Dave Eggers - What Is The What

I saw a monkey riding a man's back. A small black monkey, skittering from one shoulder to the other, squealing and grabbing at his owner's shoulders. I saw trucks, cars, lorries. More vehicles in one place than I had known possible. In Marial Bai, on market days, there might be two trucks, possibly three. But in Aweil, cars and trucks came and went quickly, a dozen at any time, dust exploding behind them. The soldiers were everywhere and they were tense, suspicious of any new arrivals to the town, particularly young men.

Every day brought an assault, an interrogation. Men were hauled to the barracks with such regularity that it was expected that any young Dinka man in Aweil would be subjected to interrogation sooner or later. He would be brought in, given a beating of varying degrees of severity, would be forced to swear his hatred of the SPLA and to name those he knew who were sympathetic. He would be released that afternoon, and whomever he had named would then be found and interrogated. Staying away from the market ensured freedom from harassment, but because the SPLA moved in the brush, in the shadows, those who lived outside the town were assumed to be SPLA, to be aiding them and plotting against Aweil from the farms and forests.

Though he had been careful, had treated the soldiers well, it was not long before my father was suspected of colluding with the rebels.

— Deng Arou.

— Yes.

Two soldiers were at the door to my father's shop.

— You are the Deng Arou from Marial Bai?

— I am. You know I am.

— We have to take this store.

— You'll do nothing like that.

— Close for today. You can reopen after we talk.

— Talk about what?

— What are you doing here, Deng Arou? Why did you leave Marial Bai?

— I've had a store here for ten years. I have every right-

— You were giving free goods to the SPLA.

— Let me talk to Bol Dut.

— Bol Dut? You know Bol Dut?

My father had tipped the balance. His closest friend, in Marial Bai or anywhere, was Bol Dut, a long-faced man with a grey goatee, a well-known lender of money; he had helped my father open his store in Aweil. He was also a member of the national parliament. In all he was one of the best-known Dinka leaders in Bahr al-Ghazal, and had managed to spend eight years as an MP without alienating the Dinka from his region. This was not easy to do.

— Bol Dut is a rebel, the soldier said.

— Bol Dut? Watch what you're saying. You're talking about an MP.

— An MP who has been heard talking on the radio to Ethiopia. He's with the rebels and if you're his friend you're a rebel too.

I watched as my father was brought in for questioning. He was taller than the boy-soldiers but still he seemed very thin and feminine walking beside them. He was wearing a long pink shirt and his exhausted sandals while they wore thick canvas uniforms, sturdy boots with heavy black heels. That day, I was ashamed of my father, and I was angry. He hadn't told me where he was going. He hadn't told me if he would be jailed or killed or return within an hour.

He returned in the morning. I saw him walking down the road to us, muttering to himself. My stepsister Akol ran to him.

— Where were you? she asked.

He walked past her and into his hut. He emerged a few minutes later.

— Achak, come!

I ran to him and we walked back to the market; he had left his shop unattended when he had been taken. As we walked, I scanned his face and hands for signs of injury or abuse. I checked his sleeves to see if either hand was missing.

— It's a bad time to be a man in this country, he said.

When we arrived, we found the shop unmolested. It was surrounded by businesses run by Arabs, and we assumed they had watched over it. Still, staying in Aweil now seemed impossible.

— Are we leaving Aweil? I asked.

My father leaned against the back wall and closed his eyes.

— I think we'll leave Aweil, yes.

Bol Dut came for dinner. I watched him come down the path. His walk was well-known, a magisterial stride, one foot kicked forward then the other, as if he were shaking water from his shoes. His chest was broad and barrelled, his face always conveying or feigning great interest in everything.

He pushed open the door to our compound and took my father's hands in his.

— I'm sorry about the mix-up with the soldiers, he said. My father waved it off.

— Normally I would do something.

My father smiled and shook his head.-Of course you would.

— Normally I could do something, Bol added.

— I know, I know.

— But now I'm in more trouble than you, Deng Arou.

He was being watched, he said. He had met with the wrong people. His frequent trips in and out of Aweil were looked upon with grave concern. He had declined an invitation to Khartoum, to see the minister of defense. His words were meandering as he looked back to the market, seeming utterly lost.

— Come inside, Bol, my father said, taking Bol's arm.

The men ducked into my father's hut. I crawled quickly in and lay down, pretending to sleep.

— Achak. Out.

I made no sound. My father sighed. He let me be.

— Bol, my father said.-Come back to Marial Bai with us. There are no soldiers there. You'll be protected. You'll have friends. It's not a government town.

— No, no. I have to do some thing, I suppose. But…Bol Dut's voice was broken.

— Bol. Please.

Bol dropped his head. My father placed his hands on Bol's shoulders. It was an intimate gesture. I looked away.

— No, Bol said, now sounding stronger. He raised his head.-I should wait it out. It would be worse if I left. It would look far more suspicious. I have to stay or…

— Then go to Uganda, my father pleaded.-Or Kenya. Please.

The men sat for a time. Bol sat back and lit his pipe. The bitter smoke filled the hut. Bol looked at the wall as if there was a window there, and through this window, a way out of this predicament.

— Fine, he said at last.-I will. I will.

My father grinned, then touched his hand to Bol's.-You will what?

— Marial Bai. We'll go. I'll go with you. Bol Dut seemed certain. He nodded firmly.

— Good! my father said.-That makes me very happy, Bol. Good.

Bol Dut continued to nod, as if still convincing himself. My father sat silently next to him, smiling unconvincingly. The two men sat together while the animals took over the night and the lights of Aweil threw jagged shadows over the town.

In the morning, there was no doubt what had been done to Bol Dut and who had done it. A group of women had found him on their way to gather kindling. My father was despondent, then methodically went about making arrangements to return to Marial Bai. It was decided we would leave the next day. We would pack up the compound immediately and a lorry would be arranged.

I wanted to see Bol Dut and convinced a local girl I had befriended to come.

— Let's look, I said.

— I don't want to see him, she said.

— He's not there, I lied.-They buried him already. We'll only look at the tracks of the tank.

We followed the treads through the dirt and the mud and into the forest. The tracks penetrated the earth deeper there, and disappeared occasionally where the tank had encountered a thicket or roots.

— Have you seen one of these move? she asked. I said I had.

— Are they fast or slow?

I couldn't remember. When I thought of the tank, I pictured the helicopters.-Very fast, I told her.

— I want to stop, she said.

She saw the man first, sitting, legs crossed, on a chair where the tracks ended. He sat still, alone, his hands on his knees, his back rigid, as if standing guard. Near his chair, in the mud, was a blanket, some kind of wool material. It was the grey of a river at twilight and was matted into the tracks left by the tank. I told the girl it was nothing, though I knew it was Bol Dut.