Traveller_Levin's Blog

BUTTERFLY DREAMS

Beatrice Lamwaka

Labalpiny read out your name on Mega FM. This was an answerto our daily prayer. We have listened to the programme every dayfor five years. You and ten other children had been rescued bythe soldiers from the rebels in Sudan. For a minute we thoughtwe heard it wrong. We waited as Labalpiny re-read the names. Hementioned Ma’s name. Our village, Alokolum. There could notbe any other Lamunu but you.

During the last five years, we had become part of the string ofparents who listened to Mega FM. Listening and waiting for thenames of their loved ones. We sat close to the radio every day.Our hearts thumped every time we heard Lamunu or Alokolum.Without saying words for one hour and each day we sighed afterthe programme. When the days turned into years, we prayedmore often. Your name seems to have disappeared and ourchance of seeing you faded. We waited. We bought Evereadybatteries to keep the radio going.

Lamunu, we may never tell you this: we buried your tipu, spirit,when word went around that you would not come back to us.The neighbours had begun to tell us that you would never return.Bongomin, who returned after four years of abduction, said hesaw your dead body bursting in the burning sun. We neverbelieved you were dead. We also didn’t want your tiputo roamnorthern Uganda. We didn’t want you to come back and hauntus. Ma never believed for one moment that you were gone. It washer strength that kept us hoping that one day you would return.She said she dreamt that butterflies were telling her to keepstrong. The night after the dream there were so many butterfliesin the house. We thought she was running mad. We thought youhad taken her mind with you.

Ma wore opobo leaves for three days to let your tipurest. Weknew that she did it to make us happy. We advised her to let yourest so that she could move on with her life. She never did. Shewalked around as if her tipu had been buried along with yours.Your tipu was buried next to Pa. We didn’t want you to loiter inthe wilderness in the cold. Ma said you deserved to rest. To restpeacefully in the other world. Then, we heard your name on theradio. And we didn’t know what to do. Run away? Unveil yourtipu? Let you go on without knowing what we had done? We maynever find the courage to let you know this. May be one day youwill see the grave with your name on it and then the butterflieswill give us the right words and strength to tell you.

You were at World Vision, a rehabilitation centre for formerlyabducted children. You were being counselled there. You werebeing taught how to live with us again. Ma cried and laughed atthe same time. Yes, you were alive. We couldn’t believe at longlast our anxiety would come to rest. That night, Ma prayed. Weprayed till cockcrow. We were happy. We were happy you werealive. Pa might have turned in his grave. We were happy to knowyou were alive.

You returned home. You were skinny as a cassava stem. Bulletscars on your left arm and right leg. Your feet were cracked andswollen as if you had walked the entire planet. Long scarsmapped your once beautiful face. Your eyes had turned thecolour of pilipili pepper. You caressed your scars as if to tell uswhat you went through. We did not ask questions. We have heardthe stories before from Anena, Aya, Bongomin, Nyeko, Ayat,Lalam, Auma, Ocheng, Otim, Olam, Uma, Ateng, Akwero,Laker, Odong, Lanyero, Ladu, Timi, Kati. We are sure your storyis not any different.

When you returned home, Lamunu, we were afraid. We wereafraid of you. Afraid of what you had become. Ma borrowed aneighbour’slayibi. Uncle Ocen bought an egg from the market.You needed to be cleansed. The egg would wash away whateveryou did in the bush. Whatever the rebels made you do. We knowthat you were abducted. You didn’t join them and you wouldnever be part of them. You quickly jumped the layibi. Youstepped on the egg, splashing its egg yolk. You were clean. Youdidn’t ask questions. You did what was asked of you. It’s like youknew that you had to do this. Like you knew you would never beclean until you were cleansed. Ma ululated. You were welcomedhome. Back home where you belonged.

