Win an Autographed Copy of To Live Again and a Lunch Date With the Author

Hello guys,

Let’s do it like in the old times.

You answer a simple question and then you get a gift and eat my food too. I am giving out autographed copies of my book, To Live Again (which will be released in print next month) to winners of the trivia quiz competition I’m hosting here.

tla coverTo enter for the competition, simply answer the trivia question below and send your answer to my Facebook page inbox.

Question: In the African epic fantasy series, Sorrows of Udi, who said the below statement? To who? And on what occasion? Continue reading Win an Autographed Copy of To Live Again and a Lunch Date With the Author


Book Review: To Live Again

tla cover

Stunning read, I fell in love with Damilola from the first page

Book Title: To Live Again

Author: Ray Anyasi

Genre: Adventure, thriller, Women fiction

Publisher: Naphtali Publishers

Reviewer: Chidimma Osakwe

Damilola Koka went for NYSC in Gumao in the early days of Boko Haram and in the middle of a community crisis she and her friends were lost in a forest.

When I began to read this story, I was first skeptical about the writing style Anyasi has adopted in telling this story. I had never before read any book in that style and I was wondering if he would make any sense out of it. However, only ten pages into the book it began to look like the perfect style to apply in telling this peculiar story and get the impact the author intended to have on the reader. Just from reading the synopsis one would acknowledge the manner of work the writer needs Continue reading Book Review: To Live Again

The Other Room: Excerpt


Questioning love…

This video I am about to watch will change everything. My willingness to click play alone raises an enormous question on my faith in my family.  And if I watch and it turns out what I suspect it is, everything collapses. Everything I have believed about my marriage is about to be destroyed or validated by seeing what is contained in this video.

I am gliding the tip of my index finger over the mouse pad of my computer, not sure if I was ready to shame or be shamed. Not sure I was ready to be shocked.

I looked over my shoulder, Bolu was about to die from holding his breath. I’m not sure I want to see this with anyone else, not even a Continue reading The Other Room: Excerpt

This Town: a postcard of terror…excerpt

This Town Ray Anyasi

Chapter One

I should be delighted to be on the road to Damakuli for the first time since 2002. It should be able to thrill me in so many ways for so many reasons. Yet the apprehension hanging on my throat had flooded away all other emotions, safe tiny jots of grief in certain corners of my heart.
I wouldn’t have been grieved in any way for the death of Mohmodu if he wasn’t my sister’s husband. Even with that relationship of ours -which I think is most unwelcome- I didn’t lose a drop of tear when I got the news of his death. I was only sad for Ruqayatu who in her young age would have to Continue reading This Town: a postcard of terror…excerpt

