A Soldier In Her

The flames flickered harshly on the roof of his house; Jabari did not have to turn and watch the horror, he could see it all in his sisters waterlogged eyes.

He could not help but wonder why nations allowed this to happen. Why it was not prevented. Was his sister’s soul worth any less then a small child happy in America?

Kya’s fingers slowly crept towards her mouth as she watched in mental distress, she was only eight but she knew of the Lord’s Resistance Army like any other child in Northern Uganda. Jabari wondered if he should kill his kin there, to save them from the fate that waited patiently for them to crawl into its clutches. His eyes closed as a shadow crossed the soft black features of Kya’s face. Someone was approaching.

His mind raced for a moment, but he knew he could not show weakness. He spun around to find a large blade pointed towards the holder, with the handle gleaming towards Jabari.

His eleven year old fingers slowly crept around the handle as his forearm was grabbed and pulled towards the massacre. The camp of Bia was set aflame around him. The haunting wail of his sister sounded behind him as he stepped forward; he would find her though, when things were settled.

Young Kya got to her feet, but found her knees so weak they fell inwards and clinked together, leaving her a shaking mess. She watched as her brother was lead towards another boy, one that was shriveled on the ground and already being butchered by other children. She let out another wail, calling, pleading for him with all her heart and soul to turn back. He did not however; the only figure to turn was that of a soldier, who approached her as she fell back in horror, setting one hand behind the other she tried to drag herself back into the house, back to the flaming corpse of her mother. The soldier continued to approach and bent downwards, he lifted her into his arms and cooed, “Okusuubira omuddu. Okubeera okusinda mukwano.” After a moment of silence between them he said, “Live fully.” Kya tilted her head to watch her brother join the slaughter of a boy who refused to fight. She continued to watch as his image got smaller as she was carried away.

Kya realized she had fainted when she awoke in the night, beside her lay a full grown man. She shuttered, but knew she had not been touched. Yet. As light as she was she left the bed without causing a pull on the sheets, and moved towards the door. Between the cracks she could see the area beyond; she did not know this place. She set her hands on the door and pushed. As soon as the right frame of the door started to open, a bell attached to the hinge jingled. It was simply, tied with a string but out of her reach.

She froze as the man behind her started to shift, and finally stood, moving towards her and gripping her shoulders, “Jangu!” Come. That was his command. His grip tightened as he spun her and lead her back towards the bed, throwing her down onto it. She kept her hands pressed to the sheets, not moving or lifting her gaze. She had been told these stories; this was the fear of every mother: that their little girl becomes a sex slave.

“I am not a woman,” Kya whimpered, “I do not bleed, I do not bleed, I have not bled yet, I am not a woman! Akabaluwa omukazi! Omwaana!” The man turned her over and pushed her hard against the mattress. He had stripped of clothing while she cried, and slid off her garments to reveal her sex. “I can make you bleed. Omukazi.”

Jabari listened from his hiding position outside the tent; blood still clung in patches to his skin, caked there. He held his knees tightly to his chest as he listened to his sister’s cries, her calls, her screams of pain, and then the silence that sent a shiver through his soul. Tomorrow they would both be taught how to hold a gun, if they found Kya strong enough.

Jabari allowed his eyes drift closed as he tried to fall into nightmare, as sleep no longer seemed an option. He dwelled on the future, and the sister he no longer knew if he would know. He dwelled on the situation, and wondered if anyone would ever send help. Just like the little Canadian named Sandy McCourt he prayed to God; though their prayers were much different. Hers was for it to snow harshly, as she did not get a piece of homework finished. His was for a saviour for his sister and the other thousands of Children who fall victim to this life.