A Long Way Gone_ Memoirs of a Boy Soldier - Ishmael Beah [9]
When people received the message from the miserable messenger, they went into hiding in the forest that very night. But Khalilou’s family had asked us to stay behind and follow them with the rest of their property if things didn’t improve in the subsequent days, so we stayed put.
That night for the first time in my life I realized that it is the physical presence of people and their spirits that gives a town life. With the absence of so many people, the town became scary, the night darker, and the silence unbearably agitating. Normally, the crickets and birds sang in the evening before the sun went down. But this time they didn’t, and darkness set in very fast. The moon wasn’t in the sky; the air was stiff, as if nature itself was afraid of what was happening.
The majority of the town’s population was in hiding for a week, and more people went into hiding after the arrival of more messengers. But the rebels didn’t come on the day they said they would, and as a result, people started moving back into the town. As soon as everyone was settled again, another message was sent. This time the messenger was a well-known Catholic bishop who had been doing missionary work when he ran into the rebels. They didn’t do anything to the bishop except threaten that if he failed to deliver their message they would come for him. Upon receiving the word, people again left town and headed for their various hiding places in the forests. And we were again left behind, this time not to carry Khalilou’s family’s belongings, as we had already taken them into hiding, but to look after the house and to buy certain food products like salt, pepper, rice, and fish that we took to Khalilou’s family in the bush.
Another ten days of hiding, and still the rebels hadn’t arrived. There was nothing to do but conclude that they weren’t coming. The town came alive again. Schools reopened; people returned to their normal routines. Five days went by peacefully, and even the soldiers in town relaxed.
I would sometimes go for walks by myself in the late evening. The sight of women preparing dinner always reminded me of the times I used to watch my mother cook. Boys weren’t allowed in the kitchen, but she made an exception for me, saying, “You need to know how to cook something for your palampo* life.” She would pause, give me a piece of dry fish, and then continue: “I want a grandchild. So don’t be a palampo forever.” Tears would form in my eyes as I continued my stroll on the tiny gravel roads in Mattru Jong.
When the rebels finally came, I was cooking. The rice was done and the okra soup was almost ready when I heard a single gunshot that echoed through the town. Junior, Talloi, Kaloko, Gibrilla, and Khalilou, who were in the room, ran outside. “Did you hear that?” they asked. We stood still, trying to determine whether the soldiers had fired the shot. A minute later, three different guns rapidly went off. This time we started to get worried. “It is just the soldiers testing their weapons,” one of our friends assured us. The town became very quiet, and no gunshots were heard for more than fifteen minutes. I went back to the kitchen and started to dish out the rice. At that instant several gunshots, which sounded like thunder striking the tin-roofed houses, took over town. The sound of the guns was so terrifying it confused everyone. No one was able to think clearly. In a matter of seconds, people started screaming and running in different directions, pushing and trampling on whoever had fallen on the ground. No one had the time to take anything with them. Everyone just ran to save his or her life. Mothers lost their children,