THE FREE BIRD

I entered this short story into the 1st Kalemba Short Story Prize (2018) competition and it managed to make it on to the long list. Enjoy. 😊 P.S. it's open to interpretation.

It wasn't always like this. There was a time when my people could walk freely. We worked. We danced and we worked again. It seems the sun was much brighter in those days. I know for a fact that the rain was more frequent then too. I was a young girl then, only just reaching the peak that would lead me into womanhood. Now, my breasts sag and the threads on my head are silver, like the colour of ash. I see lines on the face that once belonged to me, they detail my hard existence. I don't dance anymore. That all changed the day ‘they’ came-The Nankoti.

“They found us! They found us!! RUN!!” I hear grenades and a loud crash. “Huh-uh! What was that?” the hairs on my arms stand at full attention.  “Birds, wind, sun, water, free, birds, free, sun, water, free-”  “Run you foolish old woman, run! They are coming for us” a young boy shouts hysterically as he runs through the tunnel some of us had begun to dare call ‘refuge’. I hear screams and then gun shots. My old bones are tired but still strong. I run.

At first, it was slow, one or two in one or two areas. Lusaka was first. I blinked. Now, they outnumber us. I am forced to live on the periphery of a land that once belonged to me. Humph. To think I thought myself a queen once. My sneakers won't be able to carry the weight of my damaged feet for long. The holes at the top of my smelly old shoes are big enough for three of my fungi-infected toes to pop through. I stop. My ugly toes stare back at me. The scenery around me is grotesque- the remainders of a war-torn concrete jungle. The debris of damaged buildings and human waste litter the ground, the smell is foul. I look up to the sky, I see smoke. And birds?  “Birds! Wind, sun, water, free, birds, free, sun, water, free-”  “Why on earth are you stopping? RUN!!’ Four or five young women run past me, roughly shoving me aside. It's survival, there is no longer time for the manners of old now.

Fifty years ago The Nankoti came looking for shelter. Or so they claimed. We shared what was rightfully ours with no question, giving freely and expecting nothing in return. That was our biggest mistake. We didn't realise that as we shared the Nankoti grabbed- coveting and pocketing. Back then, one could not tell who is Nankoti and who is Palo-ah. We all looked the same. Now, it’s different. The Palo-ah have distinct markings and sores. A clear indicator of the wealth and privilege we have been denied.  I pull up my sleeve and stare at the black and green tattoos that consume my left arm. Almost instantly, I am knocked out of the reminiscing that would only lead to more problems if dwelled in for too long.   “Arghhh! The birds!” I scream. Someone has decided to lift me and carry me as they run.  “You stupid old woman! Do you want to die today?” the broad-shouldered young man asks over his shoulder.  “I am old and tired now,” I respond, drained by my own thoughts.


“You can be old and tired once we get to safety” he screams back. His name is Musonda-Joe. An odd name. Initially, all they wanted was a place to sleep. Then; they took our jobs, our minerals, and our land! Now we fight for water. The Kariba Dam and Zambezi River started drying out twenty years ago. In the places it is not dry, the water tastes like salt. Crops died, animals died and people followed just as quickly after. At that point it was nearly clear who was master and who the intended slave would be. Funny, we thought we'd already experienced that and gone passed it since gaining independence in the 1960's. We were fools.

“Mama, mama Nkole! We are here now. Let go of me, we should be safe for now”. Musonda-Joe pants as he sets me down, loosening the grip I have on his khaki shirt. We are in an abandoned warehouse in what was Lusaka’s industrial area.  “Thank you boy.” I reply quietly, “let me tend to the injured”. I am a good nurse I think to myself. Yes. A very good nurse like a bird. Oh, yes, like Florence nightingale. I have no children of my own and the choice wasn’t mine. My mind isn't what it once was, but I remember clearly the day I knew that children would no longer be a possibility for me. It is the day I was tortured and then marked. I look down again at the tattoos on my arm. They look grotesque against my now crocodile skin.

