Balladeer

Huturo huddled in the bush trying to be as small and quiet as possible. He could hear them searching, Goma and William, slashing through the thicket with their machetes. Please, please, go the other way. Please. I don’t want to kill anyone. He cradled his AK-47, as long as he was tall, in trembling arms.

He heard a loud whistle and held his breath. Apparently one of them thought they had found something. His trail. some sign. The whacks of the machetes fell silent. He strained to hear any sounds of movement, any indication that they were on to him.

He had seen what they did to deserters. Kwame, a year Huturo’s junior, was kept alive back at base camp, armless, as an example to the rest. Like Huturo, Kwame did not want to be a soldier, did not want to kill anyone. He just wanted to go home.

No one goes home. Goma made that abundantly clear.

He was just starting to relax when he heard a twig snap some yards in front of him. He wiped away his tears, brought the rifle up and braced himself. Seconds ticked by. Then straight ahead of him the brush parted. William spotted him.

William flashed a big toothy grin, as if he was glad to see him. “Come out here, boy. You can’t run away from us.” He seemed oblivious to the rifle aimed right at his head. He doesn’t think I’ll shoot, Huturo realized. At the same time he realized that there was no way both of them were going to survive this day.

William took one step towards him, raising the machete as he came. A very brief flash of surprise crossed the man’s face when Huturo pulled the trigger.

Huturo scrabbled backwards, away from the body, trembling like a leaf. He began to hyperventilate. The world around him got small and dark around the edges. It slowly registered that he could hear someone shouting. He forced himself to breath slower. The world came back into focus.

He could hear mad hacking and cursing. Goma’s voice. Getting closer. He scrabbled back to put more distance between the body and himself, then took up position again.

Goma crashed through the brush and nearly tripped over William’s body. He squatted to briefly examine his fallen Sergeant, then looked up right at Huturo.

“Why, you little turd!”

Again, the briefest flash of surprise.

Weeping, Huturo shouldered his rifle and turned towards home. With any luck he could get there in time for his tenth birthday.