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FIVE MILES OUTSIDE GOROM-GOROM,

BURKINA FASO, WEST AFRICA

9

Nd2 a5

On any other day the boy would’ve wiped away the large droplets of sweat which sat and mixed with the dust on his sun scorched skin. But today was different. Today he needed to concentrate and finish off the present he’d been making for his mother. And although the brightly colored paper collage had been trickier and taken longer than he’d imagined, he was certain she’d be pleased.

His faded Mickey Mouse T-shirt, and bleached out jeans held up by a piece of string, gave him little cool. And the corrugated roof, like iron waves sitting on the brick house, painted in hues of summer barley, gave him no shade. But he smiled, his happiness as it always was; warm and strong like the winds which blew across the burnt yellow grasslands under the African skies.

Above the sound of the exciting buzzing of flies, a noise in the distance made the boy look up. He tilted his head, listening again. Not recognizing the sound. Frowning, he got up, only then wiping the sweat off his face, leaving the precious collage on the ground.

He walked forward to the wide dirt road, the dust like a haze making the sun seem darker than it should be and the afternoon seem later than it was. Beneath his feet a rumble. He looked down at them curiously, as if somehow they would speak and tell him of the mystery of shudder.

The tremble began to become harder and with it the noise greater. Roaring louder, reminding him of the stories of the animals which preyed and stalked in the forests. He shivered at the thought of such creatures but curiosity moved him forward. He was, after all, seven years old, and at seven years old, he knew he was almost a man.

With renewed vigor, the boy stood in the middle of the road, looking into the thick haze which swirled and churned. Then like his mother pulling back the tattered drapes each morning, the curtain of dust parted, sweeping aside to reveal a huge object which reminded him of the giant horned beetles.

His face smiled, delighted at whatever it was that was moving towards him. His face a spectacle of amazement, of wonder, as the mechanical insects trundled forwards.

‘Run Bako… run!’

The boy whipped round at the cry of his name then watched as a vision of red burst up from the man’s head like a sequencing fountain before it imploded, splitting apart into pieces.

Bako’s scream seemed to freeze in the air, almost as if his anguished cry hung suspended, trapped between the visible heatwaves rising up from the road.

A loud explosion behind Bako triggered him to run as balls of flame fired from armored tanks burnt and blazed alongside him. He heard the cries of people, of neighbors, of friends as they fell, picked off, and pools of red became their final resting place.

Tears welled and ran down Bako’s cheeks, causing his vision to become blurred. But he was glad. He didn’t want to see the woman he knew dropping her baby as gleaming metal struck into her face, splitting it in half as if it were his grandfather cutting the cassava. And he didn’t want to see the tiny brick church crumble as the monster tanks blew it into rubble. Nor did he want to see his mother’s friend, filled with terror. Her top torn. Her skirt missing as two men dragged her inside a house. But he did want to cover his ears to drown out her screaming.

Through the machine gun fire and the grenades, Bako scrabbled along, tripping over the freshly dead. He turned the corner to see a man coming towards him holding a blood-soaked machete. Whites of eyes marbled, ruddy with rage yet laughing, opening his arms as if to embrace Bako like his uncle had done this morning.

Bako backed away, running again, now through the smell of the kill and the screams which cut through the air as violently as the parangs did.

Quickly, he headed round the back of the small brick houses, making his way home, the thought of it spurring him on to run faster, helping him to push through the pain of his torn feet.

In front of his house Bako could see his mother. Searching. Calling his name as smoke filled the skies. She cried out. Waving as he ran into her arms.

‘This way, Bako, we’ll be okay if we go into the bushes. But quickly… quickly.’

They began to run, but without warning, Bako slipped his hand from his mother’s, heading back towards the house.

‘Bako, no! Bako! Stop!’

He could hear his mother calling but he didn’t turn. He wanted to make her happy. Wanted her tears to stop falling and he thought he knew how.

Quickly Bako grabbed the collage before speeding back towards his mother.

‘Bako…! Come…! Bako.’

He reached out to take her hand but it was his mother’s hand which now suddenly slipped away from his, as she began to sink to the ground. Her yellow dress turning red, her eyes holding Bako’s stare one last time before rolling. Closing.

This time Bako’s cry splintered the air. He pulled at his mother’s arm.

‘Get up, mama, get up! Please get up… Look, mama, look what I made you.’

He pushed the collage to her as she lay in the tributary of blood which flowed and bubbled, stemming from the countless dead.

‘See what I made for you… See, mama, see.’

He stood up, stumbling backwards, tilting his head to the sun. Blinking. And just for a moment he didn’t know what it was he was feeling. A sudden warmth. Then cold. Such cold.

Glancing down, Bako touched his Mickey Mouse top. A hole where the face once was. Red. Wet.

And then slowly. So slowly. Bako dropped to the ground. His head lolling back as his body snaked, winding as it fell on top of his mother with his blood oozing, coloring the brightly painted collage red, whilst the chill of death rose and mixed with the warm winds of the ensanguined African plains.