The Matoke Tree

From the window of her back bedroom Dembe could see her father's white timber church. It was anchored on the crest of a lush hillside. For twenty years it had stood there witnessing the most glorious of fiery sunsets. Tonight was no different. As Dembe watched the burning orange being eaten up by the silhouetted mountains, only the faintest whiff of fish and moisture from the lake tinged the arid evening breeze.

How happy the church looked standing there. She could tell by its face; its sparkling eyes of stained glass proudly reflecting biblical tales, as its two wooden doors gaped open in greeting. Dembe always spoke about the church as a person. As a child she had told her father that the red glass circular window in the centre was its nose -- a clown's nose and the steeple its hat. He had laughed, amused by her childlike image. Even now, a white wooden fence and a buffering group of trees were the only indicators that boundaries had been asserted.

Dembe continued to watch as the sky darkened and the crickets chirped. Only minutes before, she'd heard children singing on the manicured lawn of the church, but now their voices had vanished. As stars like silver salt crystals emerged overhead, creating intricate patterns of light, she heard the first screams of terror.

It wasn't the first time she'd heard screams and tried to judge the situation from her window only to have deliberated too long. The last time she had found one of her teenage school girls lying pale on the grass, peering into the darkness whilst the pumped-up torso of a soldier glowed in the dark along with the casual smoke he'd lit. The soldiers always took what they wanted, but these days few showed any moral boundaries. As the screams escalated, she felt terror-stricken, but she'd have to get closer to read the situation. Dembe ran from the back of the house out across the kitchen garden. Barefoot she trampled over Daniels vegetables and blustered through the washing line of shirts and sheets, through the back gate and up the steep slope. She gave no mind to the birds flapping away from the surrounding trees.

Then came the resounding thud of the two large church doors closing. Soon the screams from the people inside were replaced by the triumphant singing of a familiar hymn:

Dembe could hear gruff male voices, and it sounded like Swahili; the predominant military language. Just the sound of it sent dread through her body. As she got closer, Dembe peered between the large leaves sheltering her. She could see several soldiers milling around outside the church compound, chatting and laughing. This wasn't just a few soldiers looking to fill their pockets, ransack, pillage or plunder. It had the hallmarks of a full military raid. The soldiers were always trying to intimidate and interrogate her father. Their recent tactics to demoralise him and ridicule him had almost pushed him to the limits but he'd survived their brutalities. But he wasn't here tonight. Part of her was relieved, but another was terrified for what could happen without him. So often, he'd been able to abate the soldiers with his deft ways and his political connections, but those days were over.

In a jovial tone she heard a voice say, "Rain, don't be ridiculous. The weather will not spoil tonight's show."

Another voice said, "Not like the last one eh?"

"No, this should be a great firework display tonight!"

A uniformed man in a gruff voice gave the order, "-Washo moto! Upesi!"

A soldier stepped forward and threw a blazing torch against the petrol soaked walls. Soon the other soldiers followed suit.

Dembe could hardly process what was happening. She was horror-stricken. The acute, intense sensation of dread ran through her body. She muffled her mournful pitiful cries and wildly beating heart. Her fear almost made her relieve herself. This could not be happening. Her eyes searched for her people but she soon realised they were all trapped inside, even the women and children. Surely the soldiers would not do this to their own people! But the truth was she knew she was looking at men who could already be accused of genocide. Her blood ran cold through her body. Her heart pounded with the flow of blood coursing through. With hopeless hope she prayed silently, "The Lord's my shepherd...Yea though I walk through death's dark vale, yet will I fear none ill. Oh Lord deliver us from this evil.... please..." then, from behind her she heard footsteps crunching on leaves. She didn't turn to see who it was, she just ran out from the trees, onto the lawn and straight to the door of the church. The soldiers surrounding her laughed mockingly as she attempted to pull on the big copper handle of the church door. But it was no use. It was locked. Flames were already starting to lick the timber. She charged at the soldiers begging them to open the doors, tugging on them. The heat and smoke hit her hard at the same time as one of the soldiers. She fell to the ground.

The captain came towards his group and growled at the man to leave her alone. He bent down to her. His gold braids dangled before her, "You are a very brave young lady. Tell me something, why have they stopped screaming, these Christians eh? It is a bad omen when a man says nothing before he dies."

Dembe bowed to the ground sobbing, "Please. Please Sir. Please can you open the door? Please let them go? They have done nothing wrong. I beg you Sir please."

"I told you, I want to hear them scream!"

Dembe continued to humble herself, "I'll do anything Sir, please just open the door and let them go. Please."

"Anything?" the captain smirked. "You'll do anything?"

Dembe lowered her head, "Yes Sir, anything you want. Just let them go."

The captain lifted her bowed head. She diverted her eyes from his. "Let me tell you something. I don't like it when a woman offers herself to me as you have just done. Where is the fun in that, eh? I prefer a little chase before the catch. Now get out of my sight, I have a fire to watch!"

Dembe muffled her screams as impotent she watched the flames jump about in fury, wildly whipping this way and that, dancing themselves into frenzy like tribal warriors in bright ceremonial dress, wielding mythical ancestral power. But tonight there was no power against this evil. The timbers groaned and with one final gasp, the church collapsed in on itself, and so did Dembe.

As she lay there sobbing the captain looked down at her and smiled, his teeth flashing like lightning in the dark, the flames reflected in his trademark mirrored shades, "Where is this Christian God they speak about now, eh? He did not come to their rescue tonight my little refiki. You are only alive because of me -- not God! Let this be a lesson to Pastor Kariango and his Christian followers. You tell him what you saw here tonight." The captain leaned over her and pulled her close to his chest. Dembe fixed her eyes on his gold flashy buttons. He started to cough and pushed her back to the ground, "Upesi! Upesi! I've had enough of this place. Let us go now."

Dembe knew the smell of acrid smoke had hit him in the back of the throat and she was grateful for the small mercy.

The captain motioned to his men and they were gone.

Dembe stretched out her neck and like a wolf howled sobs into the night air. Spent, she collapsed on the ground. Deep low-pitched moans escaped involuntarily from her mouth as the wind gathered momentum and bore down on her. The surrounding trees thrashed around as if possessed. Until now, her mother had been the only one haunting this lawn. She cried softly to her, "Maama. Maama. Come for me Maama." The agony inside was such that Dembe wished herself to be a ghost floating up to some corner of heaven. She felt as good as dead. She thought about the church bells; they should be tolling now, long sombre chimes for the dead. As she lay there motionless, she counted the chimes in her head, one for each of the people she knew would have been inside the church. The bells had always comforted her. They were a call to worship, hear her father preach, give communion, marry people, baptise and bury them. To Dembe that low, soft tone of church bells was enchanting; they were symbolic of her existence. The bells gave her a sense of continuity. As she lay there invalid, she thought about the time they stopped working and how she had felt oddly frightened by their uncanny silence before the services. Never again would she hear those bells ring. Life as Dembe knew it was over.

Was this the price of Christianity? Had her people not been at the Church, they would have been able to hide from trouble, disown their faith. She visualised the faithful folding their hands in prayer kneeling, and clasping their crosses as they continued to sing, the flames failing to intimidate them as she could only weep and watch in horror. She thought to herself, At least they will be Martyrs now. Martyrdom had ignited the flame of Christianity in Uganda. Many say that Christians aspire to be martyrs. But Dembe knew that these days more died than were martyrs to religion; the Black Hitler showed no preference in his destruction. Amin's craving for power had no bounds, and Uganda, once proud, was now at the mercy of a madman.

Daniel had hidden amongst the trees till the soldiers were well out of sight. He'd heard the screams and seen Dembe rush from the house, then followed her. He hadn't meant to spook her from behind. He rationalised that if he'd gone after her when she started to run to the church they could have both potentially wound up dead.

Behind the dense leaves, Daniel had sat poised like a camouflaged wild animal ready to kill. His fingernails pierced deep into the flesh of his clenched hands. His toes curled deep into the earth; his heartbeat accelerated, eyes wild, damp with sweat, fearful but ready. Now, his body was dropped, shaking, his eyes red, mouth dry. He felt like a cowardly soldier. Debbie could have been killed and he did nothing. He had been there, yet he hadn't. It was as if he'd been watching a scene from a film and was powerless to do anything. This sense of shame had come into his head before. But he knew this time he would not be able to fend off his shamefulness.

As Daniel watched the winds whipping the ash into a strange macabre dance he saw figures in the smoke, like ghosts they floated up, around and beyond. He was sure he saw them shape themselves into angels and the faces of saints. As the embers cracked and spat into the air like amber flares to heaven, he wished he could ascend there too. But his chance of a call to heaven now seemed remote. His remorse grew more pervasive and intense as he gazed at Debbie lying on the ground.

Finally, the rains came but all too late.

Daniel picked up her up and carried her through the rain like a sorrowful mourner. Back through the sodden garden and the heavy washing that now hung limp. It was then that he saw Pastor Kariango whose knees buckled at the sight of him carrying his daughter. His face was pale and confused. He cried out, "My daughter, my muwarawange,"

Daniel knew her father was thinking the unthinkable. "It is okay Pastor. She is alive."

The pastor unsteadily rose and extended his shaking arms to Daniel, "You saved her. You saved my only child. How can I ever repay you?"

Daniel's eyes could not meet the pastors. He lay Debbie down on the veranda and moved away. He too was now barely able to stand on his feet. He longed to collapse and fend off the images of horror and the shameful debilitating pain he would now carry in his head forever.

The following morning, Dembe's father walked through the cremation site, his nostrils repelled at the smell of burnt flesh, his eyes sandpapered by the remnants of ash. He was struggling to breathe and pulled off his white collar. He knelt down in the ash and bowed his head, "Why God? Why? Where were you when my people needed you? Why have you forsaken us?" The pastor was questioning everything about his faith. "How can I forgive the people who did this? Can you tell me how I can do that God? Right now I feel it is my people who should be asking for Your forgiveness! What kind of God allows these kinds of atrocities in the world? A God who claims to love his people yet allows such evil to happen in the world is not a God I understand. You are certainly not a God that humans can understand easily! I've been questioning you for a long time now but this...Your own people? God help me to understand Your ways?" His voice got louder as he pounded the ground, "I demand to know God why were you not there with my people last night? Why? And don't you dare remain silent to me!"

Dembe had been making her way up the hill to be with her father when she heard his anguished cries. She stood a short distance from him, watching this strong man she had known all her life crumble before her. She touched him lightly on his shoulder, "Tatta."

He turned his sorrowful head.

"Tatta, He was here. God was right here with his people last night. I witnessed their faith, Tatta. Their bravery. God did not remove the fear or prevent this evil from happening but He was there amongst the fear. That I witnessed Tatta."

He sobbed, "But I should have been here to help protect my people, to protect you. You should never have had to witness this genocide, never."

"No. And neither should some of those orphans you brought home last night have had to watch their family being slaughtered. Evil has gripped the hearts of so many. What is happening to our country Tatta? I keep praying, but I think miracles may only be for biblical times, not our times."

The pastor put his hand out to his daughter to help him up, "The fact that you are still here with me today is a miracle. Perhaps that is the only reason I still have an ounce of faith in my weary bones today."