To Live Again: Excerpt

To Live Again amazon


Hey Kayode,
This is no love letter; it bears a message that’s least romantic. See, time has changed, a lot have happened and I’m no longer the same old Damilola. This story broke the Dami you knew and re-made a new me you’d never come to comprehend. If what we had was a union that takes two to work, then we’re broken because a working part has been altered. For what it’s worth, you’re a great guy and this has absolutely nothing to do with you. You’re the perfect guy for the girl I use to be.
When I was called to serve motherland, all I had in mind was to go have the fun of my life, not the neck-breaking kind but the usual kind of fun a young girl fantasizes about before an all-youth retreat. If you know what I mean.
If the story you’re about to read pushes you close to the edge of your seat, know that it pushed me closer to the edge of death. It was a time that tried my soul with trials that as I have now come to understand did not necessarily tell who I am but instead, presented the question of who I am. A question I was left to answer by no other means but my direct reaction to those trials.
I won’t remind you of those blissful romantic moments we shared, that could be torturous to you, but I’d like you to know they use to mean the world to me. How we watched the stars in each other’s arms in maami’s veranda and planned to name that bright one usually on the south-west sky after our first child. How we sang love songs each night loud enough to peeve the neighbors. How we went window shopping for wedding rings and gowns. How we…damnit Kayode, I promised not to bring back those times.
Here’s something to help you get over me, ours wasn’t the most perfect union of all times, we had our flaws and we disagreed on quite a lot. For instance, you stammer embarrassingly and my talkative habit annoys you. My favorite color is red but you’re too superstitious not to see red as a bad omen. You want to spend a greater part of your life in the hinterlands of Ile-ife while I craved for the Igboro of Eko.
While you swore to love me come rain come shine, in paradise or hell, you’ve had Bukky, Shade and the other chubby-cheeked belle. That’s as much as I can tell. You’ve lied to me countless times and I’m not innocent in that aspect either.
In all these, we had what others would die for, a friendship and understanding that’s inexplicable. We finish each other’s sentences and some other emotional fallacies one can find in a typical Harlequin best seller. You’ve broken my heart before but you came running with apologies. That’s sheer courage. Now I’m turning my back on us without adequate apologies because no amount will be adequate.
I wish for your sake I can say I’d miss you but you should know that the Dami that’d miss you is gone. If however it makes you feel any better you can go ahead and believe so. All that is behind us now, I’m speeding towards my new world in this bus with no plan of a possible return. I’m writing this letter, having deep thoughts about you for maybe the last time. You’re a good guy; I’m a changed girl.
Do what you wish with this diary when you get it. Knowing who you are, I think you’d first be clueless what to do with it. Then you’d determine to put it up that iron book shelf in your room in the midst of your devastation to sit sandwiched by your least read titles. If you ever want to please the girl I was which you well know, you’d find a way to publish it, peradventure the world would find it hugely compelling. You might make a fortune from it after all; let that be a legacy from that old girl that loved you.
In all these, please find a liberal heart to wish me well in my new life. From the depth of my heart I truly wish you find that new girl that would complement you the way the old me did. That would love you the way the old me did. That would criticize and at the same time respect your decisions the way the old me did. And above all, that would tame your ego like the old me did.
I’m not ignorant of the obvious fact that this would hurt you bad. After yesterday’s incidence I thought it appropriate to make you read this diary. If you’d be affected by this drastic change in me then it’s only fair that I try my best to let you know what caused it. If I ever looked into your eyes to say I love you, then you deserve to know of the tornado that blew that love away.
Though we never factor heart break into the plot of a romance, they happen all the same. It’s the cord break that is never written into the symphony. It’s the paint splash on canvass that’s never preconceived by the artist. At its worst, it’s that grand iceberg thousands of nautical miles away the Titanic maker did not foresee.
These lines from Robert Burns keep ringing in my head,
Had we never lov’d sae kindly
Had we never lov’d sae blindly
Never met-or never parted,
We had never been broken-hearted.
Hope you still love poems?

* * * * * *

Sunday, July 11, 2010. 5:45pm
(Lahadi,Yuli goma sha daya, shekara 2010. Karfe biyar da minti arbain da biyar na rana)

Our camp commandant is a fantasy liar. He tells us untrue stories of military exploits and engagements he wishes he had in his career. He’s that kind of liar that brings his dreams and fantasies to life inside your head. He’s that good, on his good day, he could lie you to death faster than his gun could kill. For instance, last night he gathered us outside our hostel around a blazing campfire of condemned tires and few woods from broken furniture. We listened with only a few interruptions to his tale of a UN peace-keeping mission he partook in. He said it was in 2006 in Kigali.
He narrated with a wistful stare into blank space with pride the details of the role he played, how honor swelled in him whenever he fired a shot at the bad guys.
As intriguing as his stories were, they were at best fictional. In my memory was no record of a crisis in that land at that time to demand the involvement of him and his bad-guys-shooting fellows. He craftily failed to give a clear answer when I pressed him to give factual details but I knew not to press too hard to kill the fun of the night. I’d be damned if I did.
The other girls either did not want to kill the fun too or did not know a thing about the topic to detect even the biggest lie. One however would not tell a false story about Lindsey Lohan or any of those western pop stars on MTV without being caught. We know those stories better.
Captain Mahmoud is a fine soldier in built and courage –the courage part is what I can’t say under oath. He carries taut bulky muscles and stood at six feet, give or take an inch. A lady’s delight if you imagine him topless –which I often catch myself doing. We share same complexion, shiny dark and smooth skin, smoother than I would expect from a soldier’s skin.
Unlike the meekness of his face, his totally shaved scalp adds a little toughness to his look. That also is usually countered by his occasional generous smile that reveals a well spaced dental orientation, a smile that fades all too quickly. Especially when he’s lying up a storm.
I also consider him patriotic. I know there isn’t a reliable yardstick to measure that after just a few moments with him or anyone. I can however attest to that from the rueful tone of his often expressed disdain for the menace in different regions of the country…how uniform it is. I mean his eagerness to take out the Boko haram bomb boys matches his wishes that the JTF crushes the militants down south.
I’ve grown fond of him now, and his well cooked up stories are part of the few things I’d miss when we leave this camp.

