When the Americans Came

“Ignore them, Nadif. You can escape, return, and slip back in unnoticed.”

Asad always said things like that. He thought school was something to be escaped. He didn’t understand that some of us didn’t agree.

Of the ten of us in Miss Amina’s class, Asad was the bravest. We all thought he would lead the neighborhood militia one day. Like his uncle, Abdi. When the Americans came, his uncle was given an AK to guard our block. After that he was a big man in the neighborhood. People said he had more AKs that he had bought or stolen. My mother said Abdi was a fat fish in a shallow pond that would dry up one day.

Asad wanted us to leave school and go with him. It was lunchtime. Some of us from Miss Amina’s class were kicking a ball around in the shade of the courtyard. It was flat and didn’t bounce much. Asad said the Americans were coming on a big raid. One of the militias had shot down a helicopter. He said his uncle needed us to defend the block. All the other men had been called to the city center. Asad said Abdi would give us all AKs.

Asad knew if he could talk me into going with him, some of the others might go, too. Not Erasto or Dalmar, who had no interest in the militias, but maybe Gebeyre, Osman or Siad.

We all thought he was exaggerating, but none of us wanted to say we didn’t believe him. That would shame him and make him mad. So we looked down and shuffled our feet.

“Nadif, you are the man of your family. It’s your duty to help defend the block.” Asad always knew how to bully me. He sounded like his uncle. Then he half-whispered and became my friend again, “At least come see that I’m telling the truth.”

I hung my head. I had to go with him or be shamed myself.

I knew he was telling the truth about the raid. Something big was happening. I could smell tires burning around the city. I could hear men shouting with excitement as they hurried past our gate. I could see the helicopters over the courtyard, many more than most days. It was like the day last summer that Asad and I had found a beehive and dared each other to poke into it with a stick to get some honey. Bees flew out from everywhere. We both got stung many times, but didn’t cry. Neither of us wanted to be called a baby or a coward. But we didn’t get any honey.

I didn’t want to go with Asad that day. Miss Amina didn’t let us leave the school anymore, even to go home for lunch. I didn’t mind. I was happy at school. When the Americans came, Miss Amina had started teaching us English. At home I taught what I learned to my sister, Aziza. She was a year older and didn’t have time for school.

My mother said I had to study hard so that I might work in Kenya or even South Africa one day. Maybe America, if I was very lucky. She said I had an auntie in Columbus. But I had to learn everything I could before the Islamists took over and only let us study one book. When that happened, she said Miss Amina wouldn’t be my teacher anymore. I didn’t understand. I liked Miss Amina.

I didn’t like the Islamists. My father had fought with the government militia in the civil war. Not because he wanted to. My mother said it was the only way to get us out of the camps. The Islamists said the warlords should kill the men in the government militia. So they did, including my father. Some people in the neighborhood said the Islamists stopped crime and drug dealers and gave us schools and doctors. My mother said everything they did was just to get people to like them so they could win. When they did, she said everything would change.

At first, the people in my neighborhood were excited when the Americans came. They said they were here to put an end to all the fighting. After spring and summer, people said the Americans only brought more fighting. They said we'd had enough of that in the civil war. What we needed now was food and peace.

When the Americans came, the UN brought food. But we got very little. My mother would take Aziza with her to the center where they gave out rice and milk. They didn’t allow any men in line or boys older than nine. I turned ten that year, so I never got to go. Sometimes my mother and sister brought back strange packages of things we didn’t like to eat. But we never saw much of it anyway. Abdi stole most what the women brought back to the neighborhood before they could take it home. He gave it to his friends in the militia. He said it was so they could protect us from the Americans. Sometimes an American gave Aziza a few pieces of candy that she hid in her dress. Candy that was hard and as sweet as honey, but with strange flavors from far away.

I wished I had a piece of that candy that day. Then I could have bribed Asad to leave me alone. But I didn’t. And everyone was looking at me. I knew I had to go. The others would wait to hear what I had to say. Asad was my friend, not theirs.