The hard life I've led, and the bouts of torture I have experienced in my life have ensured that not only can I not birth a child of my own, I can no longer carry one train of thought for long. I don't know where most of my family and friends are. I lost my Love, I have been separated from them all. Those who I did escape with are now dead. I am the oldest person I know in this troop. I wish my mind was sane but I cannot help the Tic. “Shhh, hush,” I say to a young woman as I tend to the gaping hole on her right shoulder blade. “Hush”. She stiffens as she hears more screams and gunshots from afar. I try my best to comfort her. About seven people lay bleeding of the fifteen that have managed to make it to this safe-haven. Despite this, the smell of death and sickness lingers in the air. Everyone here is malnourished and covered in sores- the effect of not having enough water or food.  “Alcohol, pass me the alcohol” I demand. The strong potion is handed to me and I use it to sterilise the scissors I'll use to remove the remnants of the bullets lodged in her shoulder. My hands shake.

“Hold her down and tie her up!” the Nankoti man in the white coat says menacingly. My vision is blurred. All I feel is a throbbing pain in all areas of my body. I try to look down but I cannot move. My head is strapped to a table. I try to scream but I cannot voice a word out. I pass out. Someone is holding electric cables over my head I can smell blood and taste it on my lips. More pain. I feel my body begin to seize and I am incapable of stopping or controlling it. At this point I know that the child I am carrying cannot possibly survive and my mind blacks out.


He loosens the leather straps on my head. I see light. A crack through the shuttered-up windows but I can see. Sunlight, and a bird flying freely with the wind. I'm thirsty, my throat burns. I need water. I spasm and fit uncontrollably. Birds. Water. Sun. Water. Free. No one ever truly believed it would come to this. But we should've known when they started treating us badly, looking down on us as though we were the scum of the earth that nothing good would come of it. I'd heard stories of brutality against Palo-ah in places that the Nankoti owned or controlled. Soon; we noticed the Nankoti claiming high seats in government and even bribing government officials. That is now the least of our problems. Now, all we want is clean drinking water. We've heard rumours of an untouched spring only fourteen hours walk away from here. If we can get there without being caught; we will survive.  “We will have to leave the sick and injured here” a young man- Charles, voices.  “We leave no one, we are already so few, if our numbers decrease further we might... Birds. Birds and wind. Sun. Water. Free” my mind wanders off.

 “You should've left this crazy old woman behind Musonda, she's more trouble than she's worth.” Charles says.  “We leave no one behind. Mama Nkole is not only a brilliant nurse, but she's also a veteran to the cause. If anyone is to be left behind, it's you for even suggesting that.” replies Musonda-Joe.  “S-so-sorry,” I say regaining control of my senses. “We- I. I must attend to the injured” I say determinedly.  Musonda-Joe looks on me with Pity. I don't need his pity. I am old and tired, maybe a little crazy, but strong.  We cannot stay here for long. It would be unwise. If we could get to the spring on time, we might just be saved. Ahh springs. Water. Sun. Birds. Free- More screams! I snap out of it quickly. I tend to the wounds of the injured as I watch Musonda-Joe  pace up and down the warehouse, occasionally checking blinds and making sure those that can get whatever little help we can expend, receive it. If I had a son, it would be him.

 I was in love once. He was a tall young man with an athletic build and skin the colour of rich cocoa. I met him when I was twenty, and despite the going-ons I truly believed we had the rest of our lives to be together. We went for long walks and spoke for hours about everything! Politics, religion, culture & tradition; our dreams, our fears; we even whispered sweet nothings to each other in our own coded language. Four years later, just as we were getting ready for marriage; hell broke loose and he died trying to rescue me from our enemies. I have not felt the same way about another since. Perhaps I am romanticising a relationship of old, whose details have been diluted with the passing of time. No one relationship can be that perfect. However, those happy memories are all I have left.

