty,” Alieu said.
“Yes, yes, we received it,” Abdul responded. After what felt like an excruciating pause to Alieu, Abdul pulled out a candle and some matches from the small cupboard of the desk before him. The scritch of the match-bud against match box jolted the silence of the negotiation. A nervous breeze flickered the newly lit candle.
Abdul produced his copy of the treaty, two pens, and a jar of Parker Ink, procured from the library supply cabinet. “Go ahead and sign first, I insist,” Abdul said magnanimously.
Alieu immediately nodded, dipping pen into the tiny vault of ink. He scrawled his signature-of-the-week in the requisite leger, then slid the document over to Abdul. Abdul grinned looking over the treaty.
“I’m happy that you primary school boys have finally come to your senses and agreed to stop your stupid palm nut offensives. I agreed to the terms of the treaty. Just instead of a tribute of ten dalasi, our forces require reparations of one hundred dalasi.”
Alieu’s heart thumped. “What?!” he gasped. “That was not in the original treaty. Can’t we negotiate on the price?” Alieu’s eyes darted again to Jebbi, still soundless and dejected in the shack room’s corner.
“That’s what we’re doing, this is a negotiation, but the money terms are unfortunately non-negotiable.” Alieu pleaded. “Abdul, one hundred dalasi is too much.”
“What’s the matter, you primary school boys too broke?” Abdul jeered. “Well, you’ve already signed it, and we took the liberty of updating the terms of the first treaty.”
Alieu looked back down incredulously at the treaty he’d so quickly signed. And there it was penned over a glob of white-out, “one hundred dalasis” instead of ten. Alieu knew this debt would only trap the primary school forces in perpetual servitude to the already overbearing upperclassmen. He had put too much faith in Abdul. Alieu looked again at Jebbi who shared the same disbelieving look. As Abdul continued to put the finishing touches on his elaborate signature, still flashing his cruel smile, Alieu knew he only had a few moments to act. Abdul let out an exaggerated exhale which caused the candle flame to sputter. Alieu instinctively grabbed the candle and flicked its tip, pooling with freshly seared wax towards Abdul’s hands.
“Dammit!” Abdul yelped. Alieu jumped up and rushed to Jebbi, who had already risen to his feet. Alieu ripped the shabby palm twine that had been used to bind his wrists and the two bounded toward the door.
“Code Red, Code Red!” Abdul screamed from inside the room. He struggled in his seat, the candlewax blistering his hands. But it was too late. Upon seeing Alieu and Jebbi, dashing from the Camp Dāwud war room, the primary school forces slipped into gear and also began to run.
Alieu cried, “Run! Run! All confederated primary school forces, retreat!”
Aziz and other high-ranking secondary school boys rushed into the room as they heard Abdul’s continued cursing.
“Someone get him some water and a cloth,” Aziz delegated, eager to aid his ailing commander. “The rest of you, get those damn primary school boys!”
A group of secondary school boys raced back toward the primary school campus, but Alieu’s forces had been too quick, with most of them already sheltered in their classrooms by the time the seniors arrived. Alieu couldn’t remember when he’d last been so relieved to be back in Mrs. Fukundo’s classroom. Though he saw a few of the secondary school boys prowling outside the classroom window, they knew better than to step in.
When Mrs. Fukundo arrived from the teacher’s canteen she was surprised to see so many of her usually rowdy boys so neatly seated and attentive.
“Alieu, Modu Lamin, and Abubakar,” she asked, “what is all that on your uniform?” In the retreat from Camp Dāwud, Alieu and his decorated commanders had forgotten to remove their elaborate regalia. Mrs. Fukundo was no doubt confused by the now disheveled motley of feathers, cowrie shells, palm nuts, and palm leaves hanging from the panting students.
Alieu sprang up. “Oh, Mr. Fukundo, we were just staging a play, and forgot to get out of costume.”
Mrs. Fukundo raised a heavily penciled eyebrow. “A play, you say? Which one?”
Still acting on his feet, Alieu responded nervously. “Oh we just made it up on the spot, like how we learned last week from the Wole Soyinka play you taught us.”
“Ehh God,” Mrs. Fukundo said, “who would have thought I would see the day these boys took their studies seriously.”
Relief relaxed Alieu’s shoulders.
Just as he thought they were off the hook, Mrs. Fukundo turned to Jebbi, whose head was tucked deep in his elbow crease, resting on the table. “I’m so sorry to hear about your cut, Jibril, I hope you feel better. These boys are too rough you know.”
Jebbi jolted upright. “Pardon?” he said. In the heat of escape Alieu hadn’t had the time to inform Jebbi of the cover up they’d concocted in his absence. Thankfully, a string of students walked in ahead of the final bell, which bought Alieu enough time to butt into the conversation.
“Yes, Jebbi was just telling me how much better his leg feels after visiting the infirmary.”
“Alieu Barrow, back in your seat!” she barked. “Jibril can speak for himself.”
Sensing the quiver in Alieu’s voice, Jebbi knew he’d have to lie, and worst of all, lie to his darling teacher, who had just named him as deputy class prefect.
“Yes, I’m—I’m—I’m feeling much be-better.” He stammered, feeling the heat of her gaze burning into him.
“Oh okay, that’s good. Did the nurse give you a note?” Mrs. Fukundo pressed, sensing undue hesitation from her usually even-keel star student.
“No, I don’t think she did. I mean, no, no she didn’t. She said I didn’t need one since I’d be returning during second break.”
Mrs. Fukundo’s face scrunched quizzically. “Hmm, okay Jibril, just be more careful next time; Modu Lamin, Abubakar, and especially you, Alieu, be more careful with him!”
Jebbi turned to Alieu, sitting serenely in his back-row seat, and gave him an appreciative nod. Alieu couldn’t imagine the pain imprisonment must have caused his beloved comrade. Mrs. Fukundo assumed her position at the front of the class room with an elongated pointer in her left hand and a stubby piece of chalk nestled between her right thumb and index finger. “Everyone turn to your history textbook. We will continue our study of Ancient Egypt with the history of Ramses II.”
Alieu settled back into the gentle plodding of Mrs. Fukundo’s voice and started to craft a defense strategy for the secondary school forces’ impending retaliation. The bell clanged again, bringing a close to second break. This time it rang in the ears of all the battle-hardened child soldiers in honor of their heroic victory against their elder foes.
June - July 2020. Vol nº1