We left the courtyard through the covered hallway that led to the gate. Miss Amina was supposed to watch us during lunch, but she and the other teachers were listening to a radio in one of the classrooms. Sometimes she looked out at us but not very often. It wasn’t hard for us to sneak by.

Outside, we saw men with AKs hurrying toward the market. We heard gunfire from all over the city. Not the small arguments we heard most days. A lot of AKs, like the street battles during the civil war.

We kept to the shady side of the street. It wasn’t an avenue, so it wasn’t very wide. A few cars and pickup trucks full of armed men zoomed past, kicking up a lot of dust. The militias were gathering. Black smoke rose from near the airport and the stadium. Tire fires meant the militias had set up roadblocks. We could hear the drumbeat of helicopters overhead. It would be a big fight.

A few men eyed us as we hurried past. I was scared. There weren’t any women on the street that day carrying wood or water. That was a bad sign. Men sometimes hid behind women when the Americans came or grabbed up boys to fight. They said the Americans wouldn’t shoot unarmed people. Sometimes they said they had special magic that meant the bullets couldn’t hurt us. My mother said never to believe them. There was no magic. The Americans would shoot back at anyone shooting at them. They couldn’t always see who was and wasn’t armed. Women and children often died.

Asad was wearing his buffalo shirt that day. He didn’t know what the words on it said. All he knew was it had a strange, horned beast on it in blue and red that looked powerful, so he liked it. He thought it would protect him. I could read the words and letters from Miss Amina’s English lessons. Buffalo Bills Super Bowl XXVII Champions. I knew the beast was like a water buffalo only different. I knew the shirt was for an American football team and a game they’d won this year. I didn’t think they played football in America. We never heard about them on the radio during World Cup.

Men kept looking at Asad’s shirt and glaring. They couldn’t read it either. They only knew it was American.

Asad turned down a narrow alley with doors on both sides and a small gap of sky down the center. He ducked into a shed hidden between two buildings.

It was dark and dusty inside. Daylight came through the open door, which Asad shut once I was in. After that, the only light came through the wide cracks in the door. It took a moment before I could see again.

Asad pulled a heavy bundle from behind a stack of cardboard boxes. He laid it on a wooden crate in the striped sunlight by the door and unwrapped it.

The AK was almost as big as he was. Its metal was black. Its wood was dull. I could see the grain was worn. It was one of the short ones that folded out. Its curved clip was almost as long as Asad’s arm.

“Is it loaded?” I asked in awe. I had never seen an AK that close before. Of course, I’d seen AKs. They were everywhere. But I’d never been close enough to touch one. Not that the men who carried them would let me. Men saved money for a year to buy an AK where we lived. I ran a finger down its side. The metal was cool and scratched.

Asad slapped my hand. “Of course it’s loaded. How would I kill Americans if it wasn’t?”

“Is it heavy?” I asked with my hands behind my back.

“It’s not too bad if you use the strap.” He put his arm through the thick, green strap and lifted it over his shoulder. He held it like the men at the roadblocks. Even with the strap, he leaned back some like it was still a little heavy. I wondered if I could carry it. Asad was taller and stronger than me.

“Have you shot it?”

“Not yet. But Uncle Abdi showed me how. Here’s the safety.” He pushed down the metal lever on the side with his right hand. It clicked twice then once more when he pushed it back up like he had gone too far. Then he put his finger on the trigger and swung the barrel back and forth across the room. He looked exactly like one of the older boys from our school who had joined a militia. He’d come back one day to show off his AK before Miss Amina had chased him away with a broom.

“How many do you have?” I asked, peering toward the boxes.

“Just one,” he said, sliding out from the strap and placing the AK back on the cloth. “Uncle Abdi will give you the rest.”

“I think the others will want to see them first,” I said. I didn’t think Asad would try to trick us, but his uncle might. My mother said that was how boys ended up in Ethiopia or worse.

“He doesn’t keep them here. This one is mine. He gave it to me this morning.” He quickly threw the cloth back over the AK.

