Джон Гришэм - Sooley

The soldiers laughed and admired their work.

The bus driver swept glass from his dashboard and resettled into his seat. Along with his passengers, he watched the fire and waited for the soldiers. On the bench in front of Samuel, a mother with a small child was crying. Samuel looked at a man across the aisle, but both were too stunned to speak.

Eventually, the soldiers retreated to the bus and got on. No one made eye contact with them. The driver waited until he was told to proceed. As they drove away, Samuel looked through his window at the awful scene. His lasting image was the burning bodies.

The road ran straight for a mile or so, and when it swept to the right he turned and saw a tall, thick cloud of grayish smoke drifting high into the air. What would the next bus see as it approached? Who would clean up the mess? Take away the bodies? Report the incident to the authorities?

In South Sudan, many obvious questions went unanswered, and survivors knew to stay quiet.

The soldiers were laughing among themselves and ignoring the passengers. The driver pointed to holes in his windshield, said something funny, and the soldiers laughed at it too. After half an hour, one of them stood and walked down the aisle, looking at the passengers and their bags and sacks of goods. Samuel’s new gym bag caught his attention and he asked, “What’s in it?”

Samuel smiled and replied, “Basketball stuff.”

“Open it.”

The soldier was Dinka — all three were — as was Samuel, and with the endless ethnic conflict raging through the country he felt somewhat comfortable being among his own. Certainly they wouldn’t steal from him? He unzipped the bag and showed it to the soldier, who asked, “Basketball?”

“Yes sir. I’m on the national team. We’re going to play in the United States in July.”

The soldier grabbed the bag and took it up front and showed it to his buddies. They removed the new ball, two practice tee shirts, two pairs of gym shorts, two pairs of white socks, and three caps with a South Sudan Under 18 logo on the front. They examined them, then removed their maroon berets and put on the caps.

One of them turned and looked at Samuel and said, “Up here.”

Samuel walked to the front and took a seat behind them. They asked questions about the team, the tournaments, the trip to the U.S. One claimed to be a fan of Niollo and said he loved the Miami Heat. They asked if Samuel would play for an American college. What about the NBA?

The bus stopped at another village and two passengers joined the ride. Back on the road and still sitting with the soldiers, Samuel asked, “Got time for a question?”

“Sure,” said the biggest talker, undoubtedly the leader of the gang. All three were still wearing the U18 caps.

“Who were those men back there?”

“A band of thieves, some nasty boys who’ve been causing trouble around here.”

“But no more,” said another with a laugh.

Samuel said, “How did you know they would stop the bus?”

One picked up a sat phone and smiled at it. “They use these too and we like to listen. They’re not really that smart.”

“So, they’re not guerrillas?”

“No, just a gang of raiders looking for someone to rob, rape, and kill.”

“They would have killed us?”

“You never know with these thugs. Last week they stopped a bus on the main highway west of Juba. At night. Got everybody off the bus and they lined them up along its side. Made the driver get on his knees and beg, then they shot him. They robbed everyone, took their bags and luggage. There were two young ladies, one with a child. They took them back on the bus and raped them for an hour or so while the other passengers listened. Two boys sneaked off in the dark and escaped.”

Samuel glanced to his left and looked at a peasant woman of about forty. Her teenage daughter sat next to her. How close had they come to a disaster?

The leader continued, “You? A fine young man of, how old?”

“Seventeen.”

“I joined the army at seventeen. Three years ago. You, they probably would not have killed you, but there’s a good chance they would’ve taken you and forced you to join the gang. If you resisted, then they would’ve shot you.” He lowered his voice and looked at the girl. “She wouldn’t have stood a chance. And the driver? Well, they always kill the driver.”

“Standard procedure,” added another.

“I guess we owe you a big thanks,” Samuel said.

“It’s our job.”

They removed the caps and put them back in the gym bag, along with the ball, shirts, shorts, and socks.

The leader said, “So, when you make a million dollars in the NBA, you’ll come back here and buy us a beer, right?”

“All the beer you can drink.”

“We’re going to remember that.”

They handed back his gym bag and Samuel returned to his seat. He was four hours from home.

There was no welcoming party at the terminal in Rumbek. Samuel saw no one he knew. The bus was hours late and he was not expecting anyone to wait on him. He flagged a moto-taxi and hopped on the back, clutching his two bags. The driver, a kid of no more than fifteen, handled the bike like all the rest, reckless and daring and determined to terrify his passenger. Samuel hung on for his life and managed to follow the custom of not complaining about the daredevil antics. The walk to Lotta was three miles and would have taken an hour under a blazing sun. The taxi ride was twenty cents, so Samuel splurged and laughed to himself about spending big money now that he was a star.

Beatrice was behind the house watering her vegetables when she heard Angelina squeal with excitement. She ran inside and saw Samuel standing in the kitchen, wearing a South Sudan practice tee shirt, modeling it like he owned the world. “I made the team, Mom!” he yelled as he grabbed his mother and lifted her into the air. Beatrice hugged him back and began crying as Angelina bounced around the house, looking for someone else to tell. Finding no one, she ran into the street with the unbelievable news and within seconds the neighbors knew that their dream had come true. Samuel Sooleymon was going to play basketball in America!

A second celebration materialized within the hour as the village gathered on the street in front of the house. As Ayak came home from school with James and Chol, a loud cheer went up when Samuel ran to greet them. The neighbors brought boiled peanuts, sesame snacks, cinnamon tea, and mandazi, a popular fried pastry.

Samuel proudly showed off his new weapon, a Spalding NBA Street Ball, and explained that it was made of a durable rubber and designed for outdoor play. He tossed it to James who passed to a friend and before long the shiny new ball was crisscrossing through the crowd as the older boys passed it, held it long enough to admire, then zipped it to the next one. A radio began playing music as the day grew long and the shadows crept in.

As the sun set, the most glorious day in Lotta’s history was coming to an end, and there was so much hope for even more excitement. Their native son was on his way.

The family sat in the dark house until late in the night, talking and laughing and dreaming of what might happen in America. Back on the bus, Samuel had decided not to tell his family about the bandits, the soldiers, the ambush, the smoldering corpses. He would be on the bus again in early July as he headed back to Juba for the trip and he did not want them to worry.

Later in bed, though, he could not shake the image of the young boy being killed for no reason. He was about the same size and age of Chol, who was twelve. Who was he? Where was he from? Did he have family? How did he end up raiding highways with a gang of thieves? Would anyone grieve over his death? Would anyone even know about it?