The symbolism was still there as Dembe and her father walked through the ashes -- the burning bush, the fiery cross. Ghostly belongings stared out from the ground; an abandoned doll, a flimsy leather sandal. Dembe imagined the baby doll slipping from the embrace of its young owner as she ran from the soldiers into the church, and the small boy who must have tripped out of his tiny sandal scurrying from them. She knew the frightened child would have also feared returning home without it, shoes were so scarce. Dembe picked up the mangled doll. Its dislocated limbs disturbed her. She clenched her eyes, as if it would lessen the pain of the procedure, and twisted the limbs back into place. She smoothed the doll's tangled hair. Its vacant eyes stared back at her. She wanted to reunite the doll with its young mother. She recognised it as belonging to one of the children at Sunday school, Angel. She thought about the symbolism of her name and the beautiful, intelligent young girl whose doll she now cradled. Angel's mortal body was somewhere in this field of bone and ash but her spirit, she was sure it was soaring high with other angels. Dembe slipped the doll into her pocket and whispered to the doll, "Don't worry, I will find you a new Maama."

With no one left to bury, Dembe's father presided over the memorial service. Dembe and Daniel stood beside a small congregation of five orphans in a staggered line at the edge of the cindered soil. It was going to be a sad introduction to the Christian faith for the orphans.

After witnessing her father questioning his faith, she was apprehensive about how he would address the children. But to her surprise her father assured them that there was a Kingdom of Heaven and that the dead would live again, "I know it is hard children, life can be so cruel, and we know there is evil in this world, as you have witnessed. But human beings have limited minds and understanding. We cannot expect to understand Gods ways but we must live with faith despite our lack of understanding. God is a mystery dear children, to you and to me. But think of how a caterpillar becomes a butterfly or a dried-up bulb when buried in the earth, becomes a beautiful flower. We don't understand how these things happen. We ask, how can they change from one thing into another, yet they do. God tells us that we too will be transformed in death. It says in Roman's, "If we were united together in death like his, we will also be united together in a resurrection like his." We will be reunited with our families and friends again in heaven. And it says in John chapter 4, "I am the resurrection, and the life. He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live."' Do you believe this? Well children do you believe this?"

The children answered in unison, "Yes pastor."

Dembe noticed the older boy of the group did not answer. He had his head down and was grinding his heal into the ash and clenching his fists. She knew this boy would not be so easily convinced about seamlessly flowing from one life to the other, no, this was not the solution for him. Her father was not going to ease his bitterness and lack of understanding that easily.

The following week the elderly Pastor gathered the young children under a miyembe tree. With the help of his daughter he lowered himself under the branches. Until recently his body had been as strong as the faith he breathed into his congregation, but Dembe knew that a part of her father had died that night. God in his infinite mercy had seen fit to spare him, but he could not spare himself the guilt of not having been there with his people. His resolve to help the orphans was even greater.

"It is time children," he said, addressing young eyes full of wonder.

The younger of the boys asked, "Time for what, Pastor?"

"It is time for your baptisms." He smiled generously.

"What is baptism, Pastor?" The youngest girl asked.

He cupped his hand underneath the girl's face, "It is when I will anoint you with water and ask the Lord to bless you and keep you, to make his face to shine upon you and keep you safe."

"Will it hurt?"

The Pastor laughed, "No, but we will need to make our way to a special place. You have to promise to be quiet and well behaved. We don't want anyone else to find it by following us."

The small group crept single file through tall golden grasses leaving no obvious trail. Only snapping and cracking could be heard, until the sound of lapping water told them they were near the river. It was with relief they finally glimpsed the dark waters beneath. Pastor Kariango had only recently told Dembe about this secret channel hidden from Uganda's two greatest threats, Amin's soldiers and the hippopotamus. The only spectators were the trees that fringed the embankment and the chattering birds that kept watch. The Pastor waded through the muddy water till it was up to his waist. He was in his element. This was the greatest joy of his calling. He revelled in the ritual, gesticulating as if he were John the Baptist himself, flinging his whole body into the performance, making the children giggle with eager anticipation. They huddled together trying to hide behind one another, pushing each other forward with their noses. Dembe was charged with leading them one by one, the eldest first. She looked down at her Tatta standing in the water, this good man, unrelenting in his faith, despite the sorrow he was carrying.

Her Tatta looked back at her, almost daring her not to show a hint of tears as he called forth the eldest child, "Mageni," the Pastor held out his arms, "Come my child."

Mageni stood apprehensive at the river's edge.

"Do not be afraid. Do you know your name means fish?"

"Yes my grandmother told me. But I can not swim, Pastor."

Pastor Kariango laughed deep from his belly making the water ripple. "It is all right Mageni, my daughter will help you. It is not so deep."

Mageni, with the help of Dembe, paddled in to meet the Pastor whose arms were as broad as his smile.

Holding her securely by the shoulders, he asked her to pinch her nose. He then ducked her head under the water. When she emerged, he made the sign of the cross on her head and said, "I baptise you in the name of the father, the son and the holy ghost, Janet Wivugira." The Pastor put his firm hand on her shoulder. "It is a good name I chose for you Janet. It means God is gracious."

Janet wiped the water from her face and smiled at Pastor Kariango. It was an endearing smile, made so by the quirky little gap in the front of her teeth.

There in the sheltered setting the children were introduced to their new faith, in the same way as Dembe herself as a young child had been. She was once known only as Dembe, but was now also known as Debbie -- a mark of her having accepted Christianity. It was the practice to have one name symbolizing Ugandan heritage and the other, the adoption of the Christian faith. She thought of herself as Dembe but she most often answered to Debbie.

Fear had descended all around them in recent months. To even think of a future felt hopeless. Amin's intimidation had already robbed these children of their families and their homes. As she gazed upon the children giggling and swallowing the last morsels of cake to celebrate their baptism, she was envious of how easy it had been to put a smile on their faces. It wasn't even the best cake she had ever baked. It had virtually no sugar due to the rationing in the country. Regardless, this group of children tucked in like she had baked the most splendid cake in the world. A hint of a smile formed on her face. They had survived, like her. Surely God must have a plan for them.

She thought, Education is the biggest gift I could give them. Dembe had always dreamt of becoming a teacher. She had been clever enough that she could have become anything she had wanted to be. However, as a girl child, to receive an education was more than most in her country could ever hope for. She had been lucky enough to grow up in peaceful times. Her father being the pastor of Gayaza High School had ensured she had the best education a girl could wish for in Uganda and was able to fulfil her childhood dream of becoming a teacher. Now, education was all she could offer these children and she was determined that Amin would not rob these orphans of a chance to learn.

Dembe also knew the value of vocational training and recalled how she had also been good with her hands; sewing, knitting, weaving and of course, baking. Although, even from a young age she knew her waistline didn't thank her for eating too much cake. The girls of Gayaza High School were given an all-round education, after all it had been established to train the daughters of chiefs of the Buganda Kingdom. However, the Christian founders has a different motive and also believed in discipline. The training of the girls to obey rules and codes of honour, often amounted to punishment to correct disobedient behaviour. She smiled to herself, thinking how many times she had got away with things she shouldn't have. Including kissing a boy.

Dembe's cheeks flushed at the memory of Adeodatus. Oh, he was so handsome, she thought to herself. She could not count the days down fast enough till she would see him again. Every Thursday around dusk he would deliver the local produce from the farm and Dembe would always try to make sure she was on the rota for kitchen chore duties that evening. Dembe liked to call him Adeo for short. Although, sometimes, she'd tease him and called him, 'Flat Cap' because he always wore one.

He had come from Rwanda as a refugee. Uganda had a reputation for offering a haven for many in need, especially the Sudanese who had suffered a devastating civil war in the mid-50's. However, back then they had only just started getting refugees from neighbouring Rwanda. Dembe had always hoped she would never have to witness the atrocities seen by many in her neighbouring countries.

Although Uganda accepted refugees, her romantic interest in a Tutsi refugee would never be tolerated. Even though her father had told her God was smart, making us all different and that no one race was superior, she knew her family, her teachers or anyone else would not accept Adeo as her boyfriend. If her head teacher knew her feelings for him, it would have been more than the punishment tree she was sent to.

Adeo was six years older than her. She had never met a refugee before and she romanticised everything about him. Between lifting loads from the truck to the kitchen, he would woo her with his tales of bravery and agonising pains escaping the furies of recent life in Rwanda. He was willing to work hard and she admired his determination to make something of himself and to take risks. For someone who had so little, Adeo asked a lot from life. He had such dreams, but he didn't envy what others possessed. He just wanted an opportunity to be seen as an equal in society, something he felt was severely lacking in African lives.

She remembered the day he was laden with a whole basket of Irish potatoes. She had playfully grabbed the flat cap from his head and then refused to give it back. He told her, "If you don't return my hat I will have to kiss you."

"You wouldn't dare." She had teased.

"You want to bet on it?" He said smirking.

Dembe kept the hat clutched in her hands behind her back and walked coyly backwards towards the open door of the large pantry. She had stopped there and stood planted like a bouncer, only with an involuntary smile on the corner of her mouth.

"OK young lady. I told you. Give me back my hat or I swear I will kiss you."

Dembe's face had the sweetest of expression as she recalled herself giggling and running into the large pantry and Adeo following her inside with his large basket of potatoes.

She touched her face remembering how her cheeks had flushed as Adeo put the basket down, grabbed her and pulled her close to his muscular body and kissed her on the mouth. She'd never been kissed on the mouth before. If she was honest, she had been dreaming about such a moment since the day she first laid eyes on him. As a good Christian girl she knew she should have fended him off, screamed, slapped him, and run away to expose his terrible deed to the powers that be. But those discrete few moments with Adeo had been the most wonderful of her entire life.

Adeo stopped kissing her and said, "There. That will teach you young lady. Now, give me back my hat or I'll kiss you again."

She remembered how she tried to hide the fact that she was disappointed he'd stopped by slapping him on the arm with his hat. "Here you go. It's a silly hat anyway."

He feigned that she had hurt his feelings and his arm.

"Your wounds will heal...flat cap." She had giggled

Adeo put on his cap, "Yes. But not my heart Debbie."

The second time he kissed her in the pantry, he parted her mouth. She knew she couldn't relent to his furthering fumbling. When he attempted to lock her arms, she panicked. Unsure what to do, she pushed his arms away, stepped back and hit the shelves, causing some of the pots and pans to crash on the concrete floor. Before she knew it Miss Musoke was standing there looking at them both with sternly raised eyebrows. Dembe's face was red-hot but Adeos had started to laugh nervously.

"What exactly could you be laughing about Adeodatus?"

"Nothing miss. It's nothing. I will clear up the mess. It was an accident. It was all my fault."

"I've been watching you Adeodatus and I've met you type before. Preying on young Christian girls, like Debbie. A minister's daughter. What do you think her father would say if he knew you two were alone in the pantry? Eh? Her daughter caught alone in a pantry with a good-for-nothing refugee like you."

Dembe had wanted to charge at her teacher and lash out at her for saying such an awful thing to Adeo. But instead she had lowered her head and focused on the grey concrete floor strewed with copper pots. She had thought to herself that the ugly old bat of a teacher had probably never been kissed in her life and was jealous. As far as Dembe was concerned Adeo had risked everything to steal her kisses. How was he to know when he first kissed her she wouldn't scream or tell on him? Where did a boy like that get such courage, such audacity?

