A Long Way Gone_ Memoirs of a Boy Soldier - Ishmael Beah [80]
The visitors from the European Commission, the UN, UNICEF, and several NGOs arrived at the center in a convoy of cars one afternoon. They wore suits and ties and shook hands with each other before they started walking around the center. Some of the boys followed behind them, and I sat on the verandah with Mambu. All of the visitors were smiling, sometimes adjusting their ties or taking notes on the writing pads they carried. Some of them looked into our sleeping places, and the others took off their jackets and played hand-wrestling games and tug-of-war with boys. Afterward, they were shepherded into the dining room, which had been set up quite nicely for the talent show. Mr. Kamara, the director of the center, gave a few remarks, and then boys started telling Bra Spider and monster stories and performing tribal dances. I read a monologue from Julius Caesar and performed a short hip-hop play about the redemption of a former child soldier that I had written with Esther’s encouragement.
After that event, I became popular at the center. Mr. Kamara called me to his office one morning and said, “You and your friends really impressed those visitors. They know now that it is possible for you boys to be rehabilitated.” I was just happy to have had the chance to perform again, in peace. But Mr. Kamara was in high spirits.
“How would you like to be the spokesperson for this center?” he asked me.
“Ah! What will I have to do or say?” I hesitantly asked. I was beginning to think that this whole thing was being blown out of proportion.
“Well, to begin with, if there is an event on the issue of child soldiers, we will write you something to read. Once you get comfortable, you can begin writing your own speech, or whatever you want.” Mr. Kamara’s serious face told me he meant what he was saying. Not more than a week later, I was talking at gatherings in Freetown about child soldiering and how it must be stopped. “We can be rehabilitated,” I would emphasize, and point to myself as an example. I would always tell people that I believe children have the resilience to outlive their sufferings, if given a chance.
I was at the end of my sixth month when my childhood friend Mohamed arrived at the center. The last time I had seen him was when I left Mogbwemo with Talloi and Junior for a performance in Mattru Jong. He couldn’t come with us that day as he was helping his father work on their kitchen. I had often wondered about what had happened to him, but I never thought I would see him again. I was returning from a gathering at St. Edward’s Secondary School that evening when I saw this light-skinned, skinny boy with bony cheeks sitting on the stoop by himself. He looked familiar, but I wasn’t sure if I knew him. As I approached, he jumped up.
“Hey, man, remember me?” he exclaimed, and began doing the running man and singing “Here Comes the Hammer.”
I joined him, and we did some of the moves we had learned together for a group dance to this particular song. We high-fived each other and then hugged. He was still taller than me. We sat together on the stoop and briefly talked about our childhood pranks. “Sometimes I think about those great times we had dancing at talent shows, practicing new dances, playing soccer until we couldn’t see the ball…It seems like all those things happened a very long time ago. It is really strange, you know,” he said, looking away for a bit.
“I know, I know…” I said.
“You were a troublesome boy,” he reminded me.
“I know, I know…”
It was at the beginning of my seventh month at the rehabilitation center when Leslie came again to have a chat. I was called to a room in the hospital where he waited. When I walked into the room, he stood up to greet me. His face showed both grief and happiness. I had to ask him what the