We watched you silently. In return, you watched us in silence.We gave you food when we thought you were hungry. Yougulped down the sweet potatoes and malakwangwithout saying aword. We didn’t want to treat you as if you were a stranger but inour hearts, we knew that you were new. We knew that you wouldnever be the same again. We didn’t know what to expect of you.We waited to hear you say a word. We wanted to hear your huskyvoice. Hear you do the loud laugh you did before the rebelssnatched you from us. We wanted to tickle you and watch yourbody move with laughing. But you were silent. You watched uswith awe. You had grown now. Your breasts were showingthrough the blue flowered dress that you wore.

We greeted you. We thanked God when we saw you. You didn’tanswer our greetings. You looked at us. We saw your eyesglistening. We knew you were happy to be back. We knew youwere happy to see us alive.

That night Ma cried in her bed. She whispered your name timeand again as if wishing you would at least say Ma. Although shewas happy you were back, she never said it. She expected you tosay something. Something that would make her believe your spiritwas in that body you carried around. We wanted to knowwhether your tipu had been buried with your voice. We had neverbeen taught how to unbury a tipu. We only hoped that your realtipu was not six feet under.

We wanted to see you alive again. Although you were fifteenthen, we wanted to know if you were still interested in becominga doctor. We wanted to see you smile again. We wanted to seeyour eyes brighten as your mother gave you water and did thedance that you liked when you were a child. We wantedsomething that would make us know that you recognised us. Wewanted to do our best to make you happy.

Ma never spoke of the butterflies again. We never heard of thebutterfly dreams anymore. We wanted the butterflies to come andsay something to Ma.

We watched you as you studied our new home. Our new homehad become something new. We watched the neighbours watchyou with disgust. They were not happy you were back. Some ofthem still clutched the radio waiting for Labalpiny to read theirson’s name. They waited to hear him call out their names likelupok camcall out our names to give us yellow poshoand beans.

Lamunu, we no longer till our land. Our children no longerknow how to hold a hoe. They have forgotten how the groundnut plant looks. Now, our land buries our children. Our gardensgrow huts. We now live in a camp. Lupok camcall it internallydisplaced people’s camps. From the sky our camp looks like afarm of mushrooms. We have empty huts with empty peoplewhose tipuhave been buried or have taken a walk.

Look at the huts, Lamunu. This is something that we don’texpect you to understand. Something you couldn’t recognize.This is something that we don’t understand. This is our home,something that we don’t know how to explain to you. Somethingwe took refuge in. This is our home that keeps us alive. Keeps ussane. Just huts. Grass and bricks. Just huts to hide our nakedness.When Latim and his neighbours built their huts here, they saidAlokolum was safe. Their children will not be abducted. Theirwives will not be raped. They will have something to eat. Then soand so built in our gardens all with the same hopes and dreams.Then everybody wanted to build their huts in our land. Wecouldn’t dig anymore. We had no more food. We later learnt ourhome had been marked in the map of Uganda as a camp.

Don’t look at us like that Lamunu. Yes, we now eat yellowposho. Yes, yellow posho that Ma used to feed Biko, Pa’s huntingdog, before the war. We wait for lupok cam to provide us withcooking oil and beans, and of course, yellow posho. That’s all weeat now. Sometimes we don’t have enough. Sometimes lupok cam don’t even come at all. We scramble to get out of the camp tolook for something to stop the gnawing feelings in our stomachs.Just a little something. Some wild plants. Some malakwang kulu.Some things that our ancestors never ate. Then we found outthere were soldiers guarding us. They don’t want us to get out ofthe camp. Why? we asked. They said they don’t want rebels toabduct more of us. These days, my dear, they abduct anybody.Anybody who they can force to stand and be shot in thebattlefield.

We asked the soldiers, where were you when Lamunu wasabducted. Where were you when the rebels came and took ouryoung ones? Where did you go to when the rebels came andraped our women as we watched? They told us they had not beenpaid. Sod off! we tell them. Let us go to look for food. Then theycame with their sticks to beat us as if we were school children.