It’s my seventh day in this Walio camp and my experience has been an equivalent blend of fun and sweat. I know a larger portion of both lay ahead for me in the coming days but like every other person here, I hope I find more of the former.
My laziness has come to manifest in no small measure, no thanks to the early morning parades and the stupid military drill they put us through. The endurance trek comes up in four days and I’m yet to find a way around it. Fluttering my eyes at Mahmoud is yet to yield any tangible result but, I don’t plan to give up.
My biggest nightmares in this camp are the mosquitoes. I woke up this morning to find that my net has been stolen, and it wasn’t a big deal to my bedmate. Someone has to be fracking kidding me. Yet I was least bothered because I usually don’t get out-done in things like this. Soon, very soon, after lights out, I’d find the next person or persons to lose a net. The thief only gave me a good mind to end up with a spare net tonight.

Friday, July 16, 2010. 2:15pm
(Jumma’a, Yuli goma sha shidda, shekara 2010. Karfe biyu da minti goma sha biyar na rana)

Men are timid! They fight hard to hide it. That’s a fact I’ve come to confirm for myself in the past two weeks -please a round of applause for me.
A young man who would love to say Hello would stay for almost eternity before he summons adequate courage to go ahead. Sometimes when he does eventually, he stutters in the opening conversation. How awkward.
As is typical of me, I’ve been the most fortunate with the best hunks than a handful of the ladies. I’m yet to figure why I become their favorite.
It could be the graceful glide of my steps or the sway it produces in my curvy hips. It might as well be the charm in my smile, the inexplicable innocence of my stare or perhaps the vitality of my laughter. It could be a combo of two or three of these. It could even be none of them. Perhaps something I haven’t noticed about myself. I take it it’s the Maya Angelou in me, that I’m simply a phenomenal woman. I love saying that to myself. You wouldn’t blame me for choosing to believe a few of the many flatteries I get from the dudes.
Still on the guys around here, it appears every one of them has a compliment –mostly insincere- in his mouth waiting for the slightest chance to pour it on you. From my early teenage-hood, I’d learnt how to handle compliments and flattery alike especially when it’s from that aesthetically challenged guy next door. However, when it’s coming from that pink-coloured lips guy who’s succeeded in taking up my entire fantasy space…I get lost for words at best.
A good instance happened with Francis a few days back. By my standards he’s the most charming on camp that I’d seen. And mind you, my standards are pretty high. He offered to buy my lunch which I accepted after much gragra.
Before and during the lunch Francis was impeccably gentlemanly but it was nothing beyond the usual hail-fellow-well-met gesture typical with boys these days. He opened the door for me, carried my dish to our table, pulled my chair, did not sit down till I was seated and after I’d taken about three spoonfuls he paused to ask me if I was enjoying the meal. If I would prefer joloff rice instead. And the rest of the, you’re-the-queen-of-my-empire gestures. I knew I should have grown past being moved by those, I still couldn’t stop myself from blushing recklessly. I should be ashamed of myself, really.
I couldn’t help but point out to him how untypical it was for the average African man to be that chivalrous, and…boom! That detonated the flattery bomb in his tongue.
He dropped his cutleries gently, placed his right hand on my left and fixed a warm look on my face to say, “For me you’re the closest bodily presentation of a fully grown and fabulously endowed African woman, you deserve the finest treatment the best African man can offer.”
Goddamnit you crossed the line, you sugar-tongued serpent.
If I hadn’t known any better I’d have fallen off my chair and fainted. Even with what I knew of men and their tongues I still couldn’t hide my shy blush, “What can I say?” said I with a broad grin.
That wasn’t only the deepest flattery of my life; it was the most smoothly and firmly presented in simulation.
I left him that afternoon not being sure what to make of his personality or how real he was but I was sure he won’t get whatever he wanted from me. That would have worked on me when I was sixteen. Dude was seven years late.