We hear more screams and grenades and it's not long before we all agree that we need to keep moving. The closer we can get to the spring; the better off we will all be. We have no choice. The injured will have to keep up or be helped as we move forward. We cannot stay where we are lest we all die. Two hours later, Musonda-Joe leads us all quietly out of the warehouse through an underground passage way that connects to another building almost a kilometre away. Rats storm the passage way, their greedy animalistic eyes almost demonic in their stubbornness. “Shhh... stop!”  Musonda-Joe whispers loudly. Ahead of us we see torch light bouncing off the walls coming towards us. We all tense. Bracing ourselves for the inevitable, those of us with weapons ready them. We will not go down without a fight.  Blinding light comes to a halt just above my head, directly in the face of one of the young men in our party. My eyes adjust to the change of lighting and I notice two pairs of frightened small eyes staring at our party. Two dirty young children, one a boy not more than five and a girl aged 12 or so, but both so grossly underweight, that had I not been experienced in such cases, I would not have managed to guess so accurately their ages. Just as quickly as she stopped, the young girl grabs the younger boy into her arms and begins to run, as if for dear life. Without thinking, I begin to chase after her, the rest of the group follows just as frantically. Musonda-Joe and several others quickly run past me and catch up to the two young children in no time.

 “Who are you!? Why are you in these tunnels?” one person shouts.  “Where are your parents?” another demands.  “Quiet!” commands Musonda-Joe. “You're frightening them”.  The little girl has her arms wrapped around the boy I am assuming is her brother in a protective manner. They are huddled against the left hand side of the wall; shivering. I take off my ratty jacket and cover them.  “Thank you” the girl responds with a stutter. I slouch down beside them.  “What are you doing in these tunnels?” I ask, the girl begins to sob, her little brother upon seeing this, begins to sob hysterically as well.  “What is your name?” I ask again.  “Ugh, let's leave them and continue on our way”. Says Charles irritably as he paces up and down the narrow width. Their sobs get louder and I find myself crying with them as I wrap my arms around both of the children.  “Now the crazy old lady is crying too” he states. Musonda-Joe kneels down in front of us, “Mama Nkole,” he says. “Please come to your senses; we have to keep moving. Small girl, what is your name?” he asks tentatively, she looks up and responds in her small stuttering way, “J-jane, and this is my young brother Bupe.”  Charles, irritated by the slow pace of Musonda-Joe’s questioning; attempts to cut in and is rudely shut-down. Jane begins to tell the story of how she and her brother were separated from their troop.

It was a few days ago; Nankoti stormed up their refuge and in all the chaos that ensued, they lost sight of their primary care-taker, an older relative whom they were now desperate to find. The whole group save a few, sympathise with the young girl’s story and we all agree to take the two children with us- who do not need much convincing to join us; as they are tired and hungry.  Young Jane visibly yet cautiously seizes the opportunity to once again be a child, not needing to worry about her own safety or that of her brother, but rather trust in an adult to at least oversee it for her. “How much further to the spring?” Charles asks as we exit the tunnel. “Honestly, I'm not sure. Eight, maybe ten hours; but we are losing a lot of daylight; we will need to find shelter for the night soon” responds Musonda-Joe.  “Spring?” inquires Jane,  “Yes; we need to get to the spring in order to survive, water is our priority,” I respond. “Yes; I know what you mean, buy if you're looking for the spring then we are going the wrong way”. She responds in her small voice. The whole groups stops and gathers in a semi-circle around the three of us.  Frightened, Jane pulls her brother closer and looks up at the adults staring down at her, her lower lip quivering.  “What do you mean?” I ask, “Do you know where the spring is? Have you been there?” I ask as I not-so gently shake her by the shoulders, resulting in Bupe’s burst of tears. Musonda-Joe gently pushes me aside and gets on one knee, looking Jane directly in her eye.  “How do you know this?” he asks,  “Because I’ve been there before”. She replies and continues, “There's an underground camp of Palo-ah close to the spring. I lived there once.”

