country? She’d signed up to bring relief to the people, not to get involved in the political arena.
Natalie held up her hand to block the sun that cast rays of light across the brown earth. Two dozen mud huts, with their neatly thatched roofs, surrounded her. Pathways between them had been swept, grass cleared, and firewood piled along the sides of the huts. Crossing the soft ground, still damp from the rain the day before, she searched for signs of a struggle. Dozens of random footprints scattered out before her, but she couldn’t be sure whose they were. The rains could have washed away the villagers’ footprints.
But not a group of soldiers who had returned to cover up their handiwork.
Trying to ignore the lump of fear swelling inside her, she glanced beyond the eastern edges of the village to where neat rows of corn and manioc had been planted during the first rains. Beside them bamboo, tied together with homemade rope, formed bins to keep stalks of dried maize from last year’s harvest out of the reach of animals. Pulling out one of the yellowed stalks, Natalie crumbled the dry husk between her fingers. How many hours of work had been put into planting, watering, and cultivating this vital crop? Without constant care, the crop would be ravaged by animals or burnt by the midday sun. Why would the villagers leave all this work unless it was under force?
Natalie made her way past one of the huts, its mud walls decorated by a band of dark brown around the bottom, and snapped another photo. Twelve feet away sat an open smoke-stained kitchen. Clay water pots lay in one corner beside a stack of rusty plates. Nearby, a hollowed-out gourd was filled with dried cassava. She crouched down in front of the fat, black pot and lifted the wooden spoon to reveal a sauce that smelled of tomatoes and piquant peppers. The embers below had long since grown cold, leaving behind nothing but a mound of gray ash.
She stood and rested her hands against her hips. Something wasn’t right. While it might be true that Joseph’s tribe migrated when food sources like wild game dissipated, leaving healthy crops behind or a pot full of sauce untended wasn’t normal.
A flash of pink caught her eye. Skirting a pile of firewood, she leaned down and pulled out a worn cloth doll from the edge of the sticks. Two tiny black-beaded eyes stared back at her. The mouth had been made from red thread stitched in a zigzag pattern. One shoe was gone, and the dark face was streaked with mud.
Natalie squeezed her eyes shut. She remembered the young girl and her doll as if it were only yesterday. Her faded red dress had barely reached to her thighs, and her dusty brown feet had dug their toes into the soft earth as she’d grasped the cloth treasure and staredup at Natalie. Around them, the village had stirred with life. The tangy smell of sauces being cooked in their black pots for the evening meal drifted across the compound with the afternoon breeze. Mothers nursed their babies. Children sauntered back from the dusty trails with water held high on their heads. It had been her job to help them improve their lives.
The little girl had tugged on the skirt of her dress as Natalie knelt down and greeted her in Dha. “ Eh fo banda .”
“ Eh fa .”
Natalie had taken the ragged doll and smiled at the girl, wishing she had something to give her.
Something snapped in the brush. Natalie opened her eyes, pulled away from the vivid memories. She ducked against the frame of a low doorway and stared into the bush. Another twig cracked and a pig rushed by, squealing as it disappeared behind one of the huts.
She pressed her hand against her heart and let out a slow breath of relief. Clasping the doll between her fingers, she peeked inside one of the dim huts. A mattress covered with a frayed pink sheet sat in the corner of the room. A table and chair on the other side. Even without the photos for proof, it didn’t take much for her to believe Joseph’s
Natalie held up her hand to block the sun that cast rays of light across the brown earth. Two dozen mud huts, with their neatly thatched roofs, surrounded her. Pathways between them had been swept, grass cleared, and firewood piled along the sides of the huts. Crossing the soft ground, still damp from the rain the day before, she searched for signs of a struggle. Dozens of random footprints scattered out before her, but she couldn’t be sure whose they were. The rains could have washed away the villagers’ footprints.
But not a group of soldiers who had returned to cover up their handiwork.
Trying to ignore the lump of fear swelling inside her, she glanced beyond the eastern edges of the village to where neat rows of corn and manioc had been planted during the first rains. Beside them bamboo, tied together with homemade rope, formed bins to keep stalks of dried maize from last year’s harvest out of the reach of animals. Pulling out one of the yellowed stalks, Natalie crumbled the dry husk between her fingers. How many hours of work had been put into planting, watering, and cultivating this vital crop? Without constant care, the crop would be ravaged by animals or burnt by the midday sun. Why would the villagers leave all this work unless it was under force?
Natalie made her way past one of the huts, its mud walls decorated by a band of dark brown around the bottom, and snapped another photo. Twelve feet away sat an open smoke-stained kitchen. Clay water pots lay in one corner beside a stack of rusty plates. Nearby, a hollowed-out gourd was filled with dried cassava. She crouched down in front of the fat, black pot and lifted the wooden spoon to reveal a sauce that smelled of tomatoes and piquant peppers. The embers below had long since grown cold, leaving behind nothing but a mound of gray ash.
She stood and rested her hands against her hips. Something wasn’t right. While it might be true that Joseph’s tribe migrated when food sources like wild game dissipated, leaving healthy crops behind or a pot full of sauce untended wasn’t normal.
A flash of pink caught her eye. Skirting a pile of firewood, she leaned down and pulled out a worn cloth doll from the edge of the sticks. Two tiny black-beaded eyes stared back at her. The mouth had been made from red thread stitched in a zigzag pattern. One shoe was gone, and the dark face was streaked with mud.
Natalie squeezed her eyes shut. She remembered the young girl and her doll as if it were only yesterday. Her faded red dress had barely reached to her thighs, and her dusty brown feet had dug their toes into the soft earth as she’d grasped the cloth treasure and staredup at Natalie. Around them, the village had stirred with life. The tangy smell of sauces being cooked in their black pots for the evening meal drifted across the compound with the afternoon breeze. Mothers nursed their babies. Children sauntered back from the dusty trails with water held high on their heads. It had been her job to help them improve their lives.
The little girl had tugged on the skirt of her dress as Natalie knelt down and greeted her in Dha. “ Eh fo banda .”
“ Eh fa .”
Natalie had taken the ragged doll and smiled at the girl, wishing she had something to give her.
Something snapped in the brush. Natalie opened her eyes, pulled away from the vivid memories. She ducked against the frame of a low doorway and stared into the bush. Another twig cracked and a pig rushed by, squealing as it disappeared behind one of the huts.
She pressed her hand against her heart and let out a slow breath of relief. Clasping the doll between her fingers, she peeked inside one of the dim huts. A mattress covered with a frayed pink sheet sat in the corner of the room. A table and chair on the other side. Even without the photos for proof, it didn’t take much for her to believe Joseph’s
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