Alor Biong moved stealthily along the shores of the river Kiir, ducking low from time to time. It was his turn to watch for danger that might surprise the crew. It had been weeks since his arrival from Abyei town and he didn’t miss it. He loved it here in Kiirkou, if only because he was almost beyond Arab humiliation. Almost because the Messirya still brought their cows as far as the river kiir, accompanied by their heavily armed mobile force. Alor was on the lookout for them now.
It was early morning. Dew dripped from the tree leaves and birds twittered, excited for the new day. Thick fog hang on the river banks, and Alor moved as quietly as he could. He carried no gun; they hadn’t taught him how to use it yet. The few guns available were for those who knew how to use them. So, Alor only carried a machete. His clothes were damp and soaked in dew, but he felt surprisingly good. The knowledge that he was doing something the Arabs didn’t want him doing was good. He wanted to hurt them too. They acted like they were immortal in Abyei town. Alor intended to show them that in Kiirkou, all men are mortal.
A lone Messirya rider suddenly appeared on the banks of the river, and Alor almost jumped. Such an abrupt appearances implied that the very people you spied on could also easily spy on you. Alor looked around nervously. His young eyes did not spot a second rider. A scout then. The crew commander had promised to get him a gun if he could spot a lone armed Arab. Alor had been on the lookout every time he was on sentry duty. And his chance had come today. He ducked low and executed a prearranged signal. A hooting like that of an owl. Owls were rare in the forests of Kiirkou, but they trusted that the Arabs wouldn’t know this.
Alor cupped his hands and brought them to his mouth. He produced a perfect hooting sound; even a hunter wouldn’t have been able to tell that the sound had come from a man and not from the bird. He made the sound twice and waited, restless, fearing that the lone raider would disappear, and this becomes another lost opportunity. Come on. The reply was taking longer than usual. Alor peeped out from the undergrowth where he hid. The lone rider was still there, glancing around nervously while his horse drank from the river. The reply came in two bursts, perfect. Only the leader of the crew could do this. Alor was glad he had not sent anyone but came to do the task himself. He was the sharpest shooter they had.
There was a little disturbance in the undergrowth under one of the trees nearby, and Alor hid, just a precaution in case another Messirya scout should turn up this way. It was Captain Kuol who surfaced from the undergrowth. He made gestures to Alor to show him where the enemy he had spotted was. Alor pointed with his hand without leaving his hiding place. Captain Kuol fell into position and aimed at the unsuspecting Arab scout. Alor watched him, praying silently that he didn’t miss, even though Alor knew well that the captain was a sharp shooter.
* * *
Captain Kuol slid down belly first, aiming at the Messirya rider’s head. Slowly, he brought his hand to the trigger and fingered it. He hesitated a bit. Taking a man’s life still unsettled him, even though he had taken more than a dozen lives already. It just didn’t feel right, even though he knew he did it for the greater good. The trigger felt strangely cold. He hesitated for another heartbeat, wishing the Messirya would ride away. Only he didn’t. Captain Kuol pulled the trigger and felt the bullet hit the man before the sound of the gunshot spread in the forest, echoing. Not even the murmuring of nature could subdue the sound. The rider fell and his horse ran.
“Get the gun quickly, “the captain said.
“Yes, sir!” Alor replied and ran off.
The captain maintained his position, gun readily aimed as cover for Alor, just in case a second rider should have heard the gunshot and come to help. The lad returned carrying the gun clumsily. The captain quickly removed the magazine and emptied the gun of any bullet that might be in muzzle, then handed it back to Alor.
Any gunshot in Kiirkou was always too loud given the dense forest. All their operations thus depended upon haste. They ran for it, making no effort to cover their tracks as it was no good in the wet ground. They wouldn’t go to their base yet’ it was one of the codes of the bandits of Kiirkou. The Messirya should never know their hideout. Even if it meant the death of the one being pursued, he must run, lead the pursuer in the wrong direction. They kept running. After a while, captain Kuol stopped and put his hand up in a military style gesture, hand rolled into a fist. Alor stopped beside him. The captain seemed attentive. He listened with well-trained ears, sharpened by years of training himself to listen attentively. Survival as an outlaw required a lot of listening. Any little sounds ignored could lead to death. They were always being hunted.