“What on earth do you mean? This little girl is a liar!” shouts Charles.  “I'm not lying,” insists Jane, beginning to cry. “It's where we were headed before we were attacked by the Nankoti” she says in a smaller voice as Musonda-Joe rubs her back. “Why don't you explain to us from the beginning?” asks Musonda-Joe, bringing the girl to a shed a few meters away from the tunnel entrance. Jane hiccups as she hugs Bupe closer and begins to tell her story. The rest of us huddle around the shed, in the defensive way we’ve become accustomed to when out in the open- but still trying to attain a certain level of comfortability. Two of the more agile members of our group proceed to inspect our surroundings in order to ensure that we are at least safe for now. Jane explains to us that she was born in the under-ground camp and had never left its grounds both above and below ground, before two months ago. She snuck out to follow guards on supply errands above ground because she wanted to see what it was really like in the outside world.

Bupe, seeing his older sister playing a new and exciting game, decided to follow as well. It was a good half an hour before she realised she had a tail, and two more hours before the guards noticed they had followed them. By then, they were far away from the camp. After receiving a stern scolding from one of the guards, he decided to take her home; & on the way back was detailing exactly how to get home if she was ever lost before they were quickly surrounded and attacked.  The guards, having much difficulty defending themselves and the children, we're slaughtered on the spot and the two children captured. It was only three weeks ago that the children were rescued en route to a concentration camp by a troop attempting to raid what they believed to be a Nankoti cargo truck. The same troop she has now been separated from.  Jane was attempting to show them the underground camp when they were similarly attacked. The silence as she finishes her story is deafening. We are all stunned. Musonda-Joe breaks the silence as he strokes his chin in a slow deliberate manner and says, “it seems Nankoti have caught wind of the underground rest camp you speak of”. “The girl is clearly bad luck. I vote to leave her here and let her find her way. We can barely feed ourselves. We don't need more mouths!” Charles exasperates waving his arms wildly about him. The girl begins to cry. I move forward and crouch down close to Jane and Bupe, attempting to comfort them. “We must find shelter now. It is dark, we all need our rest” I state.

The two young men who left to inspect our surroundings, return to us claiming they have found shelter for the night and urge us to follow them. Slowly, one by one we all diligently follow to our shelter for the night. My nerves tonight are on edge. I had too many episodes today. How can I allow myself to lose my sanity that frequently? Normally I only have one episode; sometimes I can go a whole week without one. What is wrong with me? Nervously I pace up and down the small dingy room we've been led to; picking on my chipped dirt-bedded nails. Rabbit meat is roasting on a fire in the left corner of the room and three people are attending to our supper. A curious mix of anxiety and adrenaline is flowing through my bones and I know that if I'm not careful or do not attempt to calm myself soon I might tip over the edge and fit. I am a crazy old woman after all, I must be careful.  I feel a cold press on my arm and look down to see a metal cup with a brown alcoholic fluid in it. “For your nerves,” insists Musonda-Joe; pressing the cup into the palm of my hand.

Slowly, I bring it closer to my mouth, and sip, brandy? I look up and meet his eyes as he winks at me and walks away. Normally, we have a taste of whisky when we are lucky. Sometimes vanilla essence, brandy is a rarity. I finish the last of my brandy and sleep calls upon me so swiftly, the anxiety of before is nearly forgotten. I dream. My past haunts and blesses me simultaneously. I visualise my family, friends, my first and only love, the hopes I had for my future- I am in an open field with vegetables and flowers and the sun is dazzling on my face.

 Suddenly, just as quickly; darkness. The slow occupation, the torture, markings-birds!  My eyes open wide to the sharp invasion of twilight, as I gasp; my heart thumping loudly at the base of my throat; I look around, some are awake, some still asleep; I slow my tortured heart and rise slowly from the ground, stretching my numb limbs. We've all slept later than usual today.  I find Musonda-Joe talking tactics with Charles and one of the other men who looks to be in his thirties.  “We need to find a different path”, says Charles.  “I agree with Charles,” the other man adds on “I don't think this is our best shot”. “Perhaps I can help?” I bugger in, as Charles rolls his eyes and turns his back on me. “We are trying to find the fastest and safest route to the spring”, says Musonda-Joe. I was never good at this part of strategy, “Perhaps I should tend to those who were injured in yesterday's battle before we leave?” I suggest, knowing full well that I will not receive any objections to that.  “We leave in an hour mama, so be ready and try to wake the others as well. We tried to let everyone sleep for as long as possible today, we need to get to the spring before days end” states Musonda-Joe.