Ujasiri: Excerpt



The rains were returning gradually and the roads were deteriorating gradually too. It’s only a matter of time before travelling along these roads would be next to impossible. Water-logged mud earth on the roads would sink and stick lorries and any other vehicle travelers use.
As the lorry travelled at what could be the fastest speed it could possibly move by, Joseph Dahr grew more impatient. It felt to him like time stood still in the wrong moment, like a nightmare that would never end.
In the forty two years of his life, he had seen tumultuous times and mountainous challenges aplenty, but nothing comparable to this one. Nothing ever made his heart feel this heavy yet empty. This was the moment he wished would never come and now would never be able to wish away. This was his darkest night.
He gazed up at the black, bulky man sitting next to him on a more elevated bench, “You know you do not have to do this, my friend.”
“What?” Lawrence Ottoise widened his big black steady eyes at his troubled friend.
“I mean you do not have to come with me, if you had stayed back in Kinshasa it would be fine with me all the same.”
He was a Don Cheadle size of man with a shiny black skin, like a skillfully polished black leather shoe. More so when the day’s heat is turned up and his skin goes oily.
Lawrence grabbed his friend’s left shoulder with his thick hand, “I know Joe, but you need me to do this. Trust me; you will need the use of a friend when we get there.”
They were friends; nay, brothers, as friendship falters. Each man never had a better companion.
“You know, no one knows what we might find when we get there, we even have no idea how difficult it would be to find them.”
“We will be fortunate.”
“You do not know that.”
“My hopes do not fail me.”
“Hopes,” Joseph bowed his head slowly, “we would never be sure until we see them.”
Joseph took a heavy breath, rubbed his palms together furiously, and then puffed out his cheeks. None of these calmed him down one bit from his distraught. Only having Rosa and JJ safely with him once again would.
His hands were clamped over his mouth with his elbows resting on his slightly trembling knees. It was hard to hide his devastation. What just happened to him was every man’s nightmare where he comes from. He could not summon hope at all. No one in his shoes does.
The LRA does not leave room for that.
“Of course we would not, that is why we need to keep praying,” Lawrence squeezed the off-white rosary in his hand before making a cautious hand movement over his face to cross himself.
“Prayer…” Joseph muttered under his breath, now wondering if that ever worked for anyone, “Rosa prays a lot.”
It was April of 2009 and the scourge of the terror of the Lord’s Resistant Army had brought north eastern Democratic Republic of Congo to its knees.
The LRA was the deathly crew of the most ruthless and inhumane persons that ever walked the surface of the earth. They were led by the most vicious of them all, Joseph Kony. They were tribal cleansers the Nazis would have envied. When they raid a village or other settlements, mercy is blotted out of everyone’s vocabulary and anything short of complete sorrow is unimaginable.
They kill, they maim, they rape the women and abduct them as sex slaves for eternity and they make the boys into soldiers, little soldiers whose innocence has been snuffed out prematurely.
“I was confident they will not attack Sadi,” Joseph bit his lips regretfully.
“Me too,” Lawrence lied, but it was to make Joseph feel less guilty.
“Fate is cruel sometimes, what have I done to deserve this?”
In the Christmas of 2008, Joseph spent the holiday with his family in his tiny village of Sadi, a settlement of mostly hunters and few farmers about two miles north of Faradje. That Christmas, Faradje was attacked. Over six hundred people were killed and as many abducted in Faradje and some surrounding villages, but Sadi was spared.
Dwellers of Sadi however knew it was only a matter of time before they taste from the LRA’s pot of misery. Only Joseph disagreed, he called Rosa his wife paranoid when she insisted the entire family moved with him to Kinshasa, but he promised to do that within the year anyway.
His back was rested on the chill metal wall of the lorry’s carriage as it galloped along the road. He stared blankly at the straight faces of the other commuters, saying remorsefully, “It is my fault, you know. I could have been able to move them to the city before this happened if only I was man enough.”