Adeo begged, "Please. There is no need to tell her father. I meant no harm to Miss Debbie."

"I'll tell you what I want you to do Adeodatus. I don't want to see your face in this kitchen or this school again. I don't care what you tell your boss at the farm but if you dare come here again I will tell the head teacher and Dembe's father that I saw you trying to have your wicked way with Debbie."

Dembe yelled, "But Miss....please...please don't tell on him....he....."

"Oh, so you do have feelings for the boy. I knew it. I knew it from that dreamy little smile that has resided on your face since the day that boy started working here. Don't think that I didn't notice the rota being changed with your friends so you could get to do more kitchen duty. Do you think I don't know what is going on with my own girls? Nothing escapes me. You might think you are in love Debbie. But let me tell you. These boys will have their wicked way and then leave you. I've seen girls come and go here over the years... some became young mothers instead of young ladies. You have been given an opportunity for the finest of education Debbie. Don't throw it away on some scoundrel."

The tears rolled down Dembe's hot checks.

Adeo reached out his arm to comfort her, "Debbie, I'm going to go. We both know it's for the best. God willing one day I will bring you to my house. My own house that I will build." She sobbed quietly and Adeo put his hand to her face and touched her ears. "Don't cry. Adeo will buy you nice earrings one day. Good bye Debbie. You were the kindest friend I met in Uganda."

Dembe had often wondered what had happened to him. Did he build his house on his own land? Did he ever go back to the school to look for her? She imagined him married now with children and a farm of his own. Her dreamful reminisce had let her escape the harsh reality of her life right now... at least for a while.

The abandoned storehouse in the village had become Dembe's sanctuary—a haven of learning for her modest assembly of pupils. This diverse group ranged in ages, educational levels and talents and formed an eclectic tapestry. Within each child, Dembe saw a star yearning to shine; she fervently believed that it was the duty of both the teachers and parents to recognise and nurture that inner brilliance. Unlike her contemporaries, Dembe understood that children absorbed knowledge differently. This intensified her compassion for those tagged as having 'learning difficulties.' In more stable times she had ardently championed a broader educational curriculum and enjoyed challenging the gate keepers of education to push the gates wider and embrace diversity within learning.

As a whole, Uganda often overlooked the value of arts in schools, reserving such 'indulgences' for the grooming of young women into ideal hostesses and ladies who would become future wives for the countries statesmen or village chiefs. It wasn't until a progressive-minded headmistress from Britain, Miss Delaney, took the reins of Dembe's high school that a seismic shift occurred. The dynamic educator believed that the girls of her school had the potential to lead the country. As far as Miss Delaney was concerned, their possibly in life knew no bounds. In fact, Dembe was pretty sure that Miss Delaney didn't actually believe in marriage or sex -- she wasn't even sure that Miss Delaney liked men. Dembe marvelled at Miss Delaney's advocacy for woman's rights and education, a stance that Dembe wholeheartedly embraced. Under Miss Delaney's influence, Dembe consistently wove the arts into her teaching. As Picasso had mused, 'Art washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life.' And Ugandans most certainly needed to wash away the dust of everyday life.

The shabby confines of Dembe's classroom teemed with vitality, a testament to her dedication. Today was no different. It was rare for children in her class to wear shoes; most were happily barefoot. However, the deteriorated state of the roads urged Dembe to encourage the use of shoes, a practice that also curbed the spread of the painful jigger foot disease. Donated by a European charity affiliated with her father's church, the shoes ranged from pristine and boxed to well-worn. Despite the thoughtful intentions, most children dismissed them as uncomfortable and unwelcome encumbrances. They were used to feeling the murram earth beneath their feet and hated the confines of shoes. Sarah, though, loved shoes! Although, she only liked to wear odd shoes. She always wore a different shoe on each foot. Today, Sarah was wearing a pink shoe on her left foot and a black shoe on her right. Sarah was an aficionado of peculiarities and the wearing of odd shoes was one of them. She had told the children who were laughing at her that she had a happy shoe and a sad shoe, and when she took off her shoes at night she took off the day and that way she could dream freer.

This morning, amidst giggles over Sarah's odd choice of footwear, Dembe embarked on a lesson about celebrating individual eccentricities and refraining from mocking others. Just as she began to elaborate on the splendour of each child's uniqueness, old Sam burst in, his urgency palpable. Amin's secret police were on the prowl, an ominous presence that sent every child scuttling behind decrepit crates, barrels, and discarded sacks. Silence enveloped them, the outside world transformed into a realm of terror.

When the anguished cries eventually ceased, a haunting hush enshrouded the village. Night descended before Dembe dared to unbolt the door. The children embarked on arduous journeys home -- some facing treks of up to five kilometres. As they departed, Dembe clung to prayers that each child would reach their destination safely.

Leading her small band of orphans back to the makeshift haven---a converted coffee bean hut commandeered by her Tatta and Daniel---Dembe found herself accompanied by Sarah's rhythmic chant: "I'm happy, I'm sad. I'm happy, I'm sad." Yet, upon their arrival a vacuum of emptiness greeted them, as if the very walls had been drained of life.

Most terrifying was the absence of her father.

Darkness of night enveloped her as if it were a shroud. She was alone with the orphans. The night was still. Huddled together, not even the children cried. Suddenly they were startled by a noise. A dim shadow appeared, features concealed by the darkness. The figure moved slowly towards them.

"Debbie," the figure called out softly. "Debbie, it's me."

His soft baritone voice was as recognisable as her father's.

"Daniel!" Dembe cried with relief as she flung herself around him. "Thank God you are alive!" She searched his face and saw only fear. "Where is my father?"

"Gone." He tugged at her hand, "We need to leave Debbie, you and the children -- we need to leave now."

Dembe's throat tightened, "No, Daniel, no, my father, we have to find my father!"

Daniel's voice was husky with grief, "I found his boots Debbie -- he is gone."

"No Daniel, no, not my Tatta. I do not believe it Daniel no!"

But Dembe knew only too well that Amin's secret police, known as the State Research Bureau, would leave behind footwear as a way of terrorising the people. Shoes and boots would lie abandoned till a loved one or family member came to claim them, for not one of the living, no matter if shoeless, would walk in a dead man's shoes. Often the bodies of those who vanished would later show up in the Nile, or Lake Victoria, bloated and mutilated. Only the crocodiles were benefiting from Amin's terror. Fast food of flesh was thrown to the snapping line up of jaws on a regular basis. Dead or alive, it didn't matter. No longer did these bloodthirsty carnivores lurk, camouflaged in the weeds, waiting for an idle morning bather or an unsuspecting cow. Like animals in a zoo they were becoming dependent.

As the reality of her father's death sunk into the sinew of her body, Dembe involuntarily slid down Daniel's comforting arms to the floor. Daniel sat on the floor, rocking her in his arms, "You cry, Debbie, you cry all you want, your father is dead and I couldn't hold back your tears even if I wanted to."

Dembe's father had been everything to her. How would she go on without him? Her father cocooned her. He was strong and absorbed her strife. He had loved her infinitely, unconditionally. As strong and independent as he might have tried to make her feel, in this moment she felt like a baby, utterly and radically dependent on him. She felt the cavity between her lungs and her stomach and for the first time felt her own body fluids rush through her entire body. It was like someone had inserted an intravenous drip with some mysterious fluid coursing through her body, making her feel powerless to move. Her throat tightened as the unwitting guttural moaning noises escaped through her vocal chords. These harrowing irregular sounds were accompanied by intermittent sonorous breaths of sorrow.

Africans knew that singing could help remedy one back from the deepest of sorrows and rocking her, Daniel softly sang a Saint Augustine prayer:

When he finished, Daniel said, "Debbie, you must listen to me, you are alive. The children are alive. I need you to step above your grief and this darkness. Smite that cloud of sorrow Debbie. We must leave now. It is too dangerous for us to stay."

But Dembe felt debilitated, unable to stand. The pain in her chest felt like it could be fatal. Her heart ached. The twisting and discomfort pursued inside.

Daniel urged, "Debbie the time for your grief will come but right now we must go. Please Debbie. Look at the children. They need you." He turned her around to face the children. They knew what it felt like to lose a parent. Little Sarah gave her a cuddle and said, it's ok Miss Dembe, your Tatta has left his boots, he is free to dream happy now. Dembe sobbed hard at the statement but looked at the small group of orphans, their own grief suddenly more evident than before. Janet looked straight into Dembe's eyes with certain compassion and wisdom beyond her eleven years. She spoke to her without saying a word: hiding her own fear, Janet bent down and began to gather her scant possessions. Samuel, second eldest of the children, did the same and then helped young Moses gather his belongings.

Despite the ineffable feeling of grief that threatened to overthrow her body's mechanics, she fuelled herself with the certainty that her agony would not be in vain. She prayed silently that God would give her the strength to stalwartly rise above her grief for now. Dembe looked at Sarah on her lap and wiped away her glistening tears. "Sarah, why don't you help me with the baby?" Sarah smiled, put her hand into Dembe's and together with Daniel, helped her up. She walked to Freddie's makeshift cot where Dembe picked up the frail sleeping child and bundled him into her arms as Daniel busied himself collecting the rest of their meagre supplies.

As Dembe followed Daniel into the darkness she knew he was all she had left now. Blood or no blood, they were connected. Dembe's mother had made them both promise to look after each other like brother and sister. It was when her mother's life was drawing to a close. It had been her last sentiment. She had told them both that Daniel had become like the son she never had. In those last difficult days, he had been the one who dealt with her mother's evident discomfort. She had a stoic expression on her face that last day as she supped on the concoction of pain relief that Daniel had brewed for her.

As she and the children trudged behind Daniel to the safe hut where he was taking them for the night, she remembered the day he had been saved from prison by her father. A church warden had seen him stealing pots and pans from the church and reported the transgression in the village. Daniel was caught and brought unceremoniously before her Tatta. The truck, throwing up a cloud of red murram dust screeched to a halt in front of the church. The district chief could be heard bragging, "We have caught your thief, Pastor Kariango!" Daniel was dragged out and thrown to the ground.

Distraught that the thief was a member of his flock, Tatta yelled, "How could you do this to me? I baptised you, and this is how you repay me? I have offered you the food from my table. Why, Daniel? Why?"

Daniel said nothing. Tied up, he knelt quietly before the Pastor in the hot dust. The official grabbed his neck and pushed his face into the ground. "Grovel you thief," he growled as he landed a resounding thud from his boot into Daniel's side. With Daniel lying prostrate and writhing on the ground, he proudly assured Dembe's father that Daniel would be severely punished and sent to prison.

"No!" Tatta had protested. "No, no, you cannot send him there! It is far too harsh a sentence. Daniel, do you confess your crimes and repent them?"

Dembe saw the shame wash over Daniel and the tears roll down his dusty face. He had stolen to survive. Daniel surely would have known that her father would have helped him, but Daniel was a man and a man did not like to beg. Now, faced with prison and the death that would surely follow from beatings and starvation, Daniel begged. "Please Pastor, forgive me. I confess and repent."