“Does Abdi know you’re asking us to help?” I don’t know why I asked him such a shaming question.

Asad looked up as if I had slapped him. “Of course he knows,” he snapped. “Anyway, he wouldn’t mind. We will need more than two of us to defend the block to when the Americans come.”

“But what if he only has two AKs?” An AK cost thirty American dollars in the market, or four cows in Kenya. Asad’s uncle was not a rich man.

Asad didn’t look like he’d thought of that. It would be shaming for him to promise us AKs and not have them to give. But his uncle would have made no such promises. Asad slid the bundle back behind the boxes. “Anyway, we should get back. Don’t tell of the others where I keep it.”

“I won’t,” I promised. I knew Abdi would beat him if someone stole it.

Outside, the fighting had picked up and was moving closer. We could hear machine guns in the city center. All the way back, I was hoping none of the teachers had locked the gate. They had, but Dalmar let us in.

“Miss Amina was looking for you,” he said to me without looking at Asad. “I told her you ate some bad food and were squatting in the bathroom.”

Asad hurried away, not wanting to be locked inside when the Americans came. I returned to our classroom just as Miss Amina was about to get started. She stared at me as I sat down but didn’t say anything.

Our classroom had a steel door that led into the alley. Usually, Miss Amina had it open so we could see the blackboard better. While I was out, she had closed it. There was some light coming through the screened window from the courtyard. There was a little more from the little windows over the steel door. Some days she would also open the curtain that led to the courtyard, but not that day.

Miss Amina returned to the English lesson she had started that morning. She asked us questions when she saw we weren’t paying attention. I think she thought it was because of the fighting outside. But I hadn’t had a chance to tell the others about what Asad had shown me and they all wanted to know. Even Erasto. But each time I tried to whisper, Miss Amina shushed me and got back to the lesson. She didn’t get very far.

The fighting got louder until it sounded like it was on our block. Suddenly, it was. Back and forth like an argument between husband and wife where even the smallest children took sides. An RPG exploded. The plaster shook. Dust drifted down from the ceiling.

“Everyone be calm,” Miss Amina said. “We’re going to move into the courtyard. We’ll be safe there.” She gathered us up like a hen does her chicks, making sure none of us was left behind. She shooed us toward the courtyard with her arms wide.

Then we heard a lot of shouting and more gunfire, very, very close. And a loud, angry buzz like a beehive far above the ceiling. Everyone stopped and huddled next to Miss Amina who tried to protect us with her arms. She told us to get down. We all did, but didn’t leave her side. No one cried or said anything. All of us had been through this before. We knew we needed to be quiet so we wouldn’t be noticed.

There was a lot more gunfire, then angry curses. Men in heavy boots were running and shouting, in English I think, right outside the door. Gunfire followed them from all around, even from our roof. It sounded like an entire militia was firing down the alley. It sounded like a gun battle from the civil war. I could see Miss Amina was scared. For a moment in the dim light, she didn’t look much older than my sister. I hoped Aziza was ok.

Outside, someone thumped against the metal door. We all froze. It was latched but Miss Amina hadn’t thrown the bolt. More AKs fired. We could hear bullets thudding into the walls like heavy rain. Then there was a crash and we were blinded by sunlight. A soldier rolled into our classroom chased by more bullets. Not a militia soldier, an American in a dusty, swirled uniform. With a helmet. And a gun that wasn’t an AK pointed out the door. He didn’t fire it, he just kicked the door shut while lying on the floor.

More gunfire pounded the door until it sounded like someone beating a steel barrel like a drum. Senti coins of sunlight appeared on the floor. Bullets broke apart Miss Amina’s blackboard, cracking the English she’d written on it into smaller and smaller words. Pieces flew across the room, whizzing by our ears like biting flies in summer. They tore at the flag hanging behind her desk, making it dance like the first wind before a storm.

The American jumped up beside the door and threw the bolt. Then he turned and saw us squatting with Miss Amina on the floor. We all just stared, wondering if he would turn his gun on us. Some militiamen would if they thought we would give them away.

