Hope is Yellow

Chapter 2

Physically, Mama looked tough due to a lifetime of manual work but on the inside, she was scarred from what seemed like an eternity of suffering and crushed dreams. The sprawling shantytown on the outskirts of Mbala had been the prison wall for almost all of Mama’s life. The festering jumble of mud huts awash with stinking refuse offered nothing but misery and escaping was never anymore than a whimsical dream. Before Mama’s father had died, she had lived a comparatively better life. Her father was a successful businessman, buying and selling timber and for the first five years of her life, she had lived in a large, but sparse house with her nine brothers. Being the only girl and the youngest meant she was well cared for, she never knew that such an malevolent world existed.

One night evil people came and took her father away after beating and killing her mother, she never knew why nor did she know now. In the panic several of her brothers, seven in all, were also killed, the men had weapons, which they did not hesitate to use. Mama had hidden, curled up in the corner of the room too terrified to even breathe as the bodies of her brothers lay just inches away. She too was injured with shrapnel wounds to her legs and she could remember vividly wishing she were dead, able to join her mother and brothers dancing in paradise. Her two remaining brothers had done their best to care for their little sister but due to a lack of irrigation during the dry season they were forced to leave their squalid surroundings and their sister to work in the city as labourers.

The shock of being left on her own and the daunting prospect of a lifetime of begging were still very real to Mama today. As she sat on a wooden stool outside her home, watching the children work so hard her dark eyes sparkled as she realised that although her life was harsh, she was sill very much able to care for her own daughters. The knowledge that she had lived to see five of her eight daughters grow into beautiful, hard working young women comforted her. It was indeed a reason to be proud when you were the mother of so many, most parents started with a large family but ended up with just two children after death had taken its toll. Mama was much respected in her village, she was known, endearingly by friends as the ‘wise old witch’. Wise, because at forty-five years of age she had a lifetimes experience in her hands, witch because to have produced so many healthy children meant that the people thought she must have some magic powers.

Although everyday carried the same troubles, Mama had learnt not to complain, she knew no other way of life, and it was true that the outside world terrified her. Waking each morning at five to the sound of crickets, it was often tiring just thinking about the day ahead. Breakfast consisted of corn, just a bowl full between them all, hardly enough to satisfy even the cravings of an infant but it was better than nothing and they were thankful for that. Papa would set off for the field, evidently a very strong man he was used to walking for hours on an empty stomach. His was getting the better of him though and soon he would be unable to work at all. He always knew when the fields were nearby because he could hear the river and there, like every day before he began picking tea until the sun went down and he returned home, weak, tired, and desperately hungry but often there was no food. He slept while his stomach cried out in need of filling until the crickets woke him to begin the harsh routine again.

Mama Toto“As a young girl I decided that I would not bring my own children into this world, how could I choose to inflict life onto a helpless baby? Children are safer as tadpoles I thought and reasoned that I would live with many of them in a jar from the local stream."

All Mamas’ energy and imagination went into feeding and clothing her children. Selling fruit was an art she had perfected. She walked miles to buy and sell a variety of battered fruits, the hot dust rising at every step and turning to mud when it rained. Profits were often tiny and Mama found it hard juggling all her businesses to ensure at least some income every week. There was so much to do and never enough time but Mama always found time to tell Sylvia and Jeridah their favourite story. They were her two youngest children now and she dedicated her life to them, her other three daughters were mothers themselves and had husbands to take care of them. They did not need their Mama now though she was always around and ready to help.

The story gave the children hope, it was about an ugly man who was engaged to a beautiful woman, but the woman’s friends thought him so ugly they planned to stop the wedding.  Against all odds the ugly man and the beautiful woman escaped, married, and became very rich, they could afford soap and clean water. Soap was something the two little girls only ever dreamed about, it was a luxury that cost four weeks wages and an eighty-kilometre walk to the nearest shop.

Mama was proud of her daughters and the way they all looked out for each other. Now Percivia had been cruelly snatched from them and three of her daughters were fending for themselves she devoted all her time to Sylvia and Jeridah; they alone were her reason for living. Every day they had to go to work to help pay their way and whatever they earned, they brought home with giving hearts. Mama could not have asked for two better daughters. It was always wonderful to see them return home as the journey to and from work held many dangers. They had to go through the bush, which was dark and lonely and the home of many wild beasts.

