Joint Task Force #4: Africa (2 page)

Two soldiers ran from opposite sides toward the boy. The boy put his head down and dashed between them as they dove to tackle him, missing and knocking their heads
against each other. The boy reached the edge of the jungle and stopped. He turned and raised his hand, two fingers extended. Several soldiers shouted at the boy and ran toward him, bullets from their AK-47s peppering the ground around the lad, but missing. The boy turned and leaped into the underbrush, vanishing as it closed behind him like the sea over a diver. The boy was gone. A premonition that he hadn’t seen the last of the lad caused a pique of angst to sweep over him. A cheer went up from the young prisoners. The guards raised their decorated whips and started working down the line again. Red dust stirred up by the escape rode the slight, but hot, breeze and Ojo resisted an impulse to wipe sweat from his brow, afraid those watching would interpret it as a sign of weakness. Weakness was an unacceptable trait for a leader in an army of killers.

The cheer quickly changed to wails and cries. The noise of their fear drowned the gunshot executions ongoing behind the burning schoolhouse. Ojo nearly lifted his free hand to cover an ear from the dreadful high-pitched wails. The guards’ arms rose and fell rapidly as they beat the boys into submission. Soon the wailing descended more into a low mournful cry that had become the dirge of Africans as he lead this nationalistic movement to clean Africa of foreign influence; the worst of which was religion.

The prisoners were tiring. Some leaned on those in front. A few had passed out, but the pressure of the boy behind against the one in front held them upright. More single shots echoed from behind the burning school. The shots were coming less and less, with minutes between the shots. Suddenly, a scream of such intensity silenced the fearful wails and cries of the prisoners, causing them to stare toward the burning schoolhouse. A wave of goosebumps ran down Ojo’s back, drawing his attention to the burning
schoolhouse along with everyone else. Even the guards ceased their whippings. The boy had awakened and Kabaka was gathering new skin for his belts. The army may respect and worship Ojo, but they feared Kabaka and fear builds its own form of respect. Ojo shifted his weapon and thought,
Kabaka must go, if I am to live and our goal of a free Africa is to come. I must chose a day—a time and do it. It will be soon.

The wailing of the prisoners resumed with a newer intensity, and a few more who had thus far managed to keep the soil dry beneath them now joined the others. Ojo looked at Niewu who had rejoined him.

“It is time, my friend.”

Niewu nodded. “General Kabaka hasn’t sent his runner yet, General Ojo. If we start and send too many back to him, he may not have the men to execute them.”

Ojo looked down at Niewu and thought,
So, fear has already captured you, my friend. The man to whom I gave the power of the staff, and now you are willing to confront me for fear of Kabaka.

Niewu saw the look and quickly said. “They have women back there that the men are enjoying. It is the one pleasure our soldiers have as we take your plan forward, General Ojo. If we send the rejections to them too soon, it would spoil their fun before they place the pistol against their heads and pull the trigger.”

“Let’s start, Niewu, and we will do it slowly. Those back there will be soon gone.” The screams from behind the schoolhouse grew in pitch. “You understand who is the leader of this army?”

Niewu nodded rapidly, his head going up and down. “Yes, General.” The old man rose quickly, barely using the staff this time.

To change Africa meant starting with the children. The
Islamic Jihadists understood that, and decades ago across the globe, they began to write on the blank chalkboards of youth the belief of killing oneself in furtherance of a religion earned great honor and immediate access to some fanatical version of heaven.

Two soldiers brought the first boy in line forward. The boy’s legs kicked and kicked, trying to free the arms the two soldiers held. The two men jerked the boy upright, holding him so his feet couldn’t reach them nor touch the ground. The two men looked toward Ojo, saw him watching them, and immediately looked down at their feet. Respect was a good thing. Respect was best earned through hard work, fairness, and camaraderie. That took time. Another avenue to earn respect was through fear and strength of command. Kabaka had learned that well. Fear took less time, but required relentless and ruthless application.