You spoke in your dreams. You turned and tossed in your mudbed. We held your hands. You were like a woman in labour. Youspoke of ghosts. You spoke of rebels chasing you in Adilangbecause you tried to escape. You spoke of Akello, your friend,who they made you and your team beat to death because shetried to escape. You said you didn’t want to kill her. You said youremembered the commandment ‘thou shall not kill’. You said youdidn’t want to participate. You didn’t want to hurt anybody. Yousaid you saw Akello covered with sticks. You saw the blood inher mouth. You watched as the older rebels checked to confirmthat she was dead. You were nauseated. You tried to vomit butthere was nothing to let out. The last meal, raw cassava andboiled chicken, which you had looted from a camp, had alreadybeen digested.

We listened to you. We wanted to feel your pain. We wanted toknow what you knew. We squeezed your hand. We wanted you tolet out what you had been holding onto. You let us squeeze yourhand. You didn’t wince when blood flowed. We never coulddrain all your pain away.

Today, we watched you get drenched in the rain. You stood therestill as the rainfall poured on you. You were not disturbed by theloud thunderstorm. We made space for you in the hut. Waited foryou with warm clothes. We thought you were letting outsomething. We didn’t interrupt you.

As the rain became a drizzle, you entered the hut. You bypassedMa with the warm clothes in her hands. You sat with your wetclothes on. We noticed that it was the time of the month for you.You let the rain wash the blood away. You let us watch the bloodstreak down your leg. You didn’t see the tears rolling down yourmother’s face.

Later that day, we listened to you curse under your breath. Wewatched you tremble when you heard the government fightingplanes flying over Katikati. We knew that you were worried aboutthe people you left behind. We knew that you knew what wouldgo on when the planes went after the rebels. We didn’t ask youfor stories. We have heard the stories from Anena, Aya,Bongomin, Nyeko, Ayat, Lalam, Auma, Ocheng, Otim, Olam,Uma, Ateng, Akwero, Laker, Odong, Lanyero, Ladu, Timi, Kati.

Lamunu, we remember as if it were yesterday when the rebelscame to our home. That night was the night we knew that therewould be many more nights like that one. We heard the butts ofthe guns hitting people’s heads. We heard the screams. We heardthe rebels demanding our children from our own homes. Wewere helpless.

You were still dazed with sleep. One rebel not much older thanyou grabbed you by the hands. You were only wearing a t-shirt.Ma grabbed a skirt for you to wear. You went out of the housewith it still in your hand.

Ma’s pleas and cries were only answered with the butts of gunson her head. She asked them to take her instead. But the rebelsdemanded medicine. They wanted the medicine she brought fromthe government hospital in town. Lamunu, Ma would never havelet you go. You were only eleven. Reading for your PrimaryLeaving Exams. You always wanted to be a doctor. You said youwanted to do what Ma was doing, not as a nurse, but as a doctor.

We later learnt that they went house to house in Katikati aswell, taking all boys and girls around your age with them. Theysaid that the rebels would train the children to fight. Train themto lure other children. Join the big war to save the Acholi. Oustthe government. Overthrow Museveni’s government. We didn’tknow what that meant. We didn’t want to ask anyone. What weknew was that we didn’t want our children to get involved in thatwar.

We watched as you always prepared to go to school like it was aspecial ritual. Brushing your teeth and then taking a bath. Youcarefully splashed the water from the galaya onto your slenderbody. You didn’t eat the breakfast that Ma made for you. Youpacked it in your school bag so that you wouldn’t be late forschool. We admired you for that. Even when the war started andmany children were waylaid, you managed to get there. Youcursed the teachers and called them cowards when you didn’tfind any children or teachers. Days after a heavy fight betweenthe rebels and soldiers you continued to go to school. You nevergave up even when you didn’t find anybody there.

