Diary Of A Deltan Kuffa

Chapter Eight

BEFORE THE COCK CROWED. We would bolt upright as the bugle sang in chaotic sleep shattering dirges. In that instance our eyes wildly awake. Then came the crescendo of bunk beds as bodies ignited with life, the smacking of bare feet to the floor, the quickening steps afterward. Each day a Dejavu.

Earlier on, Gandhi, who's bed was opposite mine had thrown off the blankie that covered him, as he had done the night before, and the one before that. He did this as though he were programmed to, somewhere in his subconscious a clock ticked early enough to get him up. Longjohn was next in line. My sleep and I were inseparable, but I managed to drag my lazy self out of bed, and if I didn't either of them would pull me out. Some moments later we would be out in the fields, the soldiers behind us, thundering two words "double up!"

I felt a piercing pain beneath my foot, my shoe, a grade of synthetic rubber, pained like hell. Looking around, I found something, shared humor perhaps? Not quite. Worn off smiles draped on faces, our shared pain evident in eyes that still yearned to sleep. My head probably in a haze, as I caught my breath after the flurry of activities from waking up to until this moment.

No sooner than later, we fused into a matrix of ...white fowls (white because our boots, shorts, and shirts were; fowls because we lacked the sophistication of the outside world, we were stripped of this, identified only by four figures on our tags) across the green floor, goons in platoons numbering one to ten, chanting songs with murmurs in-between.

It was a day ago we whizzed through the village settlement of Iselle-uku, giddily jogging (because the gully was endless like a croc's back) on an "Okada." The rider said in a pitiful tone, "once una enter, una no go comot," he said this as though he meant we would be spending jail time. Our silence wasn't a submission, or maybe it was? My pockets were emptied by the saleswomen that swarmed on us that day, "buckets...pails...spoons... dish" they clamor on us to buy. Their honey-coated words convinced you to get all, and maybe I would have If I wasn't short on cash. As days turned to weeks, reality had itched too often; How his words, the okada rider, must have echoed in our heads.

As the morning settled in, our gaze could catch the fading misty cold air, the greenness of the thick trees at the extreme ever more glaring. The morning drills, like a daily rehearsed play, would have us out before the cock crowed. The morning devotions lead by a selected few from each platoon followed suit.

You couldn't miss the see-through gate in the colors of white and green, a reminder that our freedom was on the other side. Freedom on camp meant no drills, Sundays were our escape. No bugles, drills replaced with cheap trills and least I forget no soldiers asking us to double up. This freeness meant conversations around invisible round tables that had a person your lips ached to talk to, and if you were a hopeless romantic, cowardice would give way to courage.

"Hi Halimat" you managed to say

"Hey..." she reluctantly replied, her eyes piercing through you.

That act of courage would lead you on many a path. Our trio, Gandhi (his quietness, charming), Long John (with the brutes of an intellectual, equally charming) and myself (the shapeshifter, I was one and all) had perfected the game, each day either of us would meet a new girl, I couldn't say we dominated this turf, but in our own capacities, we were champs.

(c)Mariobee