Prologue
Mombasa, Kenya
The boy was hunched over, digging hard at the ground before him. He wasn’t playing. Although, as his mother watched from nearby, she wished more than anything that he would. Masika hung a sheet from a clothesline stretched between two trees. But as was the way of things here, childhood was a fleeting fancy, one stolen by circumstances. It had been over a year since her eldest son had been taken. Zaire, at age twelve, had taken it upon himself to fill the void. His mother looked on sadly as the morning’s mist surrounded him and the sun began to rise up beyond the dense tree line. He’d been at it since before dawn. A long line of upturned earth was the result of the last hour of toil.
Masika finished hanging several sheets, spreading them evenly along the line and knotting the ends to the line to secure them in place. The brightly colored cotton fabric flapped in the gentle breeze.
She walked over to the well and filled a bucket. A group of engineers had come to the village some years back and dug it out. It was life changing for them. No longer did they have to make the trek through the pass down to the river to get a drink. Plus, the water tapped from an underground source was much cleaner and therefore better for drinking. They still used the river to bathe and launder their clothes.
The tar-sealed wooden bucket banged into her knee as she walked, sloshing the water and wetting her embroidered kitenge dress. The coolness of the liquid felt good as morning temps began to climb. She knelt on the soft ground beside her son and, using a handmade ladle, scooped out some of the water.
“Drink, my son. It will be hot soon. You need to keep your strength up.”
The boy shifted and looked at his mother, his dark hands caked with soft mud.
She brought the ladle close and Zaire slurped it up noisily. The excess spilled out from his mouth and dribbled down his chin. She scooped more from the pail.
Zaire held up his hand. “No more for now. I’ve got to get back to work. The ground is softer now with the rain, and I want to get the seeds in before sundown.”
Light had just broken, and her son was already preparing for an entire day of work. Masika remembered when his days were filled with exploration and wonder. She prayed daily that someday they would be again. With the extraction of most of the able-bodied young men who’d been taken and forced into servitude, the village was left to rely on each member, young and old, to pull their weight. A harmonized synchronicity existed.
Inside their hut, she prepared the morning's meal. The villagers usually consumed two meals a day. Breakfast was done in the privacy of each individual hut, but the village shared a communal dinner after the day’s work was done. That meal had been, until recent events, a time of great celebration. When the workday ended, singing, dancing and storytelling took place around the fire. It was a joyous time. Then Dakarai rose to power, and life in the village changed. Wives lost their husbands, children lost their fathers, and mothers lost their children. The village was stripped of its men who were sent to serve a warlord whose purpose was malevolent at best.
Most mornings, Masika served mkate, a simple flatbread. The children liked it when she added sesame seeds. She’d plate it with some fresh fruit. It was easy enough to make and hearty enough to provide energy for the day’s work. When feeding her seven children, simple was essential. All breakfasts came with the sweetened Chai tea. Today would be different. One day a week, when she’d gone to the market and had the ingredients, Masika would treat her family to mandazi. It was a deep-fried pastry similar in taste and texture to an unsweetened doughnut.
Masika set about boiling the oil. She knew once the scent of the pastry floated out to her son, it would bring him in. Zaire couldn’t resist the treat, no matter how dedicated he was to his chores. As she went to the cabinet and pulled out the flour, she heard the rumble of trucks.
There were two entrance and exit points, one that could be made by vehicle and the other, which was a footpath, led down to the river. Her heart began to beat faster. She hoped the arriving vehicle would belong to Father McCarthy, the priest who served their villages and several others in the area. Maybe he was bringing others with him, which he did on occasion. Humanitarian workers had come to the village several times over the years, delivering food and medicine. One group had put in the well years back. The priest came quite frequently, and they’d come to enjoy his visits, but he wasn't scheduled to be back for another day or so.
Her optimism was dashed as she realized that the more likely reason for the trucks’ arrival was the return of the warlord and his men for some reason. And this thought made her panic.
The abduction of her eldest son one year ago left an unfillable hole in her heart.
There were other boys now reaching the age of maturity. Her 12-year-old son was close to being on the warlord’s list if he chose their village to replenish his resources.
Masika knew what happened when their men disappeared. They’d heard stories of the conditioning--the psychological and physical tortures they endured. And the drugs Dakarai used to keep them in line and addicted. They were changed. As if their souls had been ripped from their bodies, the men became empty vessels.
She had caught a glimpse of her son six months ago on a convoy when she was in Mombasa town center. He was riding with a group of men in the back of a Jeep. Her eyes brightened at the sight of him, and she waved, hoping he would jump out and run to her. Masika knew her son had seen her. His eyes momentarily locked with hers. But to her dismay, he had no reaction, not even a wink, a secret half smile, anything to tell her that the boy she knew was still inside. He was just a shell of the son she’d raised, his mind corrupted by the warlord who controlled him now.
Masika was determined not to let that happen to her next oldest boy, Zaire, who was out toiling in the field.
She rushed to the door as the roar of the truck engines grew louder. It was the custom that the villagers would greet any and all arriving guests. It was something they’d always done. But now, at Dakarai’s decree, all were ordered to come to the center point of the village. The fire pit where jovial gatherings had once taken place was now a place where atrocities were carried out. This past year had soured the affinity of the gathering point.
By Dakarai’s edict, everybody was to be out of their huts and in visible sight when they came. It was done to control the masses and to make sure there was no subversion. A few villages had fought back in the early days of his rise to power. The end result carried with it devastating consequences. Her village had heard the tales and offered little in the way of resistance. When time came for a selection of some of their men or the stealing of their food and supplies, the resistance came in the form of a scream or a whimper of protest or simply a tear rolling down a cheek. But no formal attempts to stop the warlord's soldiers were ever made. Bravery was a foolhardy thing at best. Life trumped death, making the decision to comply easy.
Masika stepped out onto the dirt path and started making her way with the others toward the center of the village. With her other children clinging closely to her, she looked around for Zaire. Their scared faces were hidden behind her brightly colored dress. They were young, but they knew the threat.
Her heart sank, as her fear was confirmed. This visit would not be the priest or any humanitarian efforts. Any hope was dashed, as the two-vehicle caravan of the warlord's men moved forward. Guns poked out from several points in their Jeeps with a few men riding high on the top. The second Jeep had a large machine gun fixed to the roof and a man standing behind it at the ready, his eyes bloodshot and wild. She did not like these men. She did not trust them and worried for her village, and more importantly, her family, every time they came. There was no sign of her eldest boy among the soldiers.