The soldiers continued walking up and down the line, whipping the children into place. Screams for them to “shut up” and “stand straight” had little effect, but the whips kept the line curling like a snake. The noise from their captives would never stop, but it was enough for Ojo that the wailing was more of a murmur now. Ojo knew the fear in each of these boys’ minds was like a parasite eating away at it. The screaming from behind the schoolhouse was feeding their fear to such an extent that it was stifling their own moans and wails. Ojo sighed. If they knew what Kabaka was doing, he would never harvest any future warriors from this meager line.

The boys’ bare feet beat an uneven tattoo in the dirt of the village, drawing small puffs of red dust into the air. He may have a bath when this was over.

The sergeant in charge of lining up the students walked to where the two held the first lad who was now kicking
and screaming obscenities at them. Without a word, the huge man drew his hand back and with open palm slapped the side of the boy’s face, the sound of the slap was accompanied by a pistol shot from behind the school. The boy’s head snapped to the side, the head twisted back to the front and fell forward, the chin coming to rest on a heaving, thin chest.

“Bring him here,” Ojo commanded, his bass voice riding over the background moans from their small captives. Small moist spots speckled beneath the feet of the boys as the line weaved back and forth, trying to avoid the two lines of soldiers narrowing a gauntlet to keep the boys in a single line.

The sergeant motioned the two soldiers to Ojo. Holding the unconscious body by the armpits, they dragged the boy forward, his toes creating small furrows in the dust behind them.

They respectfully nodded to Ojo when they stopped in front of him. They held the boy by the armpits, the lad’s small chin lolling back and forth against the chest. Ojo leaned forward, careful not to drop his AK-47, and grabbed a handful of hair, pulling the boy’s head up. Only white showed in the eyes, the pupils having slipped back under the top eyelids. Spittle ran from the boy’s mouth, mixed with blood from where the sergeant’s slap had broken the skin. The upper lip was already swelling. Ojo nodded toward Niewu. He released the boy’s head, the chin bounced off the thin chest. “Bring the stick,” he said to the sergeant.

He glanced over his shoulder at the spot in the jungle where the African boy had escaped. Others had probably slipped into the jungles when the battle started, but he allowed it as this kept his name and his army’s fame growing across Africa.

Many new recruits had spoken of rumors and the pride Africans felt to have an African army achieving victories against the outsiders.

The sergeant standing before him was Nigerian. Nearly the same height as Ojo, his broad shoulders dovetailed to a muscular waist. He wore a sleeveless khaki shirt that lacked buttons. Old scars decorated the man’s hands and arms, revealing a lifetime of hard, menial work—day in and day out. A couple of times, in battle, the performance of this sergeant made him think that the man had had military training before Ojo selected him as an enforcer. The Nigerian was a man of few words.

“Niewu!” the sergeant shouted.

The two soldiers turned to where Niewu stood, the staff anchored in the red dirt. The stick was bare of limbs, about three inches in diameter. It had a natural curve along its length, and where limbs had once grown from it, dark rings of age had sealed the spots. Ojo knew the staff was slightly over a meter long because he personally measured it. A meter was a little over three feet. A child captive in a religious school must be shorter than the staff. A child of that height he was considered malleable—capable of being retrained and recovered from religious lies, the worse of which were those that taught you that taking death through your own was God’s way—Allah’s way to enter paradise.
There is no paradise but Africa.

His Pan African would remove whatever the mullahs had taught; remove the lies implanted into the fertile minds of African boys. He didn’t care for Christianity either, but the Christians weren’t teaching their students that salvation lay by blowing yourself up along with everyone else who happened to be around you at the time.

“Hold the staff,” Ojo said.

At arm’s length, Niewu placed the broad end of the
stick on the ground, holding the slightly narrower end by his right hand.

“Measure him,” Ojo commanded, pointing at the unconscious boy.

The two soldiers dragged the boy the couple of feet to the stick and lifted him as straight as possible. The boy’s toes touched the ground.

“No, his feet must touch the ground. The heels and toes must be level,” Niewu said.

“Aiwa,”
they said together, saying “yes” in Arabic.

