of the NPFL (which stands for National Patriotic Front of Liberia). The NPFL is the movement of the warlord Taylor, who wreaks havoc all over the region.
But that’s not how things went with us. The guys at the front on the motorbike who were supposed to defend us thought the kid was a road-block and opened fire. And that’s when the shit hit the fan.
All we could hear was the
tat-tat-tat
of AK-47s, just machine-guns
tat-tat-tat
-ing away. Whoever it was just kept shooting and shooting and shooting. When the damage was done, totally done, that’s when it stopped.
While all this was going on, all of us in the convoy were going crazy. Everyone was screaming out to the spirits of their ancestors and to every protective spirit in heaven and on earth. With all the noise, it sounded like thunder. And all this because the guy on the motorcycle had been showing off with his kalash and fired at the child-soldier.
Yacouba had a bad feeling the minute we boarded the truck. He never liked the look of the guy on the back of the motorbike, the one who fired the first shot, the one who thought the kid was just a little thief setting up a road-block. It was the guy on the back of the motorcycle who fired and made all the consequences happen and now we were in the shit.
Then we saw a child-soldier, a small-soldier as tall as an officer’s cane, a child-soldier wearing a baggy Para uniform. It was a girl. She was walking hesitantly. (‘Hesitantly’ is what you say when someone is walking like they’re nervous andunsure.) And she looked round at all the destruction from the AK-47ing, looked really carefully as if one of the guys might get up when actually everyone was totally dead, even the blood was dead beat, from flowing all over the place. She stopped where she was and whistled loudly and then whistled again. And then child-soldiers started appearing from all over the place, all dressed like her, all waving their AK-47s.
First they surrounded us and started yelling, ‘Out of the trucks, hands on your heads!’ And we all started getting down, hands on our heads.
The child-soldiers were really, really angry; they were red in the face they were so angry. (You don’t really say ‘red in the face’ for blacks. Blacks never go red in the face, they just frown.) Anyway the small-soldiers were frowning; they were crying on account of how angry they were, they were crying for their dead friend.
We started getting out of the trucks. Single file, one after the other. One of the soldiers took the jewellery, ripping off earrings and necklaces and stuffing them in a bag that another guy was carrying. The child-soldiers took our headdresses and clothes and shoes. If they liked your underwear, they took that too. They put all the clothes into piles, lots of piles: one pile for the shoes, one pile for the headdresses, one for pants, one for underpants. All the naked passengers from the trucks uncomfortably tried to cover their
bangala
if it was a man or their
gnoussou-gnoussou
if it was a woman (according to the
Glossary, ‘bangala
’ and ‘
gnoussou-gnoussou
’ are names for your shameful parts), but the child-soldiers didn’t let them. They ordered the embarrassed passengers to fuck off intothe forest. And everyone ran off into the forest with no objections.
When it came to Yacouba’s turn, he wasn’t going to be pushed around. He cried, ‘Me marabout, me grigriman, me grigriman!’
The child-soldiers poked him and forced him to take off his clothes. He kept on shouting, ‘Me shaman, grigriman. Me grigriman …’ Even when he had no clothes on and was trying to cover his
bangala
with his hands, he kept on screaming, ‘Grigriman, shaman.’ And when they told him to go into the jungle, he came back shouting, ‘Grigriman, shaman.’ ‘
Makou!
’ ordered the child-soldiers aiming an AK-47 at his arse. (‘
Makou
’ is in the
Glossary
and it means ‘shut up’.) So he shut up and stood on the side of the road with his
But that’s not how things went with us. The guys at the front on the motorbike who were supposed to defend us thought the kid was a road-block and opened fire. And that’s when the shit hit the fan.
All we could hear was the
tat-tat-tat
of AK-47s, just machine-guns
tat-tat-tat
-ing away. Whoever it was just kept shooting and shooting and shooting. When the damage was done, totally done, that’s when it stopped.
While all this was going on, all of us in the convoy were going crazy. Everyone was screaming out to the spirits of their ancestors and to every protective spirit in heaven and on earth. With all the noise, it sounded like thunder. And all this because the guy on the motorcycle had been showing off with his kalash and fired at the child-soldier.
Yacouba had a bad feeling the minute we boarded the truck. He never liked the look of the guy on the back of the motorbike, the one who fired the first shot, the one who thought the kid was just a little thief setting up a road-block. It was the guy on the back of the motorcycle who fired and made all the consequences happen and now we were in the shit.
Then we saw a child-soldier, a small-soldier as tall as an officer’s cane, a child-soldier wearing a baggy Para uniform. It was a girl. She was walking hesitantly. (‘Hesitantly’ is what you say when someone is walking like they’re nervous andunsure.) And she looked round at all the destruction from the AK-47ing, looked really carefully as if one of the guys might get up when actually everyone was totally dead, even the blood was dead beat, from flowing all over the place. She stopped where she was and whistled loudly and then whistled again. And then child-soldiers started appearing from all over the place, all dressed like her, all waving their AK-47s.
First they surrounded us and started yelling, ‘Out of the trucks, hands on your heads!’ And we all started getting down, hands on our heads.
The child-soldiers were really, really angry; they were red in the face they were so angry. (You don’t really say ‘red in the face’ for blacks. Blacks never go red in the face, they just frown.) Anyway the small-soldiers were frowning; they were crying on account of how angry they were, they were crying for their dead friend.
We started getting out of the trucks. Single file, one after the other. One of the soldiers took the jewellery, ripping off earrings and necklaces and stuffing them in a bag that another guy was carrying. The child-soldiers took our headdresses and clothes and shoes. If they liked your underwear, they took that too. They put all the clothes into piles, lots of piles: one pile for the shoes, one pile for the headdresses, one for pants, one for underpants. All the naked passengers from the trucks uncomfortably tried to cover their
bangala
if it was a man or their
gnoussou-gnoussou
if it was a woman (according to the
Glossary, ‘bangala
’ and ‘
gnoussou-gnoussou
’ are names for your shameful parts), but the child-soldiers didn’t let them. They ordered the embarrassed passengers to fuck off intothe forest. And everyone ran off into the forest with no objections.
When it came to Yacouba’s turn, he wasn’t going to be pushed around. He cried, ‘Me marabout, me grigriman, me grigriman!’
The child-soldiers poked him and forced him to take off his clothes. He kept on shouting, ‘Me shaman, grigriman. Me grigriman …’ Even when he had no clothes on and was trying to cover his
bangala
with his hands, he kept on screaming, ‘Grigriman, shaman.’ And when they told him to go into the jungle, he came back shouting, ‘Grigriman, shaman.’ ‘
Makou!
’ ordered the child-soldiers aiming an AK-47 at his arse. (‘
Makou
’ is in the
Glossary
and it means ‘shut up’.) So he shut up and stood on the side of the road with his
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