After much haggling with the district chief, a deal was struck. To make restitution for his theft, Daniel would work for no pay for one year in exchange for his room and keep, but since he was a Christian, Sunday would be a day for rest and church.

"What say you to this arrangement, Daniel?" Pastor Kariango asked his gaze stern and fixed on Daniel.

Daniel looked up and said, "I will not let you down again, Pastor. I promise."

That was when the Pastor noticed the swelling on the side of Daniel's face; he had already been beaten.

"Please, untie this man," he requested, his dark eyes now glaring at the district chief. "When did hardship in this country have to equate with humiliation? I baptised you too, chief, but it seems many in this land have forgotten what it means to be a Christian."

The district chief leaned in closer to the Pastor, as if he were telling him a secret. "You should watch your step, Pastor Kariango. The church is losing its hold on this country." And as he untied Daniel, he threatened, "As for you, I'll be watching you. I know men like you and I'll be watching."

Now Daniel cleaned the makeshift holy table of their new refuge. He recalled how Pastor Kariango often said that all they needed was a space in which people could congregate for the light of Christ to pour in. He knelt, lit the kerosene lamp and prayed. Startled by the sound of shuffling feet outside, he lifted his head and glimpsed the shadow of what he thought might be a soldier prowling around. Quickly he turned off the lamp, worried that the light might have given away their whereabouts. Daniel stripped the holy table and concealed the cover and bible in the large basket. Whoever had been prowling around outside seemed to have gone -- for now at least.

It was time. He knew their only hope was to leave Uganda. Most recently he had watched as Dembe, rattled by frequent gunfire and streets littered with the dead, moved through the township with a sense of hopelessness. Her grief muted, blocked like an athlete pushing down the pain to finish a race. But Daniel recognised that the unmourned agony of her father's death and his congregation was manifesting in rashness. She had already witnessed too much death and destruction, and the prolonged grief was now a mental anguish. Each day, as she journeyed into the village to teach the school children she seemed to have developed a reckless disregard for the dangers around her. If she wasn't careful, she could be next. He had to do something.

He thought how close they were in age, and yet how weary she now looked. Daniel had always thought she belonged to antiquity, perhaps Buganda royalty; to a kinder, more peaceful time. He remembered fondly the days when his Buganda people still had their Kabaka, King Edward Frederick Mutesa II. That was before independence, and before their previous president Milton Obote abolished the Buganda Kingdom. He understood now that Amin had brought home King Freddie's body from exile in England as nothing more than a political stunt to strengthen his support from their Buganda people. Giving their beloved Kabaka a hero's burial had fooled many into believing Amin was an honourable President. But that pretence was long over.

Daniel knew that they had to leave Uganda, and for that he had to find his friend Albert. Albert would help. He had to find him.

Albert had what loosely could be described as a truck. Begged, borrowed and stolen bits kept it running. His contraption was well known in the area and, like Albert, its body was no longer shiny and new. Marred and pitted with the ravages of time and age, both Albert and the truck seemed to be extensions of one another. His ability to survive was one of the things that Daniel admired most about him. Albert didn't care about booty. His friend was clever enough not to be too greedy so Amin's soldiers did not suspect him when he creamed off the top of his small deliveries. It seemed to Daniel that all Albert cared about was keeping his father safe, and if that meant crawling amongst the evil of Amin's soldiers, he would do it.

Daniel found Albert's truck first. Walking round to the other side, he saw a pair of black gnarled legs with feet that had not always worn shoes sticking out from under it.

"Albert!"

"Give me a minute, man. I'm repairing a leak."

Daniel replied, "Always work to be done."

Truth be told, none of the dashboard instruments worked; nor did the headlights. The windshield boasted a rigged up contraption that Albert had made to operate the remaining wiper blade.

Daniel surveyed the tired vehicle. He put his finger in one of the numerous bullet holes in the windscreen.

"That was before I found her," Albert said, having just crawled out from under his truck. He had not even tried to clean the dried-in blood of its deceased former owner from the seat. Daniel knew that as far as Albert was concerned, cosmetics were out. Keeping the thing running was his priority.

"Necessity is the mother of invention," Albert chanted proudly pointing to part of the engine. "That used to keep a farm machine operating." He smiled. It was a smile that always amused Daniel. He had hardly any teeth, and the few left were as crooked as the radiator grill on the front of his truck.

Daniel dug into his knapsack, "I brought you some of my homemade banana pancakes my friend."

Albert laughed, "I could smell them from a mile away. I suppose you will want some tea then."

Albert rummaged in the back of the cab and pulled out a small bashed tin pot. "This will work," he said, filling it with water from his crinkled plastic bottle. "The engine's been running long enough." Albert heated the water for their tea on the engine manifold. "So, are you going to give me one of those banana pancakes or do I just have to smell them?"

Daniel knew they were his friend's favourite. "Here," Daniel said, handing one over to his friend. "I made them fresh this morning." Albert wiped his oil-stained hands all over his curly speckled grey hair. Daniel rolled his eyes and shook his head in disbelief.

"What are you looking at me like that for? Albert asked, "Oil is good for the hair."

"Not engine oil."

"Works for me," Albert said, devouring one of the pancakes. "Not only can you harvest food from the land my friend, but you can cook it too." Albert laughed, "Don't worry, your secret it safe with me. I won't tell the other men you wear an apron."

"I've told you. It's my penance for stealing."

Albert teased, "I think you secretly like getting your hands dirty in the kitchen, like I like getting mine dirty in engine oil." Albert reached out his grubby hand and grabbed another pancake. He waved it in the air saying, "You know the only reason we are not starving my friend? Our rich fertile land -- that is the reason. Our leaders do not care if we starve to death, but our land? It cares."

Daniel dropped his happy façade. "Right now, the only things I see growing are graves. And who cares about that, my friend, eh? Even the British are leaving us."

"It is Ugandans that are killing Uganda. No wonder the world looks on and shakes its head."

Daniel put down his tea. "Look Albert, I need to get Debbie and the five orphans to Kenya."

Rubbing his arthritic hip, Albert asked, "How are you going to do that?"

"Not me -- you," said Daniel.

"I should have known the pancakes came with a catch. Thanks but no thanks. It is too dangerous." Albert bent down slowly and sifted through his stash of objects in a wooden box. Biding his time, Daniel said, "We have Aminism."

It was a word coined to describe goods that could be used to wield power by those that had none.

Daniel started pacing. "I think we have just enough soap and cigarettes to make it to Kenya, but we need transport." He looked up. "And I've told Debbie that she needs to leave, but she's a stubborn woman."

Albert did not reply. Instead he continued to rummage until finally settling on one of the small pieces. "Even with your contraband, it is dangerous."

"Staying here is just as dangerous. I'm all she's got right now. If I tell her we can take the children, she'll agree to leave. It's the orphans that keep her here, I am sure."

Albert turned over the ignition. "Ah would you listen to that, Daniel. I have her purring like one of my women."

Daniel knew that Albert's truck was his only mistress but allowed his friend a moment of bravado knowing that the chances of any woman being interested in Albert were as likely as him washing.

"Look Daniel, I have a delivery to make. I could do with your help. This little breakdown has cost me time."

"No thanks. I don't do work for the army."

"What if I let you tell me about your Aminism and your plan to get Debbie and those children out of here, eh?"

Daniel took the kitchen cloth he had used over the pancakes and wiped down the passengers seat. Albert rolled his eyes.

It was only a short while driving in the bush when they were flagged down by a group of soldiers. Daniel held his breath and gripped Albert's arm but Albert showed no fear as one of the soldiers swaggered towards them. "Out of the truck, Upesi, Upesi!"

Albert got out of the truck and nodded his head to one of the burly soldier who seemed to recognise him, "Ah, old man, give me a sigara." Albert reached into the pocket of his tattered dungarees and sauntered towards the group as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The soldier leered as he grabbed the cigarette. Another soldier lunged towards Albert to snatch his packet of smokes, revealing two terrified gagged men. Daniel tried to suppress his horror, but the same brusque soldier noticed the narrow flinching of his eyes and threw him an intimidating smirk. Getting no response, he threw back his head in laughter and said, "Do not look so worried my friend. You are okay." The soldier patted Albert's back as if he were an old school chum and said, "My refiki here helps the army. Not like these two parasites." He kicked one of his captives in the stomach, forcing him to fall over. "They are a hindrance." Bending down, the soldier yanked his hostage upright. While removing his gag he whispered in the man's ear, "I want to hear you scream like a pig when I kill you." Taking his time, the soldier dragged on his cigarette, exhaling streams of blue grey smoke into the air. As he turned he casually sliced his captive's ear off. Then, with the heel of his boot, he ground it into the dust and spat on it. With the end of his machete he toyed with the man's other ear, stretching out his pleas and screams. Then, as fast as a snake striking, he swung his machete and severed his captive's head. Flicking ash onto the stump of the neck, he fixed his gaze on Albert, and then let it flicker towards Daniel who involuntarily cringed.

Daniel now understood what Pastor Kariango meant when he talked about the face of evil. Right here, Daniel came to believe in the Devil. Daniel was kinder to his chickens, whose headless bodies scrambled around his shed as if in a demented search for their brains, their eyes still blinking in astonishment. He always felt jittery after killing any of them. Not like this cold bastard. There was no pay off -- no meat to eat, no protein to sustain his appetite after such a brutal slaughtering. Only power was feeding his hunger.

The soldier laughed, interrupted by a hacking smokers cough. He took a step forward and faked a lunge at Daniel, causing him to drop to his knees. Albert, however, did not budge. Instead, he stood his ground and, keeping his expression blank, fixed his gaze on the soldier as he casually lit another cigarette.

"Tell your cowardly friend to get up from the dirt," sneered the soldier, "and move away from here. I can smell his fear." At his nod, the soldier closest to him used a machete to chop off the headless captive's arms and legs. The soldier laughed, kicking a stump towards Daniel, who watched powerless as the other petrified captive's urine and faeces mixed with the blood seeping into their land.

Bored with his games, the soldier dismissed them both and returned to his comrades who were carrying on as if at a garden party.

Dembe's legs almost buckled when Daniel told her that he knew about her secret stash of cigarettes and soap. She was even more astonished, and humbled, knowing that he had never stolen a single thing from it -- not even when his life had depended on it. She understood the peculiar thing about some human beings to whom a smoke was worth more than the life of a starving child. It was the luxuries of life that people hungered for, bargained for and even killed for. That was why she had asked Phil to send them to her.

But how could she possibly explain to Daniel where she got the soap and cigarettes? She could never tell him about Phil and their son in Scotland. Tears filled her eyes as she recalled her father's sermons about the sin of adultery and illegitimate children. So explosive had been his sermons on the deadly sin that the shrapnel was lodged deep in her psyche. Dislodging her guilt would be fraught with peril.

Unable to look in Daniel's direction, her frightened eyes stared at the complex pattern in the rattan mat below her feet. It had been hand woven by her Maama. Dembe knew the tough grass had been primed and twined to yield to her Maama's calloused fingers. Only she could interpret its colourful narrative, her secrets so carefully entwined in the picture beneath her bare feet. Now, Dembe was scared that she would have to weave her own clandestine tale into the weighty air.

