A Long Way Gone_ Memoirs of a Boy Soldier - Ishmael Beah [85]
I lay in my bed night after night staring at the ceiling and thinking, Why have I survived the war? Why was I the last person in my immediate family to be alive? I didn’t know. I stopped playing soccer and table tennis. I went to see Esther every day, though, and would say hello, ask how she was, and then get lost in my own head thinking about what life was going to be like after the center. Sometimes Esther would have to snap her fingers in front of my face to bring me back. At night, I quietly sat on the verandah with Mohamed, Alhaji, and Mambu. I wouldn’t notice when they left the bench that we all sat on.
When the day of my repatriation finally came, I packed my few belongings in a plastic bag. I had a pair of sneakers, four T-shirts, three shorts, toothpaste, a toothbrush, a bottle of Vaseline lotion, a Walkman and some cassettes, two long-sleeved shirts, and two pairs of pants and a tie—these had been bought for me to wear for my conference talks. I waited, my heart beating faster, the way it had when my mother dropped me off for the first time at a boarding school. The van was heard galloping on the gravel road, making its way to the center. Picking up my plastic bag, I walked to the hospital building where I was to wait. Mohamed, Alhaji, and Mambu were sitting on the front steps, and Esther emerged, smiling. The van made a turn and halted at the side of the road. It was late afternoon, the sky was still blue, but the sun was dull, hiding behind the only cloud. Leslie sat in the front seat and waited for me to board, so he could take me to my new home.
“I have to go,” I said to everyone, my voice shaking. I extended my hand to Mohamed, but instead of shaking it, he leapt up and hugged me. Mambu embraced me while Mohamed was still holding me. He squeezed me hard, as if he knew it was goodbye forever. (After I left the center, Mambu went back to the front lines, because his family refused to take him in.) At the end of the hug, Alhaji shook hands with me. We squeezed each other’s hand and stared into each other’s eyes, remembering all that we had been through. I tapped him on the shoulder and he smiled, as he understood that I was saying we were going to be fine. I never saw him again, since he continually moved from one foster home to another. At the end of our handshake, Alhaji stepped back, saluted me, and whispered, “Goodbye, squad leader.” I tapped him on the shoulder again; I couldn’t salute him in return. Esther stepped forward, her eyes watery. She hugged me tighter than she ever had. I didn’t return her hug very well, as I was busy trying to hold back my tears. After she let go, she gave me a piece of paper. “This is my address. Come by anytime,” she said.
I went to Esther’s home several weeks after that. My timing wasn’t good, as she was on her way to work. She hugged me, and this time I squeezed back; this made her laugh after we stood apart. She looked me straight in the eyes. “Come and see me next weekend so we can have more time to catch up, okay?” she said. She was wearing her white uniform and was on her way to take on other traumatized children. It must be tough living with so many war stories. I was just living with one, mine, and it was difficult, as the nightmares about what had happened continued to torment me. Why does she do it? Why do they all do it? I thought as we went our separate ways.