“We are being followed,” he said, still listening, “A rider, possibly two. Even more. So, we run in water now; they are a bit far off. They follow our tracks not the sounds. They can’t hear us. “
The two men ran, splashing through water and skipping muddy spots only to step into the next pool of water. The captain put up his right hand again and rolled it into a fist. Alor stopped.
“We climb this tree,” the captain said, pointing at a tree that stood in a pool of water, the trunk mostly submerged. Both men climbed up and waited, having hidden themselves securely under the leaves. They heard splashes of water shortly afterwards, and somebody cursed in Arabic.
“Confound the Jenge! “a voice said.
“They grow bolder by each passing day.” a second voice said.
“If only they could stop and face us,” the first voice said.
“They will do no such thing. They know they only strive with guerrilla tactics given their weaponry.”
“You’d wonder who teaches these Jenge such things.”
“The Western missionaries of course, pretending to preach religion while in reality they prepare these savages for a revolution.”
“We’ll have to talk to Colonel Yasin Mohammed into bringing his forces this way – sshhh.”The first voice cautioned.
Captain Kuol peered through the leaves and could just make out an outline of what looked like two riders. The fog still hung thick. They weren’t moving in their direction; something had apparently drawn their attention. The two riders turned their horses to the opposite direction and galloped off, chasing whatever had drawn their attention.
The two men waited in their hiding place. They suspected that this abrupt retreat was intended to make them feel secure and be lured out of their hiding place. They waited for a long time after the riders had left, then came out of hiding. Captain Kuol released a sigh of relief. Still alive. He glanced at Alor, who still hugged a branch tight.
“Cheer up, little man,” Captain Kuol said. “The worst is yet to come.”
They climbed down and began their long meandering journey to the base. Nobody went to the base directly. One had to meander. This involved moving around the base several times until they were sure they weren’t being followed.
The two men entered the base an hour later, exhausted to the bone but with something to show for their efforts. A gun. An extra gun was always welcome here. The crew cheered when they saw the gun. Everybody was happy to see their captain back safely. They wanted him to have an escort wherever he went, but the captain would have none of that.
“We’ll have enough time for such military shows once in Bilpam,” the captain always said.
* * *
The crew stood in a military style parade. Twelve strong, excluding their captain. Most were young men, but old men were there too. The Arabs pushed everybody to the breaking point. Those who broke stayed serving them forever. Those who didn’t either escaped to areas beyond their reach or ran to the bush to start a resistance.
“Attention men!” the captain said. “We’ll leave the base for a few days. It’s time you train to be physically fit, or I won’t make it to Bilpalm with this sorry lot.“
—
Read – The End is the Beginning – A Short Story by Sam Shae, Zimbabwe
Lino Arop Kuol is a fresh graduate of Business Administration with a dream of becoming an acclaimed author. Fuelled by an insatiable love for storytelling, he began writing stories in High school after reading and getting inspired by C.S Lewis’ ‘The Silver Chair’ and understanding that human imagination is a wonderful thing. Over the years, his short stories have appeared in magazines like CC&D and Writers Space Africa. He has also participated in writing contests and was first runner-up at the inaugural South Sudan Independence Young Writers Awards, 2020.
Currently absorbed in his debut novel, ‘ The Cycle of Hate’, Lino finds that his childhood years in the war torn Sudan provides an excellent understanding of the second Sudanese civil war which is the subject of most of his stories.
While Bilpham remains the center for the Southern Sudan liberation, the people of Abyiei who’d faced Arab continued manhunt were the heart of the liberation. History might have been forgotten, but we have Arop as a storyteller of that which was (is) true.