Daniel pulled a blanket from one of the makeshift beds, and gently wrapped it around her shoulders.

Dembe stared up at him, her eyes full of ghosts. "How did you...?"

"It doesn't matter how I found it, Debbie, and I don't care how you got it. We can use it to get you and the children out of here."

Dembe wrapped the blanket around herself even tighter. "No Daniel, I cannot leave." Her voice was faint and her head hung low.

"Why, Debbie?" He raised his voice slightly. "Please, listen to me. This may be your only chance, the children's only chance. Albert has made a hiding place for you and the children in the bed of the truck. Your Tatta would want you to leave."

Dembe closed her eyes at the mention of her Tatta. She had continued to block the agony of her loss. "You go, Daniel. Take the children and the contraband -- take it all."

Grasping her shoulders, Daniel said, "I am not leaving without you, Debbie. I made a promise to your Tatta that I would look after you." He began pulling together a few of his things. "We have no time. The twenty-fifth is when the soldiers get paid. They will be less greedy and probably drunk. Albert has an early run delivering coffee to Nairobi tomorrow. He told me his plan. It will work."

"Albert is as crooked as his teeth."

"Is that why you won't leave? He only works for the Army because he has no choice and right now neither do we!" Daniel softened his voice, "Look Dembe, everyone that can is leaving. Even the British High Commission is closing."

Dembe shot up from her chair, "Oh no, Daniel. No. I have to go there. I have to see Josephine. The letters. I need to see her now!"

He secured her by the shoulders. "What letters? You are not making any sense."

"I need to find Josephine!"

"No one is there! Don't you understand the Commission is closing? The rebels have probably taken it over by now. It is not safe. We need to leave, Dembe. Now! "

There was no time for goodbyes or to find Josephine. But Dembe was determined to visit her parents' grave for one last time. Daniel had helped her bury her Tatta's boots and mark the grave with a small white wooden cross he had made. The wood had been part of the white fence that he had built to protect the gardens, but it had been a useless fortress against Amin's thugs. As she knelt at the grave that day, she remembered her father showing her how to polish his boots with banana skins when she was a little girl. She could almost feel the pride rush to her face again as she recalled him looking down at his boots and telling her, "Because of your labour of love, Debbie, I have the shiniest boots in Uganda."

She smiled to herself thinking that her Tatta would have the shiniest boots in heaven now.

Glancing around at the debris, Dembe remembered only the beauty of the small white timbered church, the aroma of the gardens that Daniel had nurtured and the miyembe tree pregnant with drooping mangos. Laughter and singing echoed like the wind through the one old organ pipe that remained. No matter how much had been left to perish she could suspend herself in the memories.

It wasn't difficult to remember her Maama, her soft lap, her coarse yet tender hands wiping away her tears and making light of her childish fears, or the endless hours spent having her hair plaited, her mother never once weaving her own sorrows and disappointments into the strands, but only her love. Her Maama's strong presence could still be felt from beneath the ground. She was like the rocks that Tatta had placed on her grave. Her core was solid faith.

Dembe knelt at the graves of her parents. She had never felt so alone but she wept with resolve to help the orphans. She understood now what it felt like to have no one to call family. The overwhelming isolation, the loneliness, was so great it threatened to engulf her. She had picked some wild flowers which grew in abundance between the cracks of the old fence. Placing them on the graves she told her parents she was leaving Uganda. God willing, she would return to a better land one day.

Albert had created a false compartment in the back of the truck. He had used it before for smuggling goods, but never people. He showed Dembe the tight space and explained how the six of them could just fit in. They would have to lie on their backs. Dembe would have to crawl in first, then the smaller passengers. Janet was tall and would be the most uncomfortable. She would have to get in last with the baby. Shining his torch at the back of the shallow cabin he pointed to a piece of string hanging down, "When you crawl in Debbie, tie the piece of string to your wrist. If you have an emergency, pull it hard three times. I will feel it on my wrist, but know that I might not be able to stop. I will tug it fast three times if you have to be quiet, or there is danger."

"What if the children need to help themselves?"

"Pray that they don't. Piss in close quarters can make an awful stink. I will let you out when I can." He pointed to the air holes he had drilled. "They will give you a bit of light during the day, but here -- take this," he handed her a torch, "it will be dark in there when I close the door. Use it sparingly. I do not know how much power is left."

Before Dembe made to squeeze herself and the children into the compartment, she stretched round, desperate to catch one last glimpse of her homeland. She looked up at the sky; it was like a womb about to break water. It had been that way for days now, yet the possibility of anything other than blood soaking the land seemed absurd. A sense of foreboding gnawed at her stomach. Bending down, she grasped some of the loose soil between her fingers and felt its familiar texture. Would she ever again stand on the fertile earth that had nourished her childhood roots? The situation in her country was desperate. Idi Amin's people no longer wanted them. They were not safe. Glancing at the children Dembe thought, they've never been allowed to be children. They have nothing to leave behind -- no families, no possessions, no childhood treasures. With firm resolve she looked at Albert and said, "You are our only hope."

Well then, bibi," he remarked, the gravity of their circumstances etched across his features, "You had better pray your God does not abandon us."

For the younger ones, Dembe put on a façade of playfulness. She wriggled herself to the back of the confined space, as if embarking on an elaborate game of hide-and-seek. Amidst the tension, her voice carried a buoyant tone as she called out, "See, it's alright! Come on in. No one will find us here." Her gestures held a spirited enthusiasm. Yet despite her efforts, the children remained rooted, captivated by the tomb-like chamber that loomed before them. Anxious glances were exchanged, a shared disquiet that tethered them to the threshold of this concealed abyss. Janet assumed the role of reassuring shepherd and with gentle words implored them to take the next steps. Tentatively, the small group ventured forth. One by one, they surrendered to the cramped space. The six of them lay on the floor of the concealed box, perspiring bodies pressing against each other, struggling to move, muscles taut with dread.

Dembe's gaze remained locked on the scene as Albert peered one last time into the dim compartment, inspecting his precious cargo. Moses playfully extended his fingers through the small air holes, and as Albert lowered the lid, the sliver of light gradually receded, until only the wide, terrified eyes of the children remained visible. She yearned to offer words of solace, yet they felt counterfeit, as her own heart pulsed with a sense of entrapment. The enclosed space seemed to constrict, the air growing dense, almost suffocating. An airless pall hung over them.

Fear gnawed at her chest, the cadence of hammering nails resonating in the chamber. A symphony of sobs echoed from the children's frail forms, their desperate hands reaching out for an anchor amidst the abyss. She wished to envelop them in a cocoon of warmth, to shield them from the looming darkness, yet her arms fell short. A desperate quest for familiar circles of light ensued, but they were sporadic and scarce. In her mind, nightmares unfurled---what if Albert and Daniel met a hail of bullets? What if fate consigned them to this grave-like tomb? The dread of a road accident loomed---should she raise her voice to alert the soldiers, a cry for rescue, or should she silently welcome whatever grim fate would befall her? She wrestled with the impulse to scream, let me out, let me out!

The sound of Albert's footsteps resonated around the truck, each step amplified by the darkness. Moments later, the muted thud of the truck's hood confirmed it was time. As she fingered the small cross around her neck, she envisaged Albert's fingering the radiator cap, his silent plea for the engine to persevere. It was as if a hidden genie resided within his truck, an entity he conversed with, willing the truck onward. She listened to the men's movements as they tossed sacks of coffee atop their clandestine hideout.

The chorus of their tremulous whimpers spurred Dembe's resolve. Each thud of a sack against the truck resounded like a defiant strike against the tyranny that had herded them into this perilous odyssey. Her trust in the false assurances of her country's leaders had crumbled. In the suffocating darkness, her concocted hopes and self-delusions withered. Dreams of liberation from the tyranny that had plagued her nation now seemed as remote as her fantasies of love with Phil. Amidst the encroaching despair, she found herself on the verge of another forced mental transformation.

Albert's strong hands clenched the steering wheel as he navigated the truck over the rough road.

Daniel said, "It feels like we are driving over a bed of bones."

"Yeah, well it wouldn't be the first time I have driven over dead bodies."

"Oh shit man, no way."

"You think I'm kidding, Daniel. I wouldn't be surprised if there were hundreds of bodies under this makeshift road."

Daniel grimaced.

"Don't worry my friend, as soon as I'm over this uneven patch we should be able to stop. There's a village not too far."

A few miles on Albert brought the truck to a rattling halt. Apart from a few starved dogs and cats lying in the shade there was no sign of life, only the certainty that there had been. But how long ago was unclear.

Albert and Daniel peeled their sticky bodies out of the cab. The whining chorus of stray cats echoed around the eerie place. For a moment they stood sussing out their surroundings, vigilant for any sudden movement, but all that stirred was tumbleweed rolling with the evening breeze.

The pair shuffled to the back of the truck and passed a couple of mangy dogs. They could hear the anxious stirring of the refugees. Albert prized open the nailed down cover and the acrid smell hit his nostrils, but resolute he stretched out his strong arms. One by one, like bats exposed to the light they emerged from the container.

Samuel was holding onto himself. Albert motioned to him, "Quickly, follow me. I need to help myself too." He led the way through a door into a bullet riddled brown building that was formerly a hotel. He was saddened to think that this hotel had been the height of society in the small town -- its large modern windows and fancy balconies would have beckoned European visitors through its well polished doors. But that was before independence. Albert imagined the white people being served fancy drinks and fancy food in the colonial style lounge facing him. No windows remained, only frames hung with broken shutters groaning ghoulishly. There was no furniture; everything had been looted. Even the carpets were gone, replaced by red dust and leaves. For a moment Albert was immersed in the sorrow of the place and forgot about his own situation. Samuel had started to pee against the wall. Albert suspended his thoughts and squatted around the corner but he was disturbed by Samuel shouting, "Bang bang! Bang bang!"

Albert hauled up his overalls and peered round the corner to find Samuel poking the bullet holes in the walls. "Hush Samuel. Come here." But Samuel continued staring at the walls of hideous drawings. "Come Samuel. Bad men have done this. Don't look at these drawings and what they have done to our brothers and sisters."

Samuel pointed to one of the pictures and without flinching said, "That is what they did to my Tatta. And here, my Maama."

Albert reluctantly looked at the barbaric paintings on the walls. What stories these walls told. Violent rape scenes and gruesome torture methods. He could hardly bear to look. It was as if the crumbling walls contained the ghosts of the victims portrayed in the horrific images. Samuel pointed to one and asked, "Why's the man's elbows tied together like that behind his back?"

Albert's voice was yielding, "That is to stop him breathing. They call it a three- point. Now, let us go." He took the boy by the hand wishing they had never stumbled upon the macabre place.

The youngster said, "I want to kill them all -- all the men who did this to our people and my parents."

Albert grasped Samuel firmly by the shoulders. "There is an old Chinese proverb, which says: if you are going to pursue revenge, you'd better dig two graves."

There were few remnants of childhood left in Samuel's narrowed eyes. "An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth."

Albert was unnerved. "If everyone thought like that, there would be no one left in Uganda." He took Samuel's hand again and walked back to join the others. Samuel kicked everything in his path and muttered under his breath, "Someday I'm going to kill them all."