“Come on, Joe, do not put yourself through this torture. I can testify that you did your best to raise money for the apartment; it just was not early enough. That is ill luck, not your fault.”
“I did not do enough,”
“You did what a man would do.”
“You do not understand, Law.” he looked up at his friend, “In December she wanted to move in. I was foolish; I insisted we needed a bigger apartment. Will I not rather have them in a hole than not have them at all?”
“You took a decision you thought was best for her, which is what every man would do,” Lawrence still had his hand on his friend’s shoulder, “you can still have them in your big apartment. Sure.”
“I shall never forgive myself for this.”
“If you want to beat yourself up for this, fine. I will not stop you, but do realize that it will not help us find them. We will turn Sadi upside down and inside out. That is how we find them.”
Joseph made a forced grin and fixed it on Lawrence, his best friend. They go way back from the days of their service as young soldiers in Laurent Desire Kabila’s rebellion army. Joseph had met a fellow troubled young man who shared his wonder if they were in the real sense doing their country a service as their generals would want them to believe. Or were they just being mere mindless elements in the war chest of yet another heartless warlord who couldn’t wait to get his own chance for dictatorship.
“Time would tell,” the young Joe would assure his friend.
“I do not want to be here when time tells me I might have taken part in another cruel dictatorship.”
“What would you rather do?”
“Quit the military when Kabila gets power.”
“You should wait to see what he does with it.”
“What do they ever do with absolute power?”
Joseph never gave an answer to that question. They resigned after Kabila became President to return to their villages. To the trade they’ve always known. Tilling the earth and reaping from the fertility of the Congo basin. Joseph got married to Rosa, the second daughter of Sadi’s prime herbalist. After the birth of Joe Junior, Joseph travelled back to Kinshasa with his friend to take up a factory job in a truck assembly plant. A few years later, they were able to set up their own auto repair shop. For them it was a huge leap forward that held bright promises for their families.
They travelled half the day along a hundred mile distance on land and water to get to Sadi.
Sadi was the aftermath of Armageddon and rapture put together. The calm and crusty village Joseph grew up and was raising his son had now become a site of colossal destruction and desolation. The huts and family homes were empty. Some were completely burnt down. Joseph and Lawrence walked close to each other as they went from hut to hut; inspecting and hoping there would be a living soul to find. Just one person who would give them details of what happened, perhaps they can find clues as to how to find Rosa and Joe Junior.
“How many people use to live here?” Lawrence asked in a low tone.
“Eight thousand plus, maybe ten.”
There was no sign of human life anywhere near them. Birds chirped on trees, cats meowed around empty huts, foxes barked from the forests nearby but no baby cried.
There was no human sign.
This place is dead…as dead as Laurent Kabila.
They walked past four bodies. Two of children, an old lady with a fairly deep chest injury, and a young man who had multiple machete wounds on his head. Joseph spat disgustingly as they past the last of them.
There were a few fresh body parts lying around. Some domestic materials like sooty iron pots, low wooden stools and utensils were scattered outside some huts.
“The attack took them unawares,” Lawrence kicked a bowl of half eaten yam porridge.
“Typically LRA,” Joseph nodded.
Just above them, the vultures were calling a huge feast. They were circling with wide spread wings around the dead village.
“Let us get out of here,” Joseph said. “It makes me sick.”
Lawrence followed him without a word. They started making their way into a nearby farm of vegetables and banana trees at the edge of an uncultivated fallowing forest of heavy shrubs and bushes.
“What might have become of the rest of the Villagers?” Lawrence asked, walking closely behind Joseph and looking over his shoulders.
“To where?”
“They would run to nearby villages for refuge. Some would begin to live in the middle of their farmlands. Usually, some would return to their huts immediately the LRA are gone.”
“And sleep with an eye open?”
“Sleep is a luxury. They have nowhere to go.”
“Why is there no one at all here?”
“I am at a loss too.”
“Maybe the LRA men are not gone. That is what it could mean.”
