Not Child's Play - Dave Muller

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from Tammy’s shorts – a relic from our recent beach walk – I explain that Sandy’s work is to learn about shells and she’s interested in those found around the Bazaruto islands. Any further explanation exceeds the limits of our linguistic improvisations. He eventually gives up with a disbelieving shake of his head. Finally, after more questions about what we’ve done and whom we’ve seen in Maputo, he seems satisfied.

      Leaning back, he pronounces, ‘We Renamo,’ and concludes with the mysterious but knowing comment: ‘You know soldier.’

      ‘What do you think that means?’ Sandy whispers.

      I cannot bring myself to answer, the implications too great to verbalise, so I lie in silence, wondering if, when the time comes, I will be brave enough.

      In a barely audible voice Sandy breaks the silence. ‘I think they are going to kill us.’

      I’m shocked. Sandy is always the positive one in our relationship, the one who sees the half-full glass. To hear her utter such a bleak verdict sets me into free-fall. This is new emotional territory. My brain feels dislodged; my thoughts ensnared as they try to escape the reality of what Sandy has just said. It takes time before I can bring myself to respond.

      ‘Why do you think that?’

      ‘They are going to kill us. We’ve seen too much.’

      This is such blunt logic. I cannot refute it, nor can I bring myself to accept it. My response sounds fatuous. ‘Try to sleep.’ It’s the best I can do. I don’t want to continue along this line of enervating thought.

      Paul Patrick’s ominous words – ‘You know soldier.’ Sandy’s sombre prediction. The viscous sounds of stabs in the dark. Arwen stranded, now even higher up the beach and even more difficult to refloat. My brain shuffles through this litany of bleak scenarios and latches onto the latter. It’s practical, can be defined in a few words, has a clear outcome, and I’m confident I can find a solution. So I lie on my back, thinking of ways to get back to Arwen and refloat her. That is our only hope.

      The beer supply has a soporific effect on Paul Patrick and his compatriots. The tape player, left untended, finally wows and whines to silence and, in the quiet, the trilling insect chirps of the Mozambican night, combined with our physical and mental exhaustion, finally bring sleep.

      The familiar and comforting call of a fiery-necked nightjar, also called the litany bird, heralds daybreak. It brings back memories of evenings spent building Arwen when we’d heard that onomatopoeic call – ‘Good Lord, deliver us … Good Lord, deliver us’ – drifting up in the still evening air from the nearby Baakens River Valley in Port Elizabeth.

      The children sleep on while Sandy and I gather strength for the coming day.

      Dawn reveals that we are in the middle of what appears to be a spread-out camp. Other palm-leaf structures in similar clearings can be glimpsed beyond the surrounding trees. Based on the number of women visiting the hut beside us, each departing with bowls and baskets, the hut must be used to store food. A girl energetically stirs the contents of a large pot simmering over the fire. A couple of others look on, chatting and occasionally flashing winsome smiles in the direction of Tammy and Seth. We’re handed a full plate of steaming porridge and, with great sincerity, give thanks for surviving the night and for the food.

      Seth, however, refuses to eat. And it doesn’t go unnoticed by Paul Patrick, who looks concerned. We try to explain that he usually sweetens his porridge with sugar. Paul Patrick looks blank; sugar is not an easy word to mime, but after more exaggerated sprinkling gestures coupled with exaggerated facial expressions of delight, understanding dawns. He issues an order to a small boy lurking near the fringe of the clearing. The boy returns a few minutes later carrying a cracked mug containing a few spoonfuls of runny yellow liquid in which are mired an assortment of twigs and insects. Sandy and I exchange dubious glances. Sandy sticks a tentative finger into the substance and gives it a lick. With a smile she looks up and announces, ‘It’s honey!’

      After the bleak night, there is some sense of relief. It is unlikely Paul Patrick will have shared a precious resource such as honey if he has any evil intent. Our cup of joy soon overflows even more abundantly.

      The girl who made the porridge calls Sandy away behind the leaf clad structure. She returns, grinning. ‘They’ve prepared a basin of hot water for us to wash and you, as the man, apparently have to go first.’ Who am I to question this? I find a basin of hot water balanced on a tripod of sticks in the middle of a shoulder-height enclosure made from plaited palm leaves. Next to the basin a grid of branches covers a soak-away hole. All this goodwill, plus the promise of leaving for the Vilanculos road, buoys my spirits. I am almost ridiculously euphoric. The soap and warm, cleansing water are refreshing and hold a welcome familiarity but, peering over the hedge of palm leaves, the incongruous sight of boys toting AK-47s reminds me this is far from normal for the Muller family.

      Chapter Five

      ‘I’m bored,’ grumbles Seth. His hair flops in the light breeze and he smells of soap. Entertainment options are limited so Sandy suggests he and Tammy sort the shells they collected yesterday.

      Tammy and Seth haul their collection from salt-dampened pockets and lay shiny cowries and sea beans on the white sand. Paul Patrick is fascinated and leans across, pointing to the different shells with a stick, naming each and announcing, ‘This is woman’ or ‘This is man.’ It’s only when he picks up the shells in his cupped hands, throws them across the sand and, with a serious expression, ponders their configuration, that we understand he’s referring to the work of sangomas. We hold our breath, wondering whether there will be an answer to our unstated question, but none comes. Instead, he abruptly stands and says, ‘This’ – he indicates the general surroundings with a sweep of his hand – ‘this is operational area. You go wait safe place. I give.’

      We’re pondering what he may have seen in the shells to prompt this response when a group of boy soldiers arrives, Cyclops among them. Paul Patrick is treated with awe and respect by those he commands. One by one the boys come before him, AK-47 held stiff and vertical at their side, and with an exaggerated gesture, raise their right knee to chest level before bringing down their foot with a loud stamp. Although the oldest, Cyclops is the last to present himself, and performs the obligatory foot stamp, raising a small explosion of dust that rises around him in the gentle morning light. From the threatening tone of Paul Patrick’s voice, it’s evident Cyclops is being accused of some offence, and it’s not long before the gloating, all-powerful leader of the previous day is reduced to a whimpering child grovelling at Paul Patrick’s feet. It’s both pathetic and deeply disturbing to witness this arbitrator of life and death, this child who’d butchered two adults 12 hours ago, snivelling, his face streaked with snot and tears. For the first time the complexities of a war fought by children begin to surface, and I struggle with my own emotions and the temptation to intervene.

      Two of the boy soldiers, much younger than Cyclops, are ordered to cut thin branches from the surrounding trees. Cyclops is made to stand before Paul Patrick while the boys whip him across the backs of his thighs. He stands there, crying, repeatedly sobbing the same phrase, which I presume is a confession or apology, while the boys thrash him with a relish that either belies their underdog status or a fear of their commander, or both.

      With each blow, Cyclops yelps like a puppy. The punishment seems interminable and Paul Patrick works himself into a fury. To my horror, he grabs a nearby AK-47 from where it leans against a tree and cocks it. The two boys back off and Paul Patrick places the muzzle against Cyclops’s head, forcing him to lie face down on the ground, arms and legs outstretched. With the barrel held to the back of his head, Cyclops is compelled to respond to Paul Patrick’s threats by repeating the apologetic phrase ever more loudly until all in the camp hears it.

      Tammy and Seth look on, apparently more amused than alarmed by the spectacle, but for Sandy and me it’s deeply disturbing. Whatever Cyclops is alleged to have done, it’s clear who is the guiltier in this exchange. The bonhomie generated by the honey and warm water vanishes and a renewed sense of fear descends over us. Sandy leans across and whispers, ‘Look

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