An hour later, when I have tended to all visible wounds and everyone has received their food rations; we ready ourselves and step out into the open for the next leg of our journey.  The air is crisp and dry, the wind blowing carries with it dust and sand granules that settle on the beds of our lips and eyelids as they make contact with our warm skin. I wrap an old tattered green cloth around my face to ease the discomfort caused by the wind and proceed to do the same for the younger children.  We have now been walking in a wooded area for what seems to be a good three hours. We moved out of the outskirts of the city an hour ago. Here, the tress are half dead with barely any leaves on them, the grass is yellow and gold and long; for the most part, the troop remains silent,  cautious to not let any who might be close by, become aware of our presence. I look up to the sky through the dead branches of trees and see that it is clear, blue and unending. I feel a familiar discomfort in my shoe and bend down to remove the small stone that has lodged itself between my toes as the group moves past me. Staring down at my visible toes, I look up to a strange sound coming from the sky, crows? No, vultures. -Is the last thing I think before feeling a metallic white hot pain against the back of my skull and then a blackness that takes over.

 I try to get up but I am unable to move. More blackness. I open my eyes a short while later and hear the sound of death. Blood-curling screams fill the air. More blackness. I see those in my troop fighting for their dear lives as I lay hopelessly on the ground. More blackness.

The children! The children! I think to myself willing my eyes to open and my limbs to move. More blackness, and a lingering of the white hot pain of before engulfs me. Somehow as I open my eyes this time around, I find myself on my  fours, my knees covered in dirt on the ground and my eyes searching frantically for young jane and her brother. A brief relief takes over as my eyes lock with hers, she seems to be crying and saying something I cannot quite understand. But, the moment is soon gone. There, holding her by the shoulder, is a Nankoti soldier, smiling and mouthing the words “another job well-done Jane. Soon you will see your mother again.”  As my hearing clears, I can understand clearly what Jane is saying. “I'm sorry, I had to-”.

Rage, pain and confusion consume me as I look around for Musonda-Joe. The dead bodies of almost half of my troop and two of the twenty Nankoti litter the ground. I cannot see two of my troop and the rest are still fighting. My heart stills as I see a thick rod rip into Musonda-Joe’s spine and come out through his chest. Charles’ lays a few feet away unmoving. I stand now, motionless as I notice clouds begin to form in the sky and darken.   Rain clouds gather for the first time in almost twelve months. I look to young Jane with all the hurt in her eyes mirroring the betrayal I feel; as she holds Bupe closer to her body; shielding his eyes and ears from the violence. I fail to find a reason to blame her. Subdued, I am the last man standing.

Peering closer to him, I see the face of the guard holding young Jane’s shoulder. His hair is white & his body healthy. He looks to be about my age. Peering into his eyes, I sense an old familiarity, my heart aches with confusion as he opens his lips to speak and the words that escape are nothing close to foreign. “Hello my love, it has been long.” he spits like venom; the acid searing straight into my soul and memories of old, effectively defiling all good memories we had together. Shock staggers me as I fall to the ground. My love? How?  “I thought you were dead! Why are you with them?” I demand rushing to him just as I feel a heavy lash strike against my back, tearing away the already fragile skin there. “How, is irrelevant, I got a deal I simply could not refuse all those decades ago; my survival and prosperity versus the life you now lead. Our love was not worth the struggles you now face. I am here to do my job. You need to die for your rebellion,” he says; as another lash stronger and more vicious than before digs into my back and then another and another.  My dry throat burns. I look to the sky and I see a vulture soaring in circles above me, I feel the sun’s bright rays on my face and then the sound of thunder and pouring before the last lash digs into my back and a peaceful darkness consumes me. Birds. Wind. Sun. Water. Free.