with both brothers away, he was the oldest child at home and already had more responsibilities. He took over Aleer’s old job of finding new grazing each day for the three cows kept close by. Early in the morning, he helped his mother milk the cows. Then, after drinking a big jug of milk, he would be gone until late in the afternoon. He always carried a sharpened spear with him for protection and a stick to prod the animals.
Except for the large plastic bottle of water he took along, he had nothing to drink or eat until evening. Again, he must sleep in the hut with his mother and sisters. He was too young to stay alone in the boys’ hut because of the danger posed by wild animals.
Days became hotter as the rains diminished at the beginning of the month of Kol. Ayuel returned from his day’s work, tired and thirsty. He tapped his cows with his long stick to make them go into the pen of upright poles tied together. They moved sluggishly, but obediently. He closed the gate and fastened it. Milking would be done again later in the evening. The new responsibility with the cattle made him feel proud, yet he felt fearful all alone out in the pastures, especially today.
His mother was grinding grains of millet with a mortar and pestle in front of the cooking hut. He wandered over and sat in the shade of the tukul. She smiled at him and handed him a calabash gourd of water from the well. She had been waiting for him. He drank until his stomach felt tight and uncomfortable. Beans for the evening meal simmered in a pot over the charcoal fire. A ripe melon lay on a stone slab next to fresh fish ready to broil. The baby slept contentedly on a straw mat under a mimosa tree while nearby his little sister, Achol, played idly with pebbles.
“I thought I heard guns today, Mama.” Ayuel shaded his eyes and faced the huge orange ball of sun, filtered through the dust-filled air.
She pounded the grain harder. “What time was that, Ayuel?” She didn’t change expression or look at him.
“It was about noon, I think, because there weren’t any shadows.” He didn’t want to worry her, so he added, “But the guns sounded far away, and then I didn’t hear them again.” He knew something about the civil war with the North.
“Well, that is good.” She stopped pounding and looked at him with a nervous smile. “Your father will be home soon. He wants to take you into Bor sometime—to the souk, the big market. We need to buy some things, and it will be fun for you to see all the different kinds of merchants and the items they sell.”
She began pounding again, making the fine flour for bread. Ayuel watched her work. She wore a loose cotton dress that fell just below the knees. It was blue with some kind of large yellow flowers. A multicolored scarf was wrapped in a turban around her head. Even though she had given birth to five children, she had kept her beauty. Maybe that was because his father’s position made their lives easier than others.
That November night in 1987, Ayuel said his prayers with his mother, as was the routine. He noticed her Christian prayer included a longer list of relatives, their village of Duk, the entire Bor region and Southern Sudan. He fell asleep in a T-shirt, but not the one with Maradona on it. He slept soundly and dreamed he was with Aleer in the cattle camp.
Ayuel awoke abruptly to his mother’s shrill voice, “Ayuel, are you awake?” He heard loud banging noises that hurt his ears and he smelled smoke. Startled, he sat up and rubbed his eyes. In the total darkness, he felt dizzy and frightened.
“Quick, Ayuel!” his mother shouted. “We must go!” The baby was crying in her arms. Without thinking, he grabbed his mutkukalei—sandals made from a discarded tire. They ran outside and kept running. He flinched at the sound of a booming crash. Looking behind him, he saw an orange-red plume of fire leap into the dark skies.
Bombs!
Gunfire crackled behind them. Voices moaned, screamed, shouted. Children cried. Ayuel felt the heat of fire at his back. The stench of burning tukuls choked him. The flames broke the darkness. Silhouettes like black ghosts ran past in the eerie light.
His mother was running with the baby in one arm and pulling Achol with her other hand. Ayuel ran close beside them. The toddler struggled to keep up. Ayuel reached out to help her but a clump of thorn bushes briefly widened the gap separating them. He reached toward her again, his eyes darting frantically in an effort to keep her and his mother in his sight.
A grenade exploded between them with a deafening bang.
Ayuel jumped to the right. His mother with his sisters sprang to the left—and disappeared into the running crowds. His mouth and nose filled with hot dust and his eyes stung. He felt hot tears roll back into his hair and trickle into his ears. Like a baby bird pushed from the nest, he felt weak and frightened.
With bleared vision, he saw his friend Tor wobbling along, naked, the open flesh of his side torn in shreds, dripping blood.
“Ayue—lo…help…” His friend reached out a mangled hand, but Ayuel turned his eyes away. Fear drove him on. He knew inside it was wrong not to stop, but his feet kept running, pounding the earth as he clutched his mutkukalei. He nearly tripped on a body lying on the ground as he sped onward.
The distant civil war he’d heard the men of Duk talk about in hushed voices became real as Ayuel ran that night. All he felt was terror. Gunfire from helicopters killed many of the villagers as they fled in the darkness. The oldest and youngest fell behind from lack of strength. Those who could, kept running. They ran for miles without stopping. Though strong for a seven-year-old, Ayuel found it hard to keep up. He didn’t want to be among those moaning on the ground.
In the light before dawn, Ayuel could see hundreds of people fleeing—all headed in the same direction. Like a stampede of elephants, the pounding rhythm filled the air and vibrated the earth beneath him. The cadence swept him along as if his feet had no will of their own. If he stopped, surely he would be trampled. He struggled for air to breathe.
The sounds became louder. He looked up and saw three planes passing low, the roar of their motors mixing with the noise on the ground. They swept on.
Then, there were deafening blasts.
Rolls of dark smoke plummeted skyward as the planes let loose their fire in the distance ahead. The crowd scattered and Ayuel tripped and fell over blackened pumpkin vines, still warm from the fires of the night before. No one trampled on him as most of the people had turned away from the ruins.
He looked out across a destroyed village where the rising sun cast shadows of broken trees. Duk must look like this now. A few partly blackened tukuls still stood. Maybe ours didn’t get burned. A three-legged dog whimpered as it sniffed through the rubbish. Ayuel tried to block the awful smells with the back of his hand. A stiffened cow lay just inches away.
Terror gripped him. Beyond the cow lay a cut-off human arm, covered in clotted blood and buzzing flies. As more bodies and parts of dead people came into focus, his own screams startled him. He closed his eyes and sat still among the vines for a very long time, nearly passing out.
When he dared look again, a few people walked about, picking up anything useful. A group of older boys walked toward him, two he recognized from his village. He watched as they broke open a large pumpkin and laughed in shrill humorless voices. But just as he gathered courage to call out to them, they turned away and left him sitting alone.
Tears
