A Long Way Gone_ Memoirs of a Boy Soldier - Ishmael Beah [47]
I distanced myself from games in the village and sat behind houses, staring into the open space until my migraines temporarily subsided. I didn’t tell anyone what was happening to me. My symptoms weren’t mentioned in the morning when the “sergeant doctor”—as the civilians called him—lined up children and families for treatment. The sergeant doctor called for fever, cold, and many other illnesses, but he never asked if anyone was having nightmares or migraines.
At night, Alhaji, Jumah, Moriba, and Kanei played marbles on the cement floor under the moonlight that made its way through the open windowpanes. Musa had grown popular among the boys and would always end the night with a different story. I quietly sat in the corner of the room clenching my teeth, as I didn’t want to show my friends the pain I felt from my headache. In my mind’s eye I would see sparks of flame, flashes of scenes I had witnessed, and the agonizing voices of children and women would come alive in my head. I cried quietly as my head beat like the clapper of a bell. Sometimes after the migraine had stopped, I was able to fall asleep briefly, only to be awoken by nightmares. One night I dreamt that I was shot in the head. I was lying in my blood as people hurriedly walked past me. A dog came by and began licking my blood ferociously. The dog bared its teeth as my blood sweetened its mouth. I wanted to scare it away, but I was unable to move. I woke up before it started what I was afraid it was going to do to me. I was sweating and couldn’t sleep for the rest of the night.
One morning the atmosphere in the village suddenly became tense. It wasn’t clear what had caused the change, but something was about to happen. All the soldiers assembled at the village square, dressed in their uniforms, carrying their weapons and ammunition in backpacks and waist belts. Their bayonets hung by the sides of their army trousers as they stood still, with their helmets underneath their arms. “Attention.” “At ease.” “Attention.” “At ease.” I heard the voice of the drill instructor as I walked to the river with Alhaji to fetch water. When we returned, the drill instructor had stopped warming up the soldiers. Instead, Lieutenant Jabati stood in front of his men, his hands crossed behind his back. He addressed them for hours before they were released for lunch. While the lieutenant was talking to his men, we quietly went about our daily chores and at the same time tried to eavesdrop on what he was saying, but in order to hear him, we would have had to get closer and join the line of soldiers, which was out of the question. We walked about all day quietly speculating about what the lieutenant could have told his men.
In the evening the soldiers cleaned their guns, sometimes firing a couple of rounds into the air. These random gunshots sent the younger children diving between the legs of their parents. The soldiers smoked cigarettes and marijuana; some sat alone, while others gambled and joked with one another into the night. Some watched a movie under one of their big tents.
Lieutenant Jabati sat on the verandah of his house and read a book. He would not look up, not even when his men whistled loudly