Holding hands Jeridah and Sylvia would run through the trees, barely touching the ground with their bare feet for fear of deadly snakes and spiders. Both girls knew of children who had been bitten by snakes or even mauled to death by lions and died, frightened and alone hidden by the suffocating, dense trees. They had heard stories about bandits and rapists hiding in the bush that jumped out and caught unsuspecting children on their way to work or school. Not wanting to be the next victims they ran through the bush like startled rabbits being chased by a fox, only stopping to fight for breath when they thought that their knees would give way for lack of oxygen. Mama knew the dangers only too well; she also knew she could not wrap her babies up in cotton wool if they were to survive in their wicked world.

Jeridah was seven and very wise with it, her cheeky, innocent smile contrasted greatly to her large, haunted eyes. She always had bags of energy though an onlooker would be certain that she was on the last rung of deaths ladder. No stranger to work, Jeridah had laboured for much of her young life, ten hours a day, five days a week rolling tobacco to make cigarettes. It was back breaking work, squatting knee to knee with the other children too poor to receive the education they deserved. The strong scent of the tobacco and the hot, stuffy asbestos roof shed often made the children physically sick, several died from the poisonous tobacco dust they were forced to inhale. 

Jeridah was a fighter; she was not going to let the pungent smelling tobacco get the better of her. For her slave labour, she earned around twenty shillings a week and if she failed to complete her work, she was beaten viciously with a stick. Thankfully, Jeridah was only to endure this archaic punishment once, as she was one of the factories best workers. Mama had taken out a loan in exchange for Jeridah’s services and she was bonded to the factory until her parents could pay it back, plus the unjustifiable amount of interest that was accumulating each day. There was little chance that the day would ever come when they were able to pay back everything they owed but Mama was always quick to remind them that there was always hope.

Sylvia joined a community of rock breakers every day, the quarry was the workers livelihood, the men broke the rocks with rusted axes and the women and children smashed them into gravel to be sold to contractors. Sylvia used just a small pick axe to pound the rocks that were often bigger than her, working for nine hours a day with no food inside her to help give her strength. Unlike Jeridah, Sylvia was often weak, physically, mentally and emotionally.  It was as if every strike of her mallet took with it a piece of, blood, sweat and tears literally went into each days work.    

It was heartbreaking for Mama to know that her young daughters worked so hard, watching them struggle into bed at the end of the day with aching bones. The whole family worked so hard yet despite their best efforts they would usually go hungry, providing shelter for her daughters was at the very real risk of starving them. Often their work would go un-rewarded but occasionally when there was an abundance of corn, their efforts seemed a small price to pay for the feast they enjoyed. At times like this, Mama, Papa, Jeridah, Sylvia and the rest of the village would sit around a fire sharing their crops with each other, eating, laughing, and chatting like kings. At these special times each minute was treasured and the people were able to forget that they were prisoners of poverty and spend a few hours feeling secure, happy and fulfilled until the sun went down and the new day dawned bringing with it, as always a lifetime of hardship.

Mama faced a long trek to the nearest well to fetch precious water each day, often she would find them dry with only a few trickles left at the bottom evaporating in the heat of the day. Drought meant watching animals die, poor harvest, and utter misery. It meant searching the dried up rivers and wells for the few pools of dirty water which were left, perfect for the spread of life threatening diseases such as cholera and typhoid. Living through drought was only part of the experience of being poor. Like Percivia, children suffered from tuberculosis, their stomachs swelling as they coughed up blood and phlegm. Hospital treatment was never an option so the children became weaker and weaker until they could no longer find the energy to even breathe. One in five children died before reaching the age of five and if they did they rarely survived beyond their forties.

Held in Mama’s arms, fourteen-year-old Sylvia had only a thin towel to shield her burning body from the cool monsoonal breeze. With each breath her young face contorted in pain. Mama was frantic with worry, she had not realised that the cold had developed into pneumonia and she could not understand why Sylvia was growing weaker with every agonising breath. They sat praying for her to pull through but the next day little Sylvia lost her battle and was lowered into the river to join her sisters.   A mere four months had passed since the deaths of Percivia and the toto, all around them families were losing their loved ones to the savage natured death.  Grief split loved ones but it brought people together too, united in their sorrow they learned that a problem shared is not always a problem halved.

