Sacrifice

A short story about child soldiers in Sierra Leone

    “Moses, you’re getting taller,” said Abena, concern plaguing her voice. Moses’ lack of size had been the only thing keeping him in the small, red-dirt village on the banks of the Rokel River in Sierra Leone; every time the members of the Revolutionary United Front came, large arms glistening with sweat underneath the sleeveless camouflage shirts, he had not been taken. Instead, he had been at the sides of countless friends grabbed by the soldiers and thrown into the back of the truck, their childhood ending just as it had barely started.
    The pair was sitting on the bench in front of the wooden church, the sun beating down on the uniform dirt surrounding them.
    “I know,” he responded. “And you’re no longer a child either.”
    “But maybe they won’t come again,” she added, although her downcast eyes and lack of conviction made it clear that not even she could believe it. To her, it seemed that they took someone every day. Every day they came in the dusty truck, two in front and six in the bed, all holding guns and smoking. They came and took the children, lining them up while they were playing soccer, picking the strongest ones, and taking them away to die.
    In reality, the soldiers only came every two months or so. But, the memories of children ripped from mother’s arms burned in her mind for much, much longer.
    “We must do something. You know as well as I what they will do to you.”
    “Yes, but your fate is the same, if not worse. Besides, we are helpless. If we protest, they will kill us. If we go with them, they will kill us. We don’t have a choice, Moses,” she said, sadness dripping from her voice for her friend, her only friend, one of the only children who had lasted as long as she had.
    “There is always a choice,” he responded, strength filling his words. Already, he was forming a plan.

    Two days later, the soldiers came again. Moses and Abena were sitting on the bench, watching. The rusty ground stretched on in front of them for miles, an endless sea of red that, at the ends of their vision, collided abruptly with the pale blue sky, blending to form the backdrop of the children’s world. The cloud of dust, swirling around the white truck like a swarm of mosquitoes, was the first visible sight against the horizon. Then, they saw the vehicle, and one by one, the men came into focus, shifting and hazy from the heat.
    As the men came closer, the pair retreated into the church behind. Plain and unadorned, the chapel contained two sets of five old pews on each side of the aisle. The inside was painted white, the only respite from the dead colors outside.
    Silence encompassed them as they walked up the wooden floor to the altar. Their naked feet slapped against the wood, their echo the only sound. A yellow tapestry hung behind the shrine, and on it, a large crucifix, the hands and feet of the Lord contrasting sharply as they wept a deep, red blood.
    As they arrived at the altar, Moses reached behind and pulled out two guns. They looked at each other.
    “Ready?” asked Moses.
    “Yes.”
    On his way out of the door, Moses turned back, looked at the crucifix, and nodded.

    Quickly, the children slipped along the crabgrass path behind the church, crouched down, and watched as the truck rolled to a stop in the middle of the circular center of the village. Behind, the jungle began, growing tighter and denser the closer it got to the river. Women stared out of doors of the shacks, and the elders who sat on the ground stopped and focused. Dust, unsettled by the vehicle, shrouded the soldiers in a red mist as they came out of the car, smiling, basking in their power.
    The driver spat on the dry ground. “Come,” he said.
    The men stood up silently, looking into the soldier’s eyes through his sunglasses.
    “Bring me all of your children,” he said. “We must make a selection.”
    The elders painstakingly moved towards the huts. Each man went into one to retrieve the children.
    From one of the doors an elder emerged, back first, pulling a child out by the hand. The mother pulled his other hand, crying and resisting, although soon they were out on the dirt in front of the men. She gathered her son close to her and embraced him, tears rolling down her swollen cheeks and lips. A soldier came over and grabbed the child’s arm and yanked. The woman held on to her son with all her might, screaming and crying an indecipherable slur of words and insults and the soldier pulled his gun out and put it to the woman’s head and yelled, “Let go of the boy!”
    At that moment, Moses shot. The bullet drove through the heavy, humid air and buried itself deep above the man’s knee. Instantly, he cried out in pain and crumpled to the ground. The others stopped, looked towards the children, and shouted, “Over here!”
    The pair ran into the thick jungle behind. Moses led the way, turned quickly, and as a man turned to follow, he pulled the trigger, sending a bullet through his chest.
     They dashed under thick vines and around trees, all in darkness as the canopy above shrouded the sun. The thorns stung his bare feet, and left deep cuts. He didn’t notice, though. They could hear the men charging behind them, and every whisper of the humid air felt like the hot breath of a soldier, ready to kill.
    The pair kept running. Their momentum carried them forward, throwing them over roots. Finally, though, when he could no longer hear the men cursing behind him, he stopped. The silence surprised him; the frantic pace of the world seconds ago had slowed down dramatically, and it felt as though time had stopped completely.
    He went to the spot of where a tree had been uprooted, and led Abena into the muddy crater left. Standing above her, he looked down, smiling sadly.
    What are you doing?” she questioned frantically. “Get in!”
    He spoke slowly. “If I don’t return, everyone else will be punished.”
    “Moses, if you go back, they will torture you and kill you. Don’t be foolish. Come down!”
    “I must go back. Wait until the sun goes down, and until you are too cold to last any longer. Then return. They will not come for you again.”
    Abena’s eyes started to water, and she looked at him. He was still just a child, really, and his tall, reedlike body did not match the weapon he carried. He was too young to be doing something like this; they all were. But as she realized that she would not be able to persuade him out of it, she stopped protesting.
    She looked at him, and whispered, “Thank you, Moses.”
    He nodded to her solemnly. He bent down and placed the gun into her hands, turning. Abena watched as he slowly disappeared into the jungle.