“Some of our men are setting up a tall desk, like a church pulpit, under the shade.”
“Here comes the banner!” shouted Madau.
From his high perch on Donayok’s shoulders, Ayuel scanned the crowd for Emmanuel Jal, but never saw him.
As two men held up the banner, a man from the Ethiopian government jumped into the back of the truck with a microphone. Pointing to the banner, he began the chant: “Wel-come, wel-come!”
“Welcome, welcome! American Congressman,” yelled the crowd over and over, not so much to welcome the congressman, but to show off their new knowledge.
“Very good,” said the man at the microphone. “Okay, okay. That’s enough. We do heartily welcome the congressman who has come all the way from the United States of America to talk to you.” He handed the microphone to one of the white men and clapped enthusiastically along with the crowd. The government man said the name of the congressman but it sounded so strange that Ayuel and his friends couldn’t remember it.
“Let’s move over where we can see better,” suggested Gutthier. Ayuel slid down from Donayok’s shoulders, and they found a spot in the middle of the assembly. The crowd grew silent and sat down to hear what the man would say.
The congressman got out of the long car and stood under the shade behind the pulpit. He spoke a few words over the microphone in a strange language that Ayuel guessed was English like “welcome.” Then the Ethiopian man repeated them in Dinka, for that was what most in the camp spoke.
“Thank you for your very kind welcome,” the congressman said. “I am happy to be with you this evening. The government of the United States of America has heard of the terrible situation here, and I have come to see for myself. It is, indeed, worse than I ever imagined.” He took out a white cloth and wiped his face.
“I have let the United Nations know about you. Shortly they will send you food, clothing, soap, tents and blankets for cold nights.” The assembly of thousands roared with applause. “Then we will set up medical clinics and burial grounds. You will have schools and teachers.” More applause.
The congressman talked on for a very long time. Much of what he said Ayuel and his friends didn’t understand, but they understood what meant the most. Their lives were going to be better. The whole world would help them.
One week later, a convoy of trucks brought food and clothing. They brought shovels and machines to bury the dead. Ayuel made a rag ball from his torn and ragged T-shirt. It would be good for playing pitch. His new one had been worn by someone before and had words on it, but it smelled clean and felt soft against his dry skin. His new shorts wouldn’t stay up over his thin body so he tied a vine through the loops, but he kept his old mutkukalei on his feet. They had served him well.
Life became better. Aid workers from various countries came to help the sick. Men with razors came to shave off the children’s orange and brittle, lice-filled hair. More bags of clothing arrived, marked “U.S.A.”. Each group received a chunk of soap for bathing and washing out their cooking pots, containers for storing grain and a bucket for carrying water. Now, in addition to maize, the food rations included beans, oil, sorghum and wheat flour. In the wooded area near the river, the boys often found mangoes and other wild fruits.
A few days later the people were ordered to form several lines, each in front of an official of some kind. After standing long hours in the hot sun, Ayuel arrived in front of a man who squatted down to question him.
“What is your full name?” he asked. “And you are from which clan?”
“Ayuel Leek. Dinka, sir.”
“How old are you?”
“I think, sir, I am still seven.”
“Do you have a mother or father, sister or brother in Camp Panyido?”
“No, sir.”
“To your knowledge, do you know if anyone else in your immediate family is living?”
“I don’t know, sir. I hope so.”
“Name any half-brothers and sisters, cousins and any relatives that are here in camp.”
Ayuel mentioned every relative he’d met on the journey, including his uncle, the SPLA officer, even though he’d never found him in the camp. Of course, he mentioned Gutthier and Madau.
“Ever been to school?”
“No, sir.”
“Next.”
The fourteen had become separated from one another when the assembly rushed to get in the lines. Now, near the end of the day, they gathered at their new home at the foot of a dead acacia tree. One of the boys had found a woman’s shawl, which they stretched out from the tree branches and attached the ends to two poles. This made a shade for a few children at a time.
Since Gutthier and Madau had been first to finish the questioning, they brought water from the river for everyone. When Ayuel arrived, he fell exhausted under the shelter. After a while, he sat up and slowly drank the boiled and cooled water from Gutthier’s plastic bottle. “We don’t have any more food, do we?”
“No,” Madau said. “We finished our supplies last evening. Let’s go gather some tree leaves. This old acacia tree probably died because people ate all the leaves.”
“I’m too tired from standing so long,” Ayuel said. He lay down and closed his eyes, but could hear the rest of his group gather and talk about the day’s experience. He recognized each voice and automatically counted off the names as he had done so many times in an effort to keep track of everyone. He drifted off to sleep and when he opened his eyes, it was nearly dark.
“We’re all here except Akon,” Donayok said with strain in his voice. “Did anyone see her today?”
Ayuel sat up, wide awake. “I haven’t seen her since we boiled the tea this morning. Maybe we should go search for her.”
“No. She knows where to come,” Madau said. “I saw her in another line, talking to some other girls. They’re her cousins on her father’s side. Her mother and mine are sisters, so we are cousins, but on our mothers’ side.” The explanation was not unusual for a Dinka child who learned to recite the relationships of his relatives at a very young age.
Just then, Akon appeared with two taller girls, one on each side. The boys all stood up, “We were worried…” Donayok said.
“Here, I brought you some bread,” she said and handed out some dried scraps, obviously from the dump. She smiled broadly, showing real happiness. Ayuel thought she had invited the girls, whom he recognized as Akon’s cousins, to join their group. That would be great; they needed some mother types.
“These are my cousins,” Akon announced and then choked up, unable to speak.
One of the girls said, “We found Akon this morning in the lines. Our mother is still with us. And our little brother, about your age.” She pointed to Ayuel.
“Our father was shot. Right in front of us,” the other girl said without showing emotion. “Akon is going to live with us.”
The boys remained standing in stunned silence. No one had just left since forming the group of seventeen. Akon had always been a comfort to Ayuel. “I’m happy you have a family,” he finally said. “But we can still see you every day.”
“Where is your family’s base?” asked Madau. “I’m glad you will have a mother.”
“Didn’t you hear?” Akon said as she wiped tears with the tail of the new T-shirt that she wore over a flowered skirt. “They are putting all the families on the far side of the field. I have to go now. It’s getting dark.”
Map of Ethiopia, courtesy of the CIA World Factbook