Traumatised and sick with grief, Jeridah lay silently and unresponsive in the burning sun. Refusing to work she remained in the foetus position for a week with nothing to shelter her form the killer sunrays and nothing to settle her writhing stomach. Mama was concerned of course, but she knew that there was nothing she could do for a broken heart. It was up to her daughter to rekindle the flame that used to burn so brightly within her, and it was up to her to recapture hope once more. Mama had witnessed so many children suffering from shock and they either died or eventually snapped out of it, there was no known cure but Jeridah was a fighter.

It was just gone midnight when the gunmen came and woke them up suddenly, screaming in a demonic frenzy as they rudely trampled through the houses. Terrified, Jeridah clung to her father and closed her eyes. It was just a dream. It was no dream. It was a living nightmare, the worst of its kind. The soldiers had smashed the door down and broken in; one pointed a g*n at Mama’s head forcing her outside into a ditch. Papa and Jeridah followed behind helplessly choked with terror. Their home was stripped of its few humble possessions and then the bulldozers demolished the house, which vanished before their eyes becoming nothing but rubble. One soldier covered Jeridah’s eyes as the other shot her parent’s just moments away from where the fear stricken child stood. Jeridah was among four hundred other children who lost their parents and their home that night. This inhumane act was justified simply because they had no building permit.

For the second time that month, Jeridah went into shock, humming softly to break the eerie silence that deafened her. She sat between the bodies of Mama and her father and rocked back and forth. She was alone on the planet now, totally alone, a small child left to battle against her cruel world. Suddenly everything seemed out to make her life as difficult as possible, betrayed by those she thought she could trust she shut her eyes and imagined herself a new life, one where she woke up and everything that had happened was merely a dream. This was not the stuff dreams are made of.

Jeridah sat in this trance like state for five agonising days, never moving to swat the flies that always seemed to target her eyes; she barely slept yet she was not really awake. It was as if she were in a coma, the only time she moved was to stick out her parched tongue and catch drops of the monsoon rain to soothe her rough throat. Until now, she had been totally unaware of all the other bodies around her, bodies of kind, innocent parents who should be looking after their children. Their only crime was not being able to afford a permit to build their house. The slum had become a mass grave full of people Jeridah knew. These people’s children sat or lay near their parents just as she did, waiting patiently, unknowingly, terrified for something to happen.

Hearing the sound of rustling trees and twigs snapping Jeridah froze in fear. Had the men come back for the children? She sat, paralysed to the spot, eyes wide with fear, body rigid. The sound was coming nearer and nearer until Jeridah could just make out what it was. There were no men, no guns, instead three lions, and a lioness obviously searching for food. At this point Jeridah stifled a scream and looked round realising for the first time that other children, her friends, had survived too. Now the mass of delicate brown bodies only just alive were sat helplessly, nervously looking first at the lions then at each other. Nobody knew what to do and in any case, they were just too weak to move, their bodies had stiffened and even the air seemed to slice their throats when they inhaled.

The lions prowled around the bodies, deciding on their first victim, for such big creatures they moved with surprising grace. Mrs Tsega was the first, Mr Tsega the second and so on until at last the lions had feasted satisfactorily on their chosen prey.  The glorious beings had not eaten for several weeks due to the flooded grasslands and by chance they had wandered into the village which being on high ground had not suffered much from the floods. Tired from their long journey the lion’s paid little attention to the children, they would have to be killed before being eaten, and that took careful planning and plotting. Instead, they opted for the easier meals, feasting contentedly on the rotting flesh of the deceased people. Forced to listen to the satisfied grunts of the huge beasts tearing the limbs from family and friends apart with terrifying ease, the children remained like statues, hardly daring to breath until the lions were well fed and antagonisingly slowly plodded onwards in search of shelter from the rain that had begun to fall.

Soaked to the skin and shivering uncontrollably Jeridah struggled to her feet and stood up. She was lost amongst the rubble of bones and half eaten bodies, her own parents had not been touched and lay peacefully as if asleep either side of their orphaned daughter. Mama was no longer a wise old witch, death had captured all but one of her daughters now, and she and her husband had also fallen captive to the same immoral monster. All around her Jeridah could hear strange muffled sounds, groaning, choking, and sobbing. The boiling sun made the sand burn her hard feet, her large green desperate eyes grew wider than her face as she scanned the mass of skeletons around her. She began to whimper as a foul taste stung the back of her throat and the reality of what had happened struck her with a flash of lightening. Gasping for air every breath tore at her lungs and she let out a painful screech as if to release some of the horrors before her.

