Chapter Two

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"PARAAAADE SHUNNNN!" our parade commander blew off words that had become her mantra. Our boots smack the earth. Hard. Loud. And in unison. The silence that followed fell like hail stone. From the very day we'd set foot in camp, our watch word was, 'Swear-in Parade', The day that made us fully fledged kuffas, (and maybe we could grow feathers for hair, and claws for fingers, the true WHITE FOWLS) . Most Of us had never marched, at least not like we just did, and now we could— in slow-march and quick-march, round the green pitch with spectators on all sides. Our precision. The applause thereafter. we felt like gladiators, we made no killing but the earth felt our green fury.

The stretch of white-crested shirts, green kakhi and brown boots was no abstract painting. Each platoon, nine in all, stood in three's of nine rows to be exact; with two sub-guard commanders, and the platoon commander, each slightly ahead of the other, before us. To our immediate left was platoon two, and at the extreme, ten. At that moment: the sun felt a little hotter, sweat trailed down backs a little faster, lips locked in a thin line, faces bore no expression. Anxiety spread like wild fire , 'did we make it or not?' 'Did they do better or worse?' Nothing moved, just the grass, and two men.

Striding across the pitch, their boots made no sound. At an arms length they halted before us. Observing with eye-cutting gaze, that could see through to our sole, if anyone fell out of line. The more rounded man pulls out, perhaps the superior, and moves through the matrix of people. His second, with a book in hand makes little jots, grading every thing from our body alignment to the knot of our shoelaces, nothing was to get past him; He yanked the cap off a girls head, turning it to the sun to examine the rim, her heart probably skipped a beat, it was blemish free. As they made their way to the next platoon the air around us dampened with ease, our chins lightening up, some managing a smile, perhaps after the results were announced, our weary faces could explode with euphoria. Just maybe.

The girl beside me stood on her toes and then on her feet; again on her toes, then feet, this was to ease the pain in her back. This we were thought. Our commander had drilled us daily, twice a day through the week; now watching from the side lines, he probably had been saying his prayers like every other commander. "Walahi if you bring back the wooden spoon, I abandon you," he had said with such ferocity in his eyes. It was only a matter of minutes as the examiners made their last round at platoon ten. Once that was done we could scramble, our aching feet couldn't wait.

Would he abandon us or not? Would we seal the deal? Or even make the first-four? , 'Platooooon oneeeee emerges first...' We couldn't wait to hear. He adjusts the mic, gives a formal greeting to every official present and applauds us all, "you all did very well, in fact you're all victors, but—" of course their had to be a BUT, one platoon gets the trophy, the other a wooden spoon. He announces the ninth position, the crowd that had now amassed before him burst into a frenzy of laughter, somewhat of a mockery, I couldn't help but 'boo' at them too. "And the seventh position goes to—" this couldn't be us I hoped, I can't remember if my eyes were closed but I gripped my friend, Ghandi, laughing hysterically to hide the tension. After his momentary pause, he makes the announcement.

The first and last position was left. if they announced the winner, the spoon went to the other, conversely, if the loser was announced first. How evil and crafty to bring two extremes together. I did feel we were robbed, nonetheless I couldn't wait to laugh at the losers. "And the first position goes to—" I had already picked a winner in my head, turned out to be wrong, but I still would have my laugh and the spoon would find its home. With everyone now laughing, you could tell the spoon had been claimed, and the victors, you couldn't miss, racing in circles with their trophy. Our commander was now before us, after a long pause he spoke up, his words laced with sadness. The good news was, we didn't take the spoon and he didn't have to run away.

The next thing I recall: the pitch becomes a paparazzi for cheap shots and trills, this wasn't a drill, there was no catch, except one: FUN—a jem we would find to be rear hereon after.

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