In an attempt to shield Mapute further, his father Abuu began taking him to work to cover up the absence of school. Herding goats was a welcome distraction and it nurtured a bond between father and son that left them both happy and forgetful. Gazing out across the landscape bathed in red dust, Abuu thanked God for the moments he shared with his son for he could sense that the storm would cut them short. Regret seized his heart as he thought of his daughter who was just a toddler, and what might become of her in the coming days. His only hope was that her lack of memory would dull the pain of the loss that was looming. With these thoughts and Mapute’s hand he returned to the deserted road of the village. Already he could hear distant shots as sounds carried across the empty plains.
It took the thunderous sound of shots being fired in the house opposite theirs to rouse Abuu and a further round to ring out for him to realise that it was not part of his dream world. Forgetting usual waking rituals he leapt from his bed and to the window, crouching down so as not to be seen by the multitude of waiting soldiers lining the road. Staying crouched close to the floor, he moved along the house gathering his wife, Masani, and son who were already awake, frozen in their beds by fear. Slowly and silently, Abuu signalling Mapute to stay noiseless and fight against the countless questions rushing around his head in a panic, they moved to the back room where they would be invisible to the outside and able to tend to Abbo as she started to stir with the noise.
Weeks had passed and the village lay huddled beneath shadow as dark figures traced bloodied footsteps on the forgotten road. Approaching the settlement, their pace increased with a determination born of the scent from new victims and recruits. They marched with crosses painted across their chests in oil, yet Christian compassion had long departed their black souls. At first glance the troops look old and haggard, scars of war and torture glaring as physical and mental anguish. However this army is one of only experience and not age, children as young as five have fought alongside them, but not for very long. Headed by the possessed Joseph Kony, this force was sweeping through North Uganda but had lost sight of its aims, now polluted with the wild rage of one fanatical murderer which was about to infect the lives of more innocent bystanders.
Joseph could easily have been described as a man with no lasting impact on the eye, but at the head of his ravenous army he carried the air of a terrifying, powerful and evil god. His clothes stood out against those of his soldiers as clean and intact, the general’s uniform decorating his body with unspoilt authority while the jackets and trousers of those that followed bore the tears and stains of war to a point where they almost lost their purpose. He was a short man, but pushed forward by his troops he moved with a determination that belied his height. His eyes were red, not windows to the soul but rather a showcase for his murderous intent and with these he surveyed the broken village, fighting the urge to lick his lips with the prospect of new blood. New blood to be shaped into heartless soldiers, and new blood to spill in the name of the Lord’s Resistance Army.
It took the thunderous sound of shots being fired in the house opposite theirs to rouse Abuu and a further round to ring out for him to realise that it was not part of his dream world. Forgetting usual waking rituals he leapt from his bed and to the window, crouching down so as not to be seen by the multitude of waiting soldiers lining the road. Staying crouched close to the floor, he moved along the house gathering his wife, Masani, and son who were already awake, frozen in their beds by fear. Slowly and silently, Abuu signalling Mapute to stay noiseless and fight against the countless questions rushing around his head in a panic, they moved to the back room where they would be invisible to the outside and able to tend to Abbo as she started to stir with the noise.
“What is happening, father?” a hushed voice asked from the floor.
“There are some people in the village, and they want to do bad things to us, we have to stay quiet and out of sight and it will all be okay” Abuu lied, the copious beads of sweat pouring down his face betrayed his words, as did the uncontrollable shaking as he clutched the equally sweaty hand of his son. He knew they would be found, but a few minutes of cheap reassurance was better than revealing to his family what he witnessed out of the window. The bodies of neighbours he had known for years thrown into the street to be looted by the impatient horde as two children, yet to become teenagers were led into the army to be swallowed up by the poisons of anger, revenge and insanity.
Then it came, the knock at the door. The family could hear the force of the fists already splintering the wood and each held their breath as a feeble attempt to stifle any noise. From outside, muffled voices could be heard agreeing to break down the door as they had done with every house so far. No one had opened their home to the tragedy, but it was well rehearsed in forcing its way in. With a crash that reverberated through the house the door came down and [daughter] immediately started crying. While his wife hurried to try to settle her, Abuu did not move, it did not matter, on the army’s arrival in the village; their fate was set as they were not trained to leave any house unexplored. Suddenly, a calm enveloped Abuu and he stood up and moved towards the door. Throwing off the pleading hands of his son he stepped through into the front room, now determined that his words would save his family.
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