A Long Way Gone_ Memoirs of a Boy Soldier - Ishmael Beah [62]
As we pondered this question, the man who had brought us to the kitchen returned, bringing with him another group of boys, over twenty of them. “These are the new arrivals,” he said to us. Turning to the new boys, he said, “I’ll bring you some food, and please, take your time. There is no need to eat fast.” The boys sat on the opposite side of the dining table and ate as fast as we had. The man sniffed the air and asked, “Who was smoking marijuana in here?” But no one paid him any attention, so he sat down and kept quiet. We stared at the new boys and they at us.
Alhaji broke the silence. “Where are you boys from?” he asked. The boys widened their eyes and stared at Alhaji as if he had just asked them the wrong question. One of the boys, who looked a little older and had no hair on his head, stood up, clenching his fist.
“And who the fuck are you? Do we look like we are here to answer questions for bastar pekin lek you?” He leaned across the table and looked down on Alhaji. Alhaji got up and pushed him. The boy fell, and when he got up, he pulled a bayonet and jumped on the table toward Alhaji. All of us stood up, ready to fight. The man screamed, “Stop it, boys!” but no one listened to him. I took out my grenade and put my fingers inside the pin.
“Do you boys want this to be your last meal, or do you want to answer his question?” I threatened the other boys.
“We are from Kono district,” the boy who held the bayonet said.
“Ah, the diamond area!” Alhaji said. I was still holding the grenade.
“Did you fight in the army or for the rebels?” I sternly asked.
“Do I look like a rebel to you?” he said. “I fought for the army. The rebels burned my village and killed my parents, and you look like one of them.”
“So we all fought on the same side of the war,” Alhaji said, and we all sat down, still glaring at each other. Upon learning that we had all fought for the so-called army, in different parts of the country, we calmed down and talked about what bases we were from. Neither of us had ever heard of the others’ squad or base or the lieutenants who were in charge of the squads. I explained to the other boys that we had arrived just a few minutes before them. They told me that they had been randomly selected, too, and asked by their commander to follow the men who visited their base. None of us knew why our commanders had let us go. We were excellent fighters and were ready to fight the war till the end. One boy was telling us that he thought the foreigners gave our commanders money in exchange for us. No one said anything to this. I still had the grenade in my hand as we conversed. Sometime during the conversation I turned to the man who had brought us to the kitchen. He was sitting at the edge of the table, shaking. His forehead perspired profusely. “Do you know why our commanders gave us up to you sissy civilians?” I asked the man, pointing the grenade at him. He put his head under the table as if I was going to throw the grenade at him. He was too nervous to answer me.
“He is a sissy civilian, let’s go ask the other boys,” the boy who had pulled his bayonet suggested. His name was Mambu, and I later became friends with him. We left the man, still under the kitchen table, and headed for the verandah. As we walked up the steps, we saw the three MPs sitting at the entrance of the compound, chatting and ignoring us. The two foreigners had left. We walked up to the boys sitting quietly on the verandah.
“Do you boys know why your commanders gave you up to these civilians?” Alhaji asked, and all the quiet boys stood up and turned their angry faces to him, staring silently.
“Are you boys deaf?” Alhaji continued. He turned to me: “They don’t know anything.”
“We do not want to be bothered by anyone,” one of the boys said in a deep voice. “And we do not want to answer any questions from a civilian.