Joseph paused and turned to his friend, “You are right, we have to be watchful.”
Lawrence ducked his head to lower his body quickly and began to take gentle steps.
“What are you doing?” Joseph winced confusedly at him.
In a whisper, Lawrence responded with slight urgency, “The LRA might be around,”
“Come on, Law. If they are around, trust me they are watching already. You cannot tip toe and bend enough to escape their sight.”
“We have to try.”
“What we have to do is walk normally and watch out for anything that moves.”
“Okay,” he straightened himself and walked closely behind Joseph. He was still looking over his shoulders occasionally.
“There is another settlement somewhere behind this thick forest. I cannot tell anymore how far it is but I can remember it use to be bigger than this one.”
“You think we can find them there?”
“We only have to hope.”
They kept walking with careful steps and maintained a low toned conversation. Joseph noticed a slight movement of some leaves on the ground some five yards ahead and stopped. He quickly made a stop signal to Lawrence by raising a hand. Carefully pensive, his eyes remained on the point he noticed the movement but the movement did not repeat. That did not take away his haunch that they definitely had company in close proximity.
Then gently and quietly, the leaves on that point he had his eyes began to rise and Joseph could see clearly the mouth of a machine gun pointed towards them rising under the leaves. He stepped back slowly with his friend but knew running would be unwise. They stood still with pounding hearts and alerted eyes as the full figure of a man was revealed. He was wearing a military camouflage and heavy black boots.
“Put your hands up where I can see ‘em,” the gun man yelled at them.
They instantly threw up their hands as if his harsh tone transmitted electric impulses of that effect, then they began to look around. They were already surrounded by five other uniformed men, all aiming their guns at them.
“Drop the bag,” another ordered.
Lawrence quickly dropped the backpack strapped to his back.
“What’s in the bag?”
Joseph glanced at the bag on the floor, now a bit relaxed to see they were soldiers. More relaxed because two were members of a UN peace-keeping troop. “Exchange cloths for us.”
“Get down on your knees.”
Joseph and Lawrence slowly put their knees to the ground, staring blankly at each other. The soldier in front signaled another to get close and search the men. He frisked Joseph and Lawrence, feeling their shirts and pants for concealed weapons. He found a short knife on Joseph and threw it to another soldier.
“That’s all I found,” he reported to the rest.
“Why do you have a weapon on you? Who the hell are you?” one of the UN soldiers began to shout the questions.
One would think they just apprehended al-Qaeda chiefs. The four soldiers from the Uganda Patriotic Defense Force standing behind Joseph and Lawrence were evidently not taking things that seriously.
Joseph looked the UN guy in his lean beardless face, “Can we stand up now?”
“No. You fucking stay down and answer my question.”
One of the soldiers behind him stepped on Joseph’s back forcefully with the sole of his boot. Joseph bawled softly then fell on his face. Lawrence did not wait for the kick before he went flatly on his face.
“We are not bad people,” Lawrence said.
“Then start answering my questions right gaddamned now,” the lean-faced soldier shouted at the top of his voice.
Joseph raised his face at him with a rude smirk, “Can you please repeat your question, tough army man?”
One of the UPDF men bent forward to Joseph and started speaking rapidly in Swahili.
“These UN mission soldiers can be mean and never kid with anybody, so you’d be better served taking them seriously. If we mistakenly run some bullets into your head then you add to the number of LRA victims or captured and killed LRA fighters. Be smart…”
“Let us stand up for God’s sake,” Joseph banged his hand angrily on the floor.
“No, you will stay this way and do whatever they ask you to do, that is…”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on there,” the other UN guy was yelling and stepping back to aim at Joseph, he was bald and shortish, “what the fuck is going on? No local tongue please, the kid speaks English.”
Joseph eyeballed the soldier coldly. How would he refer to a grown ass man that I am as a “kid”?
The UPDF man looked up at him, “I was just telling him in stern terms how stupid it is to play smart ass with us.”
“My name is Joseph Dahr, I have come from Kinshasa to look for my family. They live here.”
