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Authors: E.C. Osondu

Voice of America

BOOK: Voice of America
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VOICE OF
AMERICA

S
TORIES

E. C. Osondu

Warmly and affectionately dedicated to the memory
of my mother, Kadi Beatrice Osondu

Waiting

M
y name is Orlando Zaki. Orlando is taken from Orlando, Florida, which is what is written on the T-shirt given to me by the Red Cross. Zaki is the name of the town where I was found and from which I was brought to this refugee camp. My friends in the camp are known by the inscriptions written on their T-shirts. Acapulco wears a T-shirt with the inscription “Acapulco.” Sexy’s T-shirt has the inscription “Tell Me I’m Sexy.” Paris’s T-shirt says “See Paris and Die.” When she is coming toward me, I close my eyes because I don’t want to die. Even when you get a new T-shirt, your old name stays with you. Paris just got a new T-shirt that says “Ask Me About Jesus,” but we still call her Paris and we are not asking her about anybody. There was a girl in the camp once whose T-shirt said “Got Milk?” She threw the T-shirt away because some of the boys in the camp were always pressing her breasts forcefully to see if they had milk. You cannot know what will be written on your T-shirt. We struggle and fight for them and count ourselves lucky that we get anything at all. Take Lousy, for instance; his T-shirt says “My Dad
Went to Yellowstone and Got Me This Lousy T-Shirt.” He cannot fight, so he’s not been able to get another one and has been wearing the same T-shirt since he came to the camp. Though what is written on it is now faded, the name has stuck. Some people are lucky: London had a T-shirt that said “London” and is now in London. He’s been adopted by a family over there. Maybe I will find a family in Orlando, Florida, that will adopt me.

Sister Nora is the one who told me to start writing this book—she says, “The best way to forget is to remember, and the best way to remember is to forget.” That is the way Sister Nora talks, in a roundabout way. I think because she is a Reverend Sister she likes to speak in parables like Jesus. She is the one who has been giving me books to read. She says I have a gift for telling stories. This is why she thinks I will become a writer one day.

The first book she gave me to read was
Waiting for Godot.
She says the people in the book are waiting for God to come and help them. Here in the camp, we wait and wait and then wait some more. It is the only thing we do. We wait for the food trucks to come and then we form a straight line and then we wait a few minutes for the line to scatter, then we wait for the fight to begin, and then we fight and struggle and bite and kick and curse and tear and grab and run. And then we begin to watch the road and wait to see if the water trucks are coming, we watch for the dust trail, and then we go and fetch our containers and start waiting and then the trucks come and the first few containers are filled and the fight and struggle and tearing and scratching begin because someone has whispered to someone that the water tanker was only half full. That is, if we are lucky and the water tanker comes; oftentimes, we just bring out our containers and start waiting and praying for rain to fall.

Today we are waiting for the photographer to come and take our pictures. The pictures that the Red Cross people send to their people abroad who in turn show them to different people in foreign countries. After looking at the pictures, the foreign families will choose those they like to come and live with them. This is the third week we have been waiting for the photographer, but he has to pass through the war zone so he may not even make it today. After he’s taken the photographs, we have to wait for him to print them and bring them back. We then give them to the Red Cross people and start waiting for a response from abroad.

I want to go and join my friend under the only tree still standing in the camp. Acapulco is raising a handful of red dust into the air to test for breeze; the air is stagnant, and the red earth falls back in a straight line.

“Orlando, do you think the photographer will come today?” he asks.

“Maybe he will come.”

“Do you think an American family will adopt me?”

“Maybe, if you are lucky.”

“Will they find a cure for my bedwetting?”

“There is a tablet for every sickness in America.”

“I am not sick, I only wet myself in my sleep because I always dream that I am urinating outside and then I wake up and my shorts are wet. I think it was only a dream, but the piss is real.”

“The same dream every night?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think that if I go to America, my parents will hear about me and write to me and I will write to them and tell my new family to let them come over and join me?”

“When the war ends, your parents will find you.”

“When will the war end?”

“I don’t know, but it will end soon.”

“If the war will end soon, why are the Red Cross people sending us to America?”

“Because they don’t want us to join the Youth Brigade and shoot and kill and rape and loot and burn and steal and destroy and fight to the finish and die and not go to school.”