Ojo grimaced over the foreign language. Having an army composed of hundreds who spoke dozens of dialects and languages made necessary the use of Arabic, French, and English as the common languages. If he could, he would have mandated English as the common language for the army, but that would have isolated hundreds. No, for the time being, until he achieved his goal of ridding Africa of foreign influence, they would use the three languages.

The two soldiers lowered the lad slowly until the small feet touched the ground. The boy’s feet turned on their sides. They lifted him slightly so the feet were flat.

Ojo’s eyes narrowed as he compared where the top of the stick ended near the top of the boy’s right ear. The stick had been his idea. He had seen it used on carnival rides in Lagos where the operator only allowed lads taller than the stick to ride the machine. Ojo had learned from the experience, for he was one of those old enough to ride. Those too short were also too young, and while they complained, their whines were corrected by adults. The lesson he took away was that when you were taller than the stick, you had reached an age where you were entombed with the ways of those who raised you. Entombed with beliefs, good or bad, that defined you as a person and to change those beliefs
was hard; too hard; harder than an army on the march could afford.

He blinked. The stick hadn’t grown and the boy hadn’t shrunk. It still ended at the boy’s ears.

“What do you think, Niewu? You are the keeper of the stick.”

He saw the slight twinge on Niewu’s face. The man preferred to call the “stick” a staff. Niewu leaned forward, holding the staff steady with his hand. He shuffled forward a couple of steps, never moving the staff. Ojo heard the familiar throat noises Niewu made as the man judged the height of the boy. Niewu was very serious in his job. After several seconds, the rich chocolate-dark African straightened and bowed toward Ojo. “General, I regret that another African student of Wahabi has exceeded the height of the staff.”

The staff had become almost a religious icon in the army. It walked alongside Ojo when the army marched. Niewu wielded it as if it were a weapon. It afforded Niewu a status equal to a shaman. When Niewu entered or approached, soldiers cleared a path for him and his staff.

Ojo nodded. “I think you’re right. It’s sad, for the lad looks taller than his age.” He started to say more, but three rapid pistol shots interrupted. Another piercing scream stilled the noise for a moment. Kabaka had jerked free another length of skin for his belt.

The line alternated back and forth in a slow swing as the captives weaved. The soldiers eased the whips, their arms growing tired from the exertion. They walked up and down the line, touching the young boys, leaning down and whispering things to scare their captives, murmuring orders mixed with promises. Saying things such as how they were going to cook them, or how the boys were going to be used
like girls or castrated and forced to eat their own balls. Some of the boys were so young, they had no idea what the soldiers were talking about. Some of the captives stared at Ojo, their stares alternating between him and the unconscious boy.

Ojo looked at the sergeant. “You know what must be done.”

“Yes, Master,” Elimu said. He nodded at the two soldiers and motioned them toward the back of the schoolhouse where the executions continued.

“No,” Ojo corrected. He pointed at the line. “They must see, so they understand the power of your stick. So those we allow to live understand that there is no way back to where they’ve been. Do it over there, where everyone can see, and use the sword.”

The sergeant touched the huge sword he wore tied to his waist. “Yes, master,” he said. He pointed near the spot where the two soldiers had tried to catch the young boy who escaped. Ojo knew the sergeant blamed himself for the escape. This was an opportunity for the soldier to redeem himself.
I like him using the word “master,”
he thought.

Ojo watched for a few moments. Then he turned his attention to the captives. “Sergeant, tell the soldiers to keep quiet and force the boys to watch what happens when you’re taller than the stick.”
Yes, you can’t ride the ride when you’re taller than the stick,
he thought.

The sergeant did as ordered. A pall of momentary quietness vanished as a new series of gunshots and another scream from the boy being made into a belt filled the village center. Another scream joined the boy’s.
That was female,
Ojo thought to himself.

The sergeant motioned for the soldiers to stop. He looked at Ojo and waited for the command. One of the soldiers held
the boy with both of his arms pinned behind his back. The boy rolled his head slowly, moaning, shock overcoming any attempt to escape. The other soldier emerged from a nearby hut with a small table. He set the table in front of the boy. The other soldier threw the boy chest first onto the rough wooden table, drawing a small cry from the captive as the wood dug into his naked chest.