According to the teachers, the rebels had attacked the mining areas in the
afternoon. The sudden outburst of gunfire had caused people to run for their
lives in different directions. Fathers had come running from their workplaces,
only to stand in front of their empty houses with no indication of where their
families had gone. Mothers wept as they ran toward schools, rivers, and water
taps to look for their children. Children ran home to look for parents who were
wandering the streets in search of them. And as the gunfire intensified, people
gave up looking for their loved ones and ran out of town.
This town will be next, according to the teachers. Gibrilla lifted himself
from the cement floor. Junior, Talloi, and I took our backpacks and headed to
the wharf with our friends. There, people were arriving from all over the mining
area. Some we knew, but they couldnt tell us the whereabouts of our families.
They said the attack had been too sudden, too chaotic; that everyone had fled in
different directions in total confusion.
For more than three hours, we stayed at the wharf, anxiously waiting and
expecting either to see our families or to talk to someone who had seen them.
But there was no news of them, and after a while we didnt know any of the
people who came across the river. The day seemed oddly normal. The sun
peacefully sailed through the white clouds, birds sang from treetops, the trees
danced to the quiet wind. I still couldnt believe that the war had actually
reached our home. It is impossible, I thought. When we left home the day before,
there had been no indication the rebels were anywhere near.
What are you going to do? Gibrilla asked us. We were all quiet for a while,
and then Talloi broke the silence. We must go back and see if we can find our
families before it is too late.
Junior and I nodded in agreement.
Just three days earlier, I had seen my father walking slowly from work. His
hard hat was under his arm and his long face was sweating from the hot afternoon
sun. I was sitting on the verandah. I had not seen him for a while, as another
stepmother had destroyed our relationship again. But that morning my father
smiled at me as he came up the steps. He examined my face, and his lips were
about to utter something, when my stepmother came out. He looked away, then at
my stepmother, who pretended not to see me. They quietly went into the parlor. I
held back my tears and left the verandah to meet with Junior at the junction
where we waited for the lorry. We were on our way to see our mother in the next
town about three miles away. When our father had paid for our school, we had
seen her on weekends over the holidays when we were back home. Now that he
refused to pay, we visited her every two or three days. That afternoon we met
Mother at the market and walked with her as she purchased ingredients to cook
for us. Her face was dull at first, but as soon as she hugged us, she brightened
up. She told us that our little brother, Ibrahim, was at school and that we
would go get him on our way from the market. She held our hands as we walked,
and every so often she would turn around as if to see whether we were still with
As we walked to our little brothers school, Mother turned to us and said, I
am sorry I do not have enough money to put you boys back in school at this
point. I am working on it. She paused and then asked, How is your father these
He seems all right. I saw him this afternoon, I replied. Junior didnt say
Mother looked him directly in the eyes and said, Your father is a good man
and he loves you very much. He just seems to attract the wrong stepmothers for
When we got to the school, our little brother was in the yard playing soccer
with his friends. He was eight and pretty good for his age. As soon as he saw
us, he came running, throwing himself on us. He measured himself against me to
see if he had gotten taller than me. Mother laughed. My little brothers small
round face glowed, and sweat formed around the creases he had on his neck, just
like my mothers. All four of us walked to Mothers house. I held my little
brothers hand, and he told me about school and challenged me to a soccer game
later in the evening. My mother was single and devoted herself to taking care of
Ibrahim. She said he sometimes asked about our father. When Junior and I were
away in school, she had taken Ibrahim to see him a few times, and each time she
had cried when my father hugged Ibrahim, because they were both so happy to see
each other. My mother seemed lost in her thoughts, smiling as she relived the
Oldest romance writer in the world dies aged 105. Books #124 and #125 to be published next year(Dec 10 2013) Ida Pollock, author of more than 120 books, and believed to be the world's oldest romantic novelist, has died at the age of 105.