Albert was relieved to join the others who were playing some kind of game. He pulled Daniel and Dembe aside, "We should stay here, it won't be long before dark and I don't have headlights. It seems safe enough and good land for food."

Dembe said, "And a hotel, maybe we can sleep comfortably."

"No -- not in there bibi. It is full of ghosts. It smells of death. We can sleep under the stars tonight. Tell me, how are the children holding up?"

Dembe was nursing the baby in her arms, "Good, but Freddie is not so well. I'm not sure what's wrong with him. But he seems worse."

Albert leant over to feel Freddie's brow. "He has a high fever."

Dembe dismissed his concern, "It must be the heat. I'll keep him beside me tonight."

"Well, say your prayers bibi. There is no hospital or medication out here."

Daniel lightened the moment, "There is however food. I don't know about you lot but I am starving. I saw some berry trees back there." He called to Sarah, "Come, help me Sarah -- I'm going to collect some fruit!"

Young Sarah went toddling along behind him, plucking hungrily at the berries from the weighed down trees. She had managed to reach a low hanging stem of bananas and was just about to take the skin off a large juicy looking one when Daniel caught her.

"Did your Maama not tell you that you cannot eat those like that? They are Matoke." Seeing the look in her eyes, he silently cursed himself for forgetting that she was an orphan. He led her to another tree. "Look! These ones, these are Menvu. You can eat them straight from the tree. The fat ones you have to cook." He pulled her a nice Menvu to eat, and collected some more of the Matoke for cooking. "Miss Debbie will show you how to roast these. Here, you can help me carry them back to the others." Sarah pulled up the skirt of her dress to make a basket, and flashed him a smile. On the way back, Daniel enthralled Sarah by telling her the legend of the Matoke tree, and how Kintu, the first man on earth brought the Matoke tree to Uganda.

"You know Sarah, you are a lot like the Matoke tree. Its new stems must be uprooted from the adult trees very early. That is what makes the tree grow up to be strong and produce good fruit. It was taken from its Maama when it was young."

"Just like me!"

"Yes Sarah, just like you."

Sarah looked up at Daniel with sparkling eyes and said, "Matoke is now my favourite food in all the world."

Just ahead, Daniel's gaze fell upon an abandoned plot of yams, maize and beans. A wave of melancholy washed over him, considering the farmers themselves never got the chance to sample their own harvest -- to celebrate, dance and sing together as tradition dictated. The spirit of gratitude to the land, which had bestowed its bounty so generously had gone unexpressed. To Daniel, the honest sweat that accompanied cultivating God's bounty wasn't toil but a testament of his connection with the earth. The joy of holding a bundle of the earth's succulent goodness was the reward. Daniel loved to feel the earth in his bare hands, between his fingers, his nails, and his feet. To cleanse the earth's fertile soil from himself at the end of a long day of gardening or harvesting brought contentment to him. As he surveyed the outstretched limbs of trees, the unfurling leaves of plants, and the nodding heads of flowers, they seemed to wave at him like a divine personal greeting. The fertile soil of Uganda was a testament to the Lord's generosity. Unlike his homeland now plagued by greed, nature here had been benevolent. Daniel's heart swelled with thanksgiving to the people who had planted the seeds of the harvest that would feed them tonight. The young seeds had flourished. The crops were superb.

By the time they returned with the bounty, a fire crackled, diligently built by Albert, while Dembe set to work, the remnants of their provisions sizzling and sputtering in the heat. The sun had dropped below the horizon. Insects hummed and buzzed as hungry cats and dogs prowled. All were hoping for a feast.

As the last of the fresh yams landed in the flames, Dembe's thoughts drifted to a distant memory---her day with Phil at the lochside in Scotland.

A gentle smile formed on her lips, remembering how he had convinced her that his fire blackened potatoes would be superb -- and they were. How happy she had been then, how unburdened by cares. She had offered herself to him that day. She had a choice, a conscious choice to give herself freely to a man she loved. Gazing at Janet, on the cusp of womanhood, Dembe's heart winched. What choice would she have? So few in Uganda married for love. Marriages here rarely bloomed out of affection. Dembe took in Janet's physique, her long lean legs, elegant neck and velvet ebony skin -- she was a portrait of beauty. She deserved respect, care, love, yet for many Ugandan women, such ideals remained a distant fantasy. Most women in her country would never know what she had felt. It was usually brutally robbed from them. Often, they would hardly reach puberty when they would find themselves disposed of in marriage. Rarely would they know how wonderful it can all be, to be so happy, secure, to be loved by the man who desires you and you desire. To have experienced the emotional, sexual bliss, as she had, seemed a rarity here. She now recognised that day at the lochside as the happiest of her life. It was arresting to think, she had already lived her happiest day.

Sometimes she yearned to banish such thoughts from her mind, to release herself from their grip, but they clung with a tenacity she couldn't escape. How could she bring herself to cleanse her heart and soul of this love? Sometimes her incessant daydreams of that love gave her reason to live, but sometimes they made the agony of her loss even more unbearable. She wondered if her denial of happiness was because of her sin, a divine chastisement. She now knew there were harder ways to lose a person than death, and that pain was crueller than anything else she had experienced in her life. It was deep inside her. Accessible only to her. Part of her soul had left her already. The magnitude of physical and mental torture as she walked away from Phil and her son in Scotland was a melancholy there was no cure for. The pain of longing for someone who was alive but you can never again hold or see; it was the worst kind of pain in the world. Excavating that memory was something she tried hard not to do. She grappled with the memories, sometimes trying to bury them, but they were always there, lurking beneath the surface.

Amidst her introspection, Freddie's soft cries pierced the stillness, snapping her back to the present. Albert approached her with tactful empathy, urging her to make a difficult decision. "You know what you need to do, bibi. I'll take the boys for a walk. It might be easier for the others if you let him go while they're away." Dembe's silence persisted as she cradled the ailing child in her arms. Albert rose, addressing the boys, his voice carrying a hint of adventure, "Have you ever shaved a banana tree to make rope?" Both shook their heads negatively. "Ok, Albert is going to show you. Come, follow me."

The boys' faces ignited with contagious excitement, their curiosity sparked by Albert's wealth of knowledge. In their eyes, he was an oracle of wisdom.

Guiding the two apprentices to a towering banana tree, he demonstrated how to skin the tree with his machete without damaging its growth. With a knowing smile, Albert lent his machete to Samuel, offering him the chance to wield it himself. But he wacked the tree with hard frightening cuts filled with raw, unsettling energy. Albert grabbed him firmly, yet gently said, "Careful Samuel. You are not cutting sugar cane. This is a delicate job. Never take your anger out on nature. Trees are the lungs of our earth. They reflect and absorb the rays of the sun and contribute to the creation of the clouds and our rain."

Albert extended his hand, palms cradling the broad ridged leaves "Look here. These leaves are food and shelter to the birds and insects of this forest. This is my cathedral. Nature, this is worth worshipping--- not these made-made fancy altars and gilded crosses. These gentle giants feel deep into the earth. Their root systems know what is happening to our earth before we do. Every space here is filled with life and it knows how to feed itself, it can transform death into life. Now, Samuel, try again, but tenderly this time, with respect." Samuel absorbed Albert's instruction and like he was shaving his own face for the first time shaved the bark as lightly as he could with the machete.

"Okay. Good Samuel. You learn well. Now, tonight, I will show you both how to make byai."

"What's byai?" Asked Moses.

"It is strong rope made from this bark." Albert replied with a knowing twinkle.

Back at the camp, Albert discovered Dembe still cradling baby Freddie. His heart clenched, fearing the worst. Gently, he touched the infant's forehead and was taken aback to feel lingering warmth. Albert eased himself down beside Dembe, his voice a hushed murmur, "The baby's suffering, Dembe. He's on the brink of passing. It would be kinder to the other children if I put him to rest tonight, quietly, and lay him to rest here. I understand this is a heavy burden for a woman. Please, just let me take him."

Dembe pleaded with him, "No, please Albert, please don't smother him. Give him a chance."

"What chance has he got, eh? We've seen it all before. It's malaria. In one so young, out here with no treatment, it's fatal."

Dembe did not answer but wrapped the soiled shawl around the baby tighter and clutched him closer to her chest. Albert's eyes fell on Dembe's small cross around her neck. It was dangling just above the baby's head. Her faith seemed to be the only thing holding her together. His voice mellowed, "Perhaps, your God will be more generous with his own -- at least in death, if not in life."

As darkness lifted, the energy of a new day seemed far away. Weariness wrapped itself around Albert. He was so tired, he wasn't for caring if he ever woke up again. Yet, Africa's pulse was undeniable, an orchestra of life surged with early light. It would have been hard for anyone to have slept through the insistent wakeup call of the Hadeda ibis bird. With the group's dispirited energy, assembling the weary group of refugees proved less challenging than expected. The lingering fragrance of steamed matoke, baked to perfection, still wafted through the dew-kissed air. Breakfast unfolded with little ceremony---leftovers wrapped in banana leaves were consumed in haste. The knowledge of the impending return to their concealed refuge hung heavy, a reality that demanded readiness for another arduous journey.

Guiding the children into the hidden compartments, Albert's gaze fell upon Dembe, her firm grip on Freddie's fragile life was unwavering. Fatigue etched on Dembe's face. The infant in her arms was feeble and frail. Albert sensed that sleep had eluded her. He observed the tangle of her hair. Even in their dire circumstances, Dembe found resolve to ensure the basic hygiene, yet this morning her attention seemed only on the ailing infant. A sigh escaped Albert's lips, he conceded, "Alright, the baby comes with us. But don't say I didn't warn you"

Dembe lay in the truck with Freddie next to her and matched her breathing to his. "Don't give up little one," she whispered. But after few hours on the bumpy road her heart was as full and painful as her bladder.

They both let go.

Freddie died in her arms.

Dembe pulled the string.

It was at least half an hour later before Albert managed to safely pull off the road. Prying open the door, he already knew what had happened.

The small group made their way through dense bush. Taking in the fresh earthy air and the distant sounds of birdsong usually lifted their spirits -- but not this time. Tall golden grasses tickled the faces of the smaller children. It used to make them laugh.

Albert recognised the distinctive smell of a bull elephant in musth and discreetly looked around for danger. Knowing an animal in that heightened testosterone state could be territorial, he signalled to the group to quiet down as they clambered through the brittle grasses. After a short walk he saw a small patch of ground.

"This will do," he said. "We should bury the little one here."

Albert dug a shallow grave while Daniel and Samuel stripped large pieces of bark from a tree. Albert stepped towards Dembe and outstretched his arms. "It is time bibi. Let me take him."

Dembe looked up at him as if her heart was breaking and said, "No, I will do it."

"It is a man's job Debbie -- please let me."

"I want to wrap him."

Daniel handed Dembe a piece of soft bark he had prepared and Dembe gently wrapped Freddie in it. Then Albert placed the baby into the tiny hole in the earth. A staggered row of children stood solemnly holding hands at the edge of the grave. Through their whimpers the sound of Janet's voice joined the chorus of nature. Softly she sang an old Balokole hymn:

Even at the point of death

Jesus alone satisfies

I will rest in Him

Jesus alone satisfies;

Even in great sorrow,

At the point of death,

I will still sing,

'Jesus satisfies'.