You said that the war only affected the education of thechildren in the north. The rest of the children in Uganda studied.And the exams were all the same. You went to school wheneveryone was hiding in the bush. Ma begged you not to go.Children were waylaid by rebels on their way to school shepleaded. You always managed to get to school. Found an emptyclass. Disappointed, you would come home. Ma later becameyour teacher. Ma taught you about reproduction even if she knewshe shouldn’t say such words to her daughter. You were eager tolearn. Pa wanted to teach you too, even though he didn’t knowhow to read and write.

Lamunu, we don’t know how to tell you that Pa is no longer withus. You may have noticed that he is not around. We don’t knowwith which mouth to tell you that he was cut to pieces by thosewho you were fighting for. He was found in a garden he rented inLalogi. He said he could no depend on Lupok camto provide himand his family with food. You know your father. He was a proudman. He believed that a strong man should show his strength bythe amount of food he had in his granary. Before the war, therewas a lot of food in the granary. The neighbours were jealous ofthat. He dug like a tractor. His cows were the best in Alokolum.Everybody wanted to buy milk from him. Even the lazyLutukamoi, he tried to dig night and day but couldn’t get donehalf of what your father could achieve.

The rebels found him digging and asked him what he was doingsince everybody was supposed to be in a camp. He said a manhas to provide for his family. They mocked him and told him tojoin them to fight if he was strong man. He said he would notjoin them because he did not start the war they were fighting. Tenyoung men beat him up with whatever they could find. They latercut his body into pieces. Lamunu, we did not eat meat after weburied your father and we have not eaten meat since then…. Wecould never understand why another human being couldhumiliate another, even in their death.

Each day we pray that we get the strength to tell you. And oneday when the war ends, you will tell us your story. And we willtell you our stories.

We learnt from the neighbours that you went to school. Youasked the headmaster to register you as a primary six pupil. Wedidn’t know that you could talk. We were happy that you saidsomething, even though it wasn’t to us. The headmaster looked atyour skinny body. You told him you wanted to become a doctor.He asked you whether you could pay. You didn’t answer that.You knew that we didn’t even have a coin to put food on thetable. You said you didn’t care and that all you wanted to do wasto study. You said you could pay when you were finished withyour education.

You entered a primary four class. The pupils watched yousilently. They thought you were a mad girl. They muffled theirscreams, worried that you would hit them or something. Theyknew that the war had brought something that they don’tunderstand. They wanted to survive, so whatever didn’t kill themthey would watch to try to find a way.

Ma ran to school when she heard that you were there andargued with the headmaster. She wondered why you didn’t tellher anything. She wanted to help you. She wanted you to talk toher but she didn’t want to push you as well. She loved youthough she could not say it.

Ma spoke to the headmaster of Lacor Primary school. Theheadmaster agreed to let Ma pay your school fees in instalments.She said that she is happy that you still want to go to school.

You said apwoyo. You said thank you to Ma. That’s the firstword we have heard you say. We’re happy to hear you saysomething. We hope that you will be able to say a lot more. Tellus more than Anena, Aya, Bongomin, Nyeko, Ayat, Lalam,Auma, Ocheng, Otim, Olam, Uma, Ateng, Akwero, Laker,Odong, Lanyero, Ladu, Timi…. Most of all, we want to hear yourvoice.

You look very beautiful in your new uniform. The headmaster ofLacor Primary School for formerly abducted children hasdonated the uniform to you. Ma says that you will get specialtreatment. Most of the children are like you. They too have killed,tortured other children. They too fought in a war that they didn’tunderstand. The teachers will treat you well, Ma says. They havehad special training.

You are very happy. We can see you have woken up early. Youhave packed your bag with your new books. You have writtenyour name neatly written on the books.

We know that your dreams will come true. You will be a doctorsome day. Do the work that Ma does but wearing a white coat.

There are tears in Ma’s eyes. You look the other way. We knowthat you know they are tears of happiness.