on his lips, only to find a horse before him. A teenaged boy was in the saddle, a rifle resting awkwardly at his hip. Although the rider wore a scarf pulled up over his nose, Cloudy recognized his eyes. He was an Arab boy from the next village. Cloudy couldn’t recall his name but they had played on opposite sides in several soccer games recently. They greeted each other but the rider’s friendliness was rapidly replaced by a fearful expression. He raised his hand, as if motioning Cloudy away, but at that moment three more men on horseback crashed through the brush, coming to a halt at the Arab boy’s side. Then suddenly the air around them was filled with the noise of shouting, snapping branches, and horses hooves.
“What are you waiting for?” demanded one of the older riders who had drawn up at one side of the young horseman.
“I know him,” the young rider replied quietly. “He’s my friend.”
The older rider spat on the ground in disgust. “Don’t be so feeble,” he grumbled, raising his rifle in one smooth, practiced motion and shooting Cloudy without a moment’s hesitation. “Don’t let me see you do that again,” he warned the young man. “Now help us get these goats together, boy!”
* * *
An hour and a half later, Abdelatif returned to his grandfather’s compound, his long white robe filthy.
“What took you so long? Are the animals okay?” Muhammad asked. “What happened? Speak!”
“They’re gone,” Abdelatif explained, avoiding the sheikh’s eyes. “The Janjaweed stole them all.”
Sheikh Muhammad turned away, shaking his head. His fists gripped by his sides, he started to walk away in anger. “Grandfather,” Abdelatif called after him. “There’s more?”
“It’s Cloudy.”
The sheikh’s eyes widened. “What?”
“He’s dead. They killed him.” Abdelatif shook his head, glancing away, his eyes filling.
“Oh no,” Sheikh Muhammad wailed, his hands covering his face. After a moment he glanced toward the hut of his third wife, Cloudy’s mother, bracing himself for the heartbreaking task ahead of him.
Zara felt a slight push in the small of her back. She looked around and her father gave her a single nod of encouragement. She stepped forward and into her grandfather’s arms, grasping him tightly, her eyes closed, her head against his chest, listening to him mutter his prayers to God. She joined in, praying for her half-brother Cloudy. And she prayed for her grandfather and his third wife, who must now endure such pain. I’m so scared, she thought. Please God, help me to be brave.
Zara’s mother turned to her husband. She was a short woman, whose arched eyebrows and high forehead gave her the appearance of being permanently surprised. This morning, Zara noticed, she looked ten years older. “How did they know to look there for the goats? I thought they were hidden.”
“Only our people knew where they were.” He indicated the village around them with a nod. “And Uthman’s family,” he added.
Sheikh Muhammad patted Zara’s shoulders and pulled away. “Look what they’ve done to our family,” he said, his lower lip trembling. Then he studied the smoking remains of Zara’s hut. “We’re citizens of Sudan, and the authorities should be protecting us,” he announced, his voice suddenly clear.
Zara’s father snorted with astonishment. “We’d do better joining the rebels and killing these dogs, just like they kill us.”
“I shall go and see these rulers of ours and demand they intervene.”
Zara stared at her grandfather in disbelief. The vast majority of Sudanese, be they Arab or African, nomad or farmer, town dweller or villager, young or old, avoided armed representatives of the Khartoum regime at all costs. In each district there were much-feared agents of the National Security and Intelligence Services, either in uniform or mingling with the locals, reporting back conversations and activities that were interpreted as unhelpful to the paranoid and suspicious military dictatorship. When people spoke of “the security” they meant the National Security and Intelligence Services’ armed officers and their spies, supported by the army and the police: they all worked together, the long arm of the ever-present Khartoum regime.
“Right after the burial ceremony we’ll go talk to them,” the sheikh continued.
Abdelatif cleared his throat. “Grandfather, I’ve already buried him, to stop the vultures,” he added. Seeing Sheikh Muhammad’s astonished expression he continued, “And it’s not safe out there anymore.”
“But this is our land,” the sheikh thundered, his hands gripped in tight fists. “And we bury people with dignity, just as we have for centuries.”
Zara felt as if the earth was shifting beneath her feet: the man she relied on for wisdom, above all others, had abruptly lost his sure touch. Even she, a fourteen-year-old, had grasped that the war was about to alter everything. Customs such as burial ceremonies would be sacrificed on the altar of self-preservation. And going to see the very security services waging war against them was not a wise move.
The sheikh shook his head, slowly retreating to the home of Cloudy’s mother. A moment later Zara’s blood ran cold as she heard a wail of disbelief from within the hut. She busied herself, helping her mother shell some beans, but the sound of anguished sobbing filled her mind.
Fifteen minutes later, Muhammad emerged, his eyes sunken and bloodshot, his demeanor suddenly that of an old man. Zara watched as he glanced around the compound, and then pulled himself upright once more, willing himself into his role as their leader.
“Are you coming with me?” he asked Zara’s father.
“They’ll laugh at us.”
“It’s my duty to demand that our security forces protect us. It’ll be a matter of record that we asked for help. I’ll warn them that if they don’t protect us we’ll have no choice but to take up arms and kill the Janjaweed when they return.”
“But the Janjaweed, the Sudanese army and police, the security services—they’re one and the same. You said so yourself.”
“Then let them tell me that to my face.”
Zara saw her father’s eyes go glassy, a sure sign he disagreed, but accepted that it was not his place to argue further.
Zara stood at her mother’s side, watching her grandfather and father ride off on their donkeys, heading toward the district headquarters of the Sudanese army.
“Bye,” she called out after them. Inside she was shaking with fear and uncertainty.
Zara’s mother made no comment on the expedition, but, as usual, she disguised her concern by tackling domestic chores. “Let’s make your father his favorite dish,” she began in a cheerful tone that was so strained, Zara thought her mother might scream at any moment. “You go and get some lentils.”
Zara did as she was told, praying frantically that her father and grandfather would return in time to enjoy the evening meal.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sudanese National Security and Intelligence Regional Headquarters,