Following Dembe's lead the children picked up a handful of earth and helped to bury Freddie. Albert and Daniel finished covering the grave, and placed some large rocks on top. Moses asked, "Why do you put rocks over him?"

Daniel answered, "It is to stop the wild animals being nosey."

"Shhh." Albert motioned everyone to be quiet. He could hear the sound of branches snapping in the bush. Before they even had a chance to think, two soldiers appeared, yelling at them and brandishing rifles in their faces. Startled like fish that had been grabbed out of water, their mouths gaped open, mute with terror.

"Nyamaza, nyamaza! Mikono juu! Juu!" the soldiers yelled at them. Small hands shot up into the air.

"Old Man. Machete. Drop Machete! Upesi!"

Albert dropped it.

Albert said, "I have papers -- in my truck. I am delivering coffee. Let me get them for you."

"Zugezuge!" the officers laughed. It was obvious they'd been munching khat leaves and were suffering the nerve jangling high. "Your papers might protect your coffee, but not your women and children. You do not have papers for them, my refiki!"

Albert nodded towards the top pocket of his Dungarees. "Cigarettes. See, here -- sigaras."

The soldiers smirked lazily. One yelled, "Ah, sigaras. Mzuri. Give me them! Upesi!" Albert quickly gave the man a pack, and he demanded, "-washa, -washa?" Albert lit the cigarettes for them.

The two intoxicated soldiers stood there inhaling deeply, making clouds and laughing like a couple of hyenas. As they were coming near the end of their smoke, Albert said, "I have more packs in the truck for you. You can have them. Let us go, we have nothing else, other than some dried meat for the children."

They threw back their heads laughing in a higher pitched vibrato, "Oh, no, my rifiki, you have much more than that. You have two very pretty ladies." The heavier of the two soldiers had already moved towards Janet, and was stroking the back of her neck. "This one is mine, Mafuta. I like mine young," he said, casting a lecherous gaze over her blossoming curves, her breasts just beginning to show underneath her short girlish dress. As he leaned in, Janet tugged at her skirt willing it to grow longer. He whispered, "You're mine, all mine." Taking his cigarette he branded her on the back of her neck. Janet screamed. He hit her across the face. The blow made her stumble and Samuel reached out to help her. The soldiers sniggered at him. Samuel's eyes flashed cold hatred. The soldier taunted him, "Ah, so this is your girlfriend. Well I am going to show you how to treat her properly. You will thank me, boy."

Samuel made to thrust himself into the soldier but the butt of his rifle stopped him.

The other soldier pointed to Albert, "You old man -- go and get me more cigarettes. I want to make more clouds while I am fucking."

"Tafadhali," pleaded Albert, "please, tafadhali, leave the women alone, come with me -- I give you more cigarettes than you can imagine."

He waved, "Go and get the cigarettes, or I will have the children too! Go, go -- upesi, upesi! I am getting harder by the minute." He laughed, touching himself.

Albert made his way to the truck. He retrieved the cigarettes and, shielded by the truck door, tucked the other machete hidden behind his seat into the belt at the back of his trousers. He walked slowly towards the soldiers with his back to Daniel. Handing them the cigarettes, he lit them. Daniel could see the weapon as Albert inched towards him.

One of the soldiers signalled to Samuel, "Come watch us, boy. You might learn something."

Daniel swiftly turned the children away, shielding their innocent eyes from the grotesque spectacle unfolding before them. The soldiers, shamelessly crude and despicable, unzipped their trousers and gripped their swollen manhood. These beasts exhibited no shred of mercy or decency---there was no room for compassion, only hideous shame. Forced onto the ground, the women were powerless, stripped of their agency. Dembe's fingers dug into the soil, an attempt to anchor herself amidst the horror. She didn't cry out, didn't plead; a numbing paralysis gripped her, rendering the world around her muted and distant. Even the swish of Albert's machete cleaving through flesh barely registered as Dembe lay sprawled on the earth, gazing vacantly at the ashen sky. In a split second, before the other soldier could even reach for his weapon, Albert's machete arced through the air, meeting its mark with deadly precision. The lumbering bodies heaved for a few moments before surrendering to death.

Janet lay quivering, her gaze fixed on the sombre heavens, as if she implored the sky to unleash its sorrow upon this scene of unspeakable horror. Samuel knelt beside her, using a tender hand to draw her skirt down, veiling her womanhood from the profane. Daniel placed a consoling hand on Samuel's shoulder, his voice calm but firm, "It's alright, Samuel. I'll take care of her now. Go join the other children. They need you."

The children remained trapped in their silence, their screams stifled by the weight of trauma, their voices immobilized by the brutality they had witnessed. For the moment, a heavy silence settled. Even the birds and animals were still. The trees seemed to hang in sympathy. Their branches wanting to console.

Then, an abrupt eruption shattered the silence as Samuel catapulted forward and thrust his boot into the dead soldier's groin again and again all the time yelling, "You Bastard! You bastard!" He then brutally stomped down on the other soldier's head.

Albert tried to restrain him. "They are already dead, Samuel."

"Not dead enough! Let me go!" His futile wriggling to free himself from Albert's strong arms soon gave way to the tears he had been afraid to show. Albert clutched the boy in his arms and allowed him the sobs that had been held in too long.

"Come now, Samuel. I must search the dead men. We need to be quick." Albert searched the men's bodies for anything he thought they could use. He found some American dollars and some gold crucifixes which had obviously been stolen in previous plunder. He was unable to remove a gold ring and left it. But Samuel picked up Albert's machete and coldly sliced the finger off. The ring was stuck firm, so he put the bloodied finger in his mouth and pulled it off with his teeth. The group watched in horror as he stood with his chest heaving and blood dripping from his mouth. Albert's solid frame stood before him, taut, every muscle standing out. He locked eyes with Samuel. His large jaw jutted out like the veins on his neck. Albert took a step forward and Samuel stumbled back, holding out the ring like a trophy. Albert snatched the ring and threw it into the bush as far as he could. Albert picked up his machete, turned and walked away.

The group let out the breath they had been holding but a silent sorrow had seeped into their hearts. The souls of their childhood would be buried here.

Albert checked the guns. One had no ammunition; the other, a half magazine of bullets. He knew they would have to bury the bodies fast or the vultures would attract attention, so they did -- without ceremony.

Afterwards, they led the blood soaked women to a nearby river to wash. The sound of rushing water quickened their pace and their breathing became more rapid as they anticipated cleansing themselves. Dembe and Janet plunged into the water. The now deep-seated impurities had to be washed from their skin. Both women, instinctively parted their womanhood with their fingers to allow the water to seep in. The soldiers had not managed to enter them, but they had to flush out the intent.

Daniel, gently waded towards the women and held out a bar of soap to Dembe. She stopped splashing and stared at Daniel for a moment. No words were necessary. She took the soap from him, turned and scrubbed harder. Afterwards, like snakes they slithered back through the bush, sensing the air. Dembe wished she could be a snake, shedding her skin, leaving the debris behind.

The truck was still there. Albert turned over the engine while Daniel showed Dembe how to remove the safety catch on the A-K 47 rifle.

"When did you learn how to use a gun, Daniel?"

"Albert taught me."

Dembe looked at him suspiciously, "And what else has Albert shown you?"

Daniel said nothing.

Dembe's hands trembled as she fumbled with the catch. "I was taught that the most powerful weapon is prayer, Daniel."

"Then pray that you don't have to use this."

Samuel reached out to snatch the gun, "Give it to me. You can show me how to use it."

"No!" replied Daniel. "It is not a toy." Daniel softened his voice, "You are still a boy. That is why Debbie must take it."

Samuel's eyes narrowed into a look of lust for the weapon. As they secreted themselves into their hiding place Dembe was acutely aware that he was coveting it.

Albert's head was buried in the bonnet of the truck, and steam was pouring from the radiator. Daniel put his hands to his head in despair, "What the hell do we do now?"

"Let me see if I can find us some eggs."

"Eggs, what the hell are you going to do with eggs?"

Albert switched the engine off. "Just trust me. Stay with the truck."

Albert ran back into the bush.

Daniel could hear screeching and looked up, trying to figure out what was going on. He was concerned that the flapping and cawing from the trees would draw attention. But Albert reappeared through the bush, dishevelled and proudly holding three large eggs. "These should do the trick," he said with an impish grin. Daniel was still confused as to what he was going to do with them. Albert cracked one open and poured it into the cooling radiator. "Look!" he said with a flourish as the spray from the hole in the radiator suddenly ceased.

Daniel looked on, astonished. "Where did you learn to do that?"

"My Tatta taught me."

"Black magic. That's what he taught you. Black magic. "

Albert laughed, "If you say so!"

In no time they were back on the road to Kenya. For the next while Daniel could see Lake Victoria on his right, its peaceful spirit contrasting with the land it straddled. Its deep basin of fertile swamps drew flocks of birds. As they drove along, hugging the lakeshore, Daniel spotted a couple of colourful papyrus gonoleks. They were easy to see with their bright red chests and yellow caps. It was harder to pick out the shoebills, as they blended in with the pewter grey water, but white winged warblers flew gracefully over the lake while hornbills beat the air with great black and white wings. Daniel stuck his head out of the window and allowed the cool air to fan his sweaty brow.

Nearing the small town of Jinja, they caught a glimpse of the White Nile and the Owen Falls Dam. Daniel watched cattle steal across the leafy raft of water. He wished the children could see the grandeur and imagined how Debbie would give them a history lesson on its structure. But they were hidden in their wooden container, trapped like the water hyacinths behind the dam.

Just beyond the dam, the scene before them erupted as thundering plumes of white water competed with barking soldiers holding frightened refugees at the post.

Albert pulled the truck over and waved down some soldiers.

"What the hell are you doing?" asked Daniel.

Albert ignored him and shouted over to the soldiers, "Any smokes, guys?"

"Fuck off!" one of them yelled. "We were waiting on some from you."

Albert shouted back, "I am going to Nairobi today. If you are lucky I will get some for you on the way back. Do you know where Kanu is?

"Fuck off. He is busy!"

"Tell him Albert is here."

A small wiry soldier pushed through some men and ran towards the truck as if his shoelaces were tied together. He stuck his head through the window like a meerkat.

"Ah, my rifiki. You made it. Here take it. Upesi. Upesi."

He handed Albert a small package, which he swiftly stuffed in his pocket.

"Who is on the border at Busia, my friend?"

The soldier shrugged his shoulders repeatedly.

"Well if you want me to transform this package into cash I suggest you find out."

The soldier shouted over to his comrades, "Who is on the border today?"

"The biggest, maddest motherfucker you have ever seen! And he doesn't smoke!" the soldiers laughed.

One of the other soldiers hollered, "You tell your rifiki to bring me back lots of smokes and I tell my brother to go easy on him."

"What is his name?"

"Captain Okello. You tell him Carlos said hello."

Albert waved out the window, "Thank you Carlos. I bring you lots of cigarettes when I return."

"You better, or you are---" He made a cut throat sign with his hand.