“Who’s the other guy?”
“My friend. Lawrence Ottoise.”
The soldiers stared ponderingly at them for some seconds then exchanged glances with each other.
“You have some ID I can see.”
“No I do not. Please believe me, I am not lying to you,” Joseph was talking earnestly now.
“I have an ID with me,” Lawrence said.
“Fine, let me see it. And you can sit up.”
Lawrence produced a plastic card from the back pocket of his denim pants and handed it to one of the UN soldiers.
The soldier studied it briefly then handed it to the other.
“It says something about you working in an assembly plant in Kinshasa.”
“That is right,” Lawrence nodded.
“But it also says it expired three years ago.”
“I did not renew it.”
“I…I hmm,”
“We resigned,” Joseph cut in, “started our own business.”
“You are sure?” he handed Lawrence’s ID back to him.
“Where are the villagers?” Joseph asked impatiently.
The bald soldier stared steadily at Joseph then asked his fellows, conversationally, “Do you believe these guys?”
“Hard to believe people around here,” the other UN soldier said.
“I think they are clean,” one of the UPDF men said half heartedly.
“You think?” the bald man shot him a plain stare from wary eyes.
He shrugged briefly.
“These could be spying for the LRA for all we know.”
“No, no, we are not,” Joseph said vehemently.
“Why would they want to spy on us?” another UPDF soldier asked, stunned by that opinion.
“What if we’re on their getaway path?”
“They would have shot us long before now.”
“We are Congolese who work in Kinshasa. LRA fighters are savage Ugandans, they…” Joseph was saying but was cut off by the bald soldier.
“What do you know about them?”
“Colonel, can I have a second with you?” a UPDF soldier took him aside and they began to converse silently.
After some minutes, the UN soldier returned, “What do you want from us?”
“We do not want anything from you. If my memory does not fail me, we were minding our business on our way before you stopped us, if you just…”
Joseph interrupted his friend, “Actually, we would need you to tell us how we can find my family.”
“How many people?” one UPDF soldier asked.
“Two, my wife and my little boy.”
“Nine years old,” Lawrence added.
The bald soldier nodded at a UPDF soldier, the one that spoke Swahili to Joseph.
“Sergeant Okutu and sergeant Kulpane would take you to the settlement they’re gathered. When you get there find Lieutenant Marcus. If your folks are there he should be able to help you find them.”
“Lieutenant Marcus,” Joseph said slowly.
“Yeah Marcus, more than six feet. A brown eyed ass-kicking son of a bitch,” he said, “don’t tell him I said that.”
Joseph nodded at the soldier and said in a dry tone, “If he does not ask, I might not tell.”
“Now get away from here.”
Sergeant Okutu led the way while sergeant Kulpane followed at the rear. They trudged along on their way, beating down healthy green undergrowth as they tried to keep a straight course without a clear path to follow.
“There used to be a foot path between these two settlements,” Joseph said to the soldier in front.
“I haven’t seen any.”
“When did you come?”
“About twenty-four hours ago.”
“The raiders were gone by then?” Lawrence asked.
“We did not see any of them. We began to gather the villagers who were scattered before we came into one settlement. That was after we’d taken over the perimeter.” he stated cautiously like he was reporting to a superior.
“Any official casualty figure yet?” Joseph asked.
“So far we put it at one zero four deaths, based on body counts. It could rise.”
“We saw four bodies back there,” Joseph told him.
“That makes it one zero eight,” he said dryly.
“For you I guess they are just numbers meant for the statistics. These are humans like you and me with hopes and dreams ended abruptly in cold blood, not numbers we state,” Joseph couldn’t be sure his reaction was borne from the connection he has with that number or if he was being naturally humane.
Would I have felt differently if I was the one carrying that gun and guarding the perimeter?
Sergeant Okutu turned around and glanced at Joseph quickly, “Okay, one zero eight humans like you and me with hopes and dreams ended abruptly in cold blood. Does that make any difference? Does it make you feel any better?”
“Yes it does.” Joseph snapped.
Sergeant Kulpane began to giggle in a manner Joseph found disrespectful and silly.
Lawrence had a good mind to beat both soldiers up if not for the guns they were carrying.
“Sergeant you should show some respect for these people. They could have been anyone’s sisters or brothers or children.”