Instead, he put one finger to his lips and said, “Shh.” We knew that word even in our language, knew exactly what he meant. Miss Amina barely nodded, never looking away from his eyes. He couldn’t see it, but we could feel her arms shaking, just a little, as she held us closer. Until he smiled.

More gunfire and cursing, in our language, right outside the door. More holes of sunlight the size of hard candy. Bullets kicked up little puffs of dust from the floor like the first raindrops of a storm. Someone tried to break down the door. The bolt and concrete held.

The American started looking around for another way out. He was young, not much older than some of the militiamen. Not a boy, but not a full man like I remember my father. But he was big, taller and heavier than most of our men, though ours were just as strong. With blue eyes. I wondered if all Americans had blue eyes. My people didn’t. Maybe some of the UN people did, but I’d never seen them close enough to know. And he was sweating. The afternoon sun was hot, even this time of year, especially in long sleeves and pants.

He crept toward the curtain that led to the courtyard like a cat avoiding a pack of dogs. He pointed his gun all around the room, but never at us. When he pulled aside the thin cloth, he stopped and looked back. His face was like a mask from another tribe, one I didn’t know. Not a scary mask, a friendly one like a guardian spirit. I raised a hand and waved. He smiled again and waved back. Then he disappeared behind the curtain and was gone.

A few moments later, we heard gunfire from a different alley. Then the high pitched cry of a boy in mourning echoed through the school. After that, the AKs became more distant. The battle had left us behind like its unwanted children, scared but still alive.

We stayed huddled in the classroom until Miss Amina said it was safe. Everything went quiet outside when the men were called to evening prayers. Then we gathered in the courtyard with the other children and teachers. The battle started again when prayers were over.

Miss Amina said it wasn’t safe to go home. So we stayed at the school all night, sleeping in the classrooms and on the dusty stones of the courtyard. Fighting was everywhere in the city, like the old days. Sometimes it was close, sometimes far away. Sometimes it flashed like lightning across the sky. From the courtyard, we could see fires glowing around the city. They burned all night.

By dawn, the AKs were only calling back and forth across the city like stray dogs, like any other morning. Like the wives of drunken men after the African Nations Cup, we crept home trying to go unnoticed. Miss Amina said there would be no school for at least another day.

When I got home, I found my mother crying. She was wrapping Aziza’s body on the table. She said a bullet had come through the wall and killed her. The militia’s or the Americans’, she didn’t know. Now there would be no one to carry water or go with her to the UN center. I had no one to teach the English that I learned. I tried to teach my mother, but she wasn’t interested like Aziza had been. Most of the bloodstain is gone now, but the bullet hole is still there. Like the hole in my heart where Aziza used to be.

I found out later that Abdi had also been killed that day, in an alley right behind the school. Asad wouldn’t talk about it. He gave me his buffalo shirt the next day, saying he didn’t want anything American anymore. Besides, he’d learned it was a lie. But he also wanted nothing more to do with the militias. I never heard what happened to his AK. I sometimes wonder if he hid back in the shed.

Not long after that, Miss Amina stopped teaching us English. A year later, the Islamists made her leave the school. The Americans left, too, but they didn’t wait a year. The UN stayed until the Islamists started killing them. Now the militias don’t get their rice and milk. Neither do we.

The militias say they won a great victory that day. I don’t know. The Americans killed a lot of militiamen, hundreds people say. And a lot more women and children than just Aziza died. That doesn’t sound like a victory to me. But the militias are still here and the Americans are gone. So I guess they won something.

I still study hard in school so that maybe I can go live with my auntie in Columbus one day. And I practice my English when no one else is listening. My mother says I should go to Nairobi when I’m older. It’s closer and easier to get to. And the Islamists might let me go.

I never saw another American after that day. I keep hoping they’ll come back. Maybe then they’ll bring peace. And even if they leave again, maybe then I could go with them.

© 2010 Edward P. Morgan III