Sister Nora says it is good to ask questions, that if you ask questions you will never get lost. Acapulco begins to throw the sand up once more, testing for a breeze. Pus is coming out of his ears, and this gives him the smell of an egg that is a little rotten. This was another reason people kept away from him. A fly is buzzing around his ear; he ignores it for some time, and at the exact moment the fly is about to perch, he waves it away furiously.

“I wish I had a dog,” he said.

“What do you want to do with the dog?”

“I will pose with the dog in my photograph that they are sending to America because white people love dogs.”

“But they also like people.”

“Yes, but they like people who like dogs.”

“London did not take a picture with a dog.”

“Yes, London is now in London.”

“Maybe you will soon be in Acapulco,” I said, laughing. “Where is Acapulco?”

“They have a big ocean there, it is blue and beautiful.”

“I don’t like the ocean, I don’t know how to swim, I want to go to America.”

“Everyone in America knows how to swim; all the houses have swimming pools.”

“I will like to swim in a swimming pool, not the ocean. I hear
swimming pool water is sweet and clean and blue and is good for the skin.”

We are silent. We can hear the sound of the aluminum sheets with which the houses are built. They make an angry popping noise like pin-sized bullets. The houses built with tarpaulins and plastic sheets are fluttering in the breeze like a thousand plastic kites. Acapulco raises a handful of dust in the air. The breeze carries it away. Some of it blows into our faces, and Acapulco smiles.

“God is not asleep,” he says. I say nothing.

“There used to be dogs here in the camp.” He had been in the camp before me. He was one of the oldest people in the camp.

There were lots of black dogs. They were our friends, they were our protectors. Even though food was scarce, the dogs never went hungry. The women would call them whenever a child squatted down to shit and the dogs would come running. They would wait for the child to finish and lick the child’s buttocks clean before they ate the shit. People threw them scraps of food. The dogs were useful in other ways too. In those days, the enemy still used to raid the camp frequently. We would bury ourselves in a hole and the dogs would gather leaves and other stuff and spread it atop the hole where we hid. The enemy would pass by the hole and not know we were hiding there.

But there was a time the Red Cross people could not bring food to the camp for two weeks because the enemy would not let their plane land. We were so hungry we killed a few of the dogs and used them to make pepper soup. A few days later, the Red Cross people were let through and food came. The dogs were a bit wary, but they seemed to understand it was not our fault.

And then, for the second time there was no food for a very long
time. We were only able to catch some of the dogs this time. Some of them ran away as we approached, but we still caught some and cooked and ate them. After that we did not see the dogs again; the ones that ran away kept off. One day, a little child was squatting and having a shit. When the mother looked up, half a dozen of the dogs that had disappeared emerged from nowhere and attacked the little child. While the mother screamed, they tore the child to pieces and fled with parts of the child’s body dangling between their jaws. Some of the men began to lay ambush for the dogs and killed a few of them. They say the dogs had become as tough as lions. We don’t see the dogs anymore. People say it is the war.

I decided I was going to ask Sister Nora. As if reading my mind, Acapulco told me not to mention it to anyone. He said people in the camp did not like talking about the dogs.

“I am not sure the photographer will still come today,” I said.

“Sometimes I think there is a bullet lodged in my brain,” Acapulco said.

“If you had a bullet in your brain, you would be dead.”

“It went in through my bad ear. I hear explosions in my head, bullets popping, voices screaming,
‘Banza, banza
bastard, come out, we will drink your blood today,’ and then I smell carbide, gunsmoke, burning thatch. I don’t like smelling smoke from fires when the women are cooking with firewood; it makes the bullets in my brain begin to go off.”

“You will be fine when you get to America. They don’t cook with firewood; they use electricity.”

“You know everything, Zaki. How do you know all these things though you have never been to these places?”

“I read a lot of books—books contain a lot of information. Sometimes they tell stories too,” I say.

“I don’t like books without pictures; I like books with big, beautiful, colorful pictures.”

“Not all books have pictures. Only books for children have pictures.”

“I am tired of taking pictures and sending them abroad to families that don’t want me; almost all the people I came to the camp with have found families and are now living abroad. One of my friends sent me a letter from a place called Dakota. Why has no family adopted me, do you think they don’t like my face?”

“It is luck; you have not found your luck yet.”

BOOK: Voice of America
13.25Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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