A crowd of soldiers started to gather, and Albert quickly drove off.

Daniel let out the breath he had been holding. "For fuck sake, Albert, can you warn me before you pull a stunt like that? What the hell are you up to man?"

"No point getting your ass all worked up. Relax man. Albert will get you across the border."

"What's in that package?"

Albert pulled out a cigarette from the top pocket of his dungarees and lit it. He only smoked when he was nervous. "Better you don't know. Trust me. I know what I am doing."

The truck glided along rhythmically as Daniel tried to lose himself to the landscape. Driving past fields of red ochre soil with yam and maize plantations, they were surrounded by wetland sedge full of papyrus plants. Daniel looked out for wildlife in isolated pockets of the forest but, like Albert, he was on alert, listening for any sound that might disturb the tranquillity. Truck loads of cattle passed by again and again. Each time Daniel would say, "More cows for Libya. Less for us."

Albert deliberately swerved the truck onto the side of the road and sideswiped two guinea fowl. "Never mind," he said. "Look, your Lord is sending us food from heaven. Quick, jump out and get them."

Daniel jumped out of the cab and picked up the two plump birds. One seemed only to be dazed. There was a brief moment of uncertainty, but Daniel could already taste them on his tongue. He wrung its neck and said a quiet prayer of thanksgiving.

As Albert drove off, a khat courier whizzed past them driving like a maniac in a frenzy of red dust. Albert managed to swerve to avoid the drug-dealing driver, turning down a rubble strewn road and plunging into a shallow river. As he forded the river the water seeped into the hold.

Albert saw the panic in Daniel's eyes. "Don't look so worried, my friend. I know this river; they will only get a little bit wet." He patted him on the knee and boasted a schoolboy grin. "When will you trust me brother?"

A quarter of an hour later, Albert pulled off the road onto a dirt track five hundred metres into the bush.

Albert once more prized open the door of the hidden compartment. Sticking his head through the cramped little space he smiled, "How are my brave little angels now?"

"Uncle Albert!" Sarah screeched at him, "We almost drowned!"

Seeing Moses holding onto himself he replied, "Yes, but luckily you have Moses with you. He is really good at holding back water. Aren't you Moses?"

Everyone laughed as Moses clambered out of the hold just in time to help himself.

Albert addressed the group, "We could be stuck in a long queue at the border. It is not far now, but it could take us hours to get through. Everyone should go help themselves now. We will eat some food, but quickly."

After they had eaten, Daniel passed some thin sticks. "Here, use these to clean your teeth -- mswaki. You don't want to end up looking like Uncle Albert."

Albert retorted, "Ah, but my smile could light up Namirembe Cathedral."

Albert strolled over and took a seat beside Dembe who was pensively fingering the cross around her neck. "Do not look so worried bibi, Albert will get you all across the border safe. Just do as I say. I will tug four times when we are approaching the border. You will need to keep the children very quiet. Not a sound. If there is any other danger, I will give you four more quicker tugs. Okay?"

"Yes, I understand," she said. But Dembe was afraid.

There was a line-up of buses full of people, some of whom were perched on the roofs. Numerous trucks over-flowed with human beings, animals and possessions. Albert manoeuvred passed a broken down vehicle uttering its last gasp, steam erupting from its radiator. Although he had one egg left, he could not risk stopping to help. He would have been mobbed by starving people. They had to blinker themselves to the inhumane state of some of the souls they witnessed. Most had walked for miles shoeless. Many were dying from dehydration.

The proud women of Uganda could carry burlap bags on their heads like the caryatids of ancient Greece; an earthquake couldn't cause them to topple. But now, exhausted as they were, they could not prevent their possessions falling as they clung to infants and babies on shoulders, hips and straps. The usual graceful straight back carriage of colourful maidens walking with bundles on their heads was replaced by a cadaverous crawl towards death, either for themselves or one of their young. Daniel turned his eyes away from a wake of vultures devilishly dining on the carcass of what looked like a young child. Some tribes would not bury a body unless it was whole. The raptors were spoiled for choice.

Albert drew a long hard breath from his last cigarette and threw the stub out the window.

He pulled the string four times.

Slowly they edged their way to the check point. Albert nodded towards a pile of confiscated goods, "Most of that will line the pockets of the officers."

A small rotund officer dragged out his walk towards the truck, scraping his machete on the ground behind him. Wearing starched khaki green shorts, a crisply ironed shirt and bright shiny boots his chest was pumped full of bravado.

Albert said, "Shit. He looks like a Pygmy. He cannot be Carlos's brother."

"What do we do?"

"Leave it to me."

The soldier got closer and yelled, "Get out of the truck -- sasa hivi!"

Albert got out.

"Your companion too! Sasa hivi upesi!"

Daniel obeyed and got out.

The guard asked, "Nini una?"

"Coffee, kahawa, I have papers, see here. I have to take it to Kenya today."

The guard looked at the load suspiciously. Then, with a wide sweep of his arm he swiftly swung his machete through a sack, spilling out rotten beans.

Daniel, hearing the swish of the machete hit hard against the beans, was sure it had struck bone. He inhaled deeply, stifling his desire to scream.

Albert boldly said, "I will get into trouble for losing any of the beans. You could too. I have my papers."

"Do you think your papers are a machete proof vest, eh?"

Albert looked at the ground and said nothing.

"You tell the bastard who is trading this kahawa crap, he is wasting my time."

"Don't worry, I'll get him to put two sacks of his best coffee in next week for you, I promise."

Daniel looked at Albert. He would make little to nothing from this run. He had deliberately filled the top of the truck with rotten beans so they wouldn't be tempted to take them and uncover their precious cargo.

The guard asked, "What else do you have?"

"Cigarettes."

"Everyone brings me sigaras. I do not smoke. What else do you have?"

"Soap. I have soap."

"Show me it. Give me it here."

"I will need to get it from the truck."

"What are you waiting for? Go!"

Albert did as he was told, and came back with a bar of soap. He handed it to the officer, who took it and put it up to his nose.

"Mmm, nzuri sana. My mwanamke will be pleased."

He looked at Daniel, "What have you brought me my friend? Do you have some nice looking wanawake hiding in the truck for me, who smell like this soap?"

"No," said Daniel. "Women are too much like hard work." He chuckled.

"Ha, ha, my friend. Oh yes, I agree, women are too much work, but they like a man with soap. I bet you have a pretty one hiding under these sacks, eh?"

Albert interrupted, "We have cigarettes for Captain Okello. We were told he is on duty here today."

"Who told you? Tell me, who told you that? I am the guard here today! Not Okello!"

"His brother Carlos told me. He asked me to bring him cigarettes. Is he here?"

"Give me another bar of soap and I might tell you."

Albert went back to the truck and produced another bar of soap, "This is my last bar."

"You see, I knew you were hiding something. You had more soap, and you did not tell me. Mtundu mtundu, you are very naughty."

"I come on these runs often. I can bring you more soap if you tell Captain Okello I am here."

The small guard thought for a while, toying with his machete, "Kali. Utangojo."

They waited. A few minutes later, the guard reappeared with a larger man. Both were laughing.

The taller man said, "So, you are a friend of my brother's. I hear that young Carlos has sent you with cigarettes for me."

"Yes," said Albert, "and I must get to Nairobi so I can bring him some more on my return journey."

"Oh well, my friend, we had better see that you and your friend make it across the border then. Where are my cigarettes?"

"Here." Albert handed him a carton.

He put it to his nose and sniffed as if he had been given a Havana cigar, "Nzuri sana, good. You will make sure you return with more for my brother?"

"Yes. No problem my friend. I will bring you and Carlos more in a few days."

"Do you have cigarettes for my Kenyan friend at the gate?"

"Yes, I have one carton. I was keeping it in case we get into trouble. It is my last one. Cross my heart." Albert crossed his heart.

"Go back to your truck now."

As soon as Albert and Daniel were in the cab of the truck, Captain Okello jumped up on the side footstep and said, "Drive to the middle of this no-man's-land here."

Two sets of worn metal gates and a hundred feet of no-man's-land separated Kenya and Uganda in the dusty town of Busia. Albert drove to the middle and stopped. Okello jumped down and waved to his friend at the Kenyan border crossing.

"Winston! Winston, my friend!" he shouted across the neutral territory.

A friendly looking guard walked towards the gate. "Okello," he yelled across, "What have you got for me today?"

"I have some friends here. They have cigarettes for you. You let them through today, my refiki, eh?"

Winston waved for them to come through but, just before they started driving, Okello put his hand on the steering wheel. "Break the carton of cigarettes in two -- upesi!" Albert quickly broke the carton in two, and Okello grabbed one half for himself.

He hit the side of the truck with his hand. "Ok my friend, you will be safe now. I see you soon or..." he winked, and made the same cut throat sign as his brother. With that, he sauntered back to his station. Albert and Daniel drove on towards Winston.

"Where are your papers?"

Albert handed them to him.

He scanned them for a long moment then asked, "What else is in the truck?"

"Just coffee."

"You have cigarettes for me?"

"Yes." Albert said, handing him the broken pack.

He gave a long lawless laugh, "I see my friend Okello has taken some for himself. Thieving bastard."

Albert's jaw tensed, "You have my papers, you have the last of my cigarettes. I have nothing else."

"Okay, old man -- here," he smirked as he handed Albert his papers. "Go, go quickly now, before I change my mind."

At first Albert and Daniel let out deep sighs. Then, they were overwhelmed with nervous laughter. It hadn't subsided when they heard a rifle shot behind them. Instinctively they ducked and Albert abruptly swerved the truck. They could hear the terrified screams from the hidden compartment.

Albert looked in his wing mirror. He could see some guards picking up a dead civilian who had not fared as well. He accelerated but too little avail, coaxing the truck a few hundred yards before pulling over. For the last time, Albert prised open the door of the container and poked his head through. All the refugees could see were his crooked white teeth smiling at them.

"Welcome to Kenya my little angels."

There were tears of relief as Albert and Daniel helped them out of the compartment. Most fell to their knees. Emotions were raw and deeply private. Crying was what they needed now and they allowed themselves the luxury.

Dembe crumbled before Daniel, "Thank you. Thank you. God bless you Daniel."

"It is Albert you should thank, Dembe. Not me."

Dembe nodded. A trail of tears ran down her tired face onto the dry dusty earth.

Daniel lifted her head up, "Someday, Amin will fall, and our exile will be over Debbie. We will return to our ancestors' land."

Albert hit the side of his truck and shouted out, "Who wants to sit up front with me and help me to drive this beautiful piece of machinery?"

All the children shouted, "Me, me, me!"

Daniel cleared the back of the truck of the ruined cargo, uncovering the sacks of good coffee beans to make cushions. He held out his hand to Dembe, "Come, my lady. I have made a throne here for you. And you too Janet. Come, my princess." One after the other they climbed onto the back of the truck. Daniel sat them down on a padded seat of coffee sacks. They stretched out their legs and relaxed back on top of their previous hiding place. The gentle Kenyan air offered them hope.

Albert cracked open his last egg and the children watched in amazement as he performed his magic trick.

As they drove along the road Janet started to quietly sing the national anthem of Uganda. The others joined in, the small children humming the tune.