The body has a natural instinct to survive and at this moment Jeridah’s kicked in, numbing her with the coolness of an ice cube.  For a reason she did not know she bent down and ran her hand through the soil repeatedly, combing it with her fingers. The earth was coarse and dry, filled with fragments of human bone, a solid river made from those who once walked upon it, a carpet of history holding secrets never told, woven from tears, laughter, and the bones of those who laughed and cried. Dust to dust.

It was getting dark and a stale smell was taking over the atmosphere showing no shame, no mercy. She began to run, to where she did not know, anywhere, somewhere. Away from it all. The wind stung her eyes as she stumbled over the bodies, tears streaming down her gaunt grey face. She did not get far, crazed with hunger her weak body collapsed beneath her and her head thundered in its own storm. The pungent smell from the street reminded her of the gruesome sight of dead, mutilated bodies and that the sanitation systems had not coped with the growth of the vast village slums.

As Jeridah lay awkwardly amongst the corpses she noticed something yellow, bright yellow beautifully dancing in the playful warm wind. Slowly she crept towards it, her legs ached, and the ground became sandpaper beneath her as she crawled towards the source of the stunning yellow blaze. It was a flower, a single yellow flower that had survived like a small brave symbol of hope. Jeridah smiled. It was just like the flowers Percivia had insisted on wearing behind one ear. Jeridah could not help but feel happy as she watched it swishing to the tune of the wind. For the first time since the death of Percivia, Jeridah felt a sense of peace wash over her, as if someone was watching out for her from the heavens. Gently she pulled the pretty flower out of the cracked earth and tucked it behind her ear feeling hopeful, almost joyful.

The horrors had not been forgotten, only stored away in a child size box until an adult chose to address them. The brain is remarkably apt at protecting the mind, Jeridah was used to filing things at the back of her memory, it came rather naturally. She was a survivor. That night she slept soundly comforted with happy, warm thoughts of her sister. Her mind was no longer focused on hunger but on her young sibling who had brought so much happiness to the family. The memories of that happiness fed Jeridah until she completely forgot that she had not eaten in days. That was the reason for her sleeping so well and the next day she awoke with a new lease of life, Mama had been right, she was a fighter and she had fought to regain hope.

By now some of the other orphaned children had died, they lay like small porcelain dolls near the bones or rotting flesh of their parents. The others had mostly left, to go where they did not know but despite their youth, they knew that if they were to survive they must find another village and get work. Jeridah had not noticed any of the children leave but she knew they had and she understood why. Desperately famished she rose gently and slowly to her bruised and swollen feet, it took an eternity before she stood wobbling, towering above the world like an ant. With both arms stretched out by her side to balance, she took her first agonising step forward and stopped, a huge grin spreading over her haggard face. It felt so good not to be heaped up on the floor, trapped awkwardly between the heavy, limp bodies of both parents. Taking another step she held her head up with pride, she was no longer alone, her beautiful little sister was near her, she had sent the flower as a sign of hope and for this reason Jeridah knew she must live.

She called to the fragile figure in front of her, a second time but louder and with some authority. The sound registered. Though barely ten feet from her the child stirred as though he had heard a faint noise in the distance. In slow motion he turned and looked into Jeridah’s face. His wide eyes had dissolved into his head; they told her that if he did not eat something soon he would be dead like his younger brother and his parents. He was completely n***d and every bone in his tiny body was fighting to be seen. The sight of the lone figure with matchstick arms and legs stood in total oblivion, bought tears to Jeridah’s eyes. She thought with dread of the horrors he must have witnessed as his parents were shot before him. It was as if she had forgotten that she too had suffered more than most in her short lifetime. She hadn’t. She knew that if she was going to help him she needed his trust; gently she held out her hand and waited patiently. The boy, weak with hunger searched her face with his wise old, sunken eyes as if reading a book through the cover. Satisfied that the girl before him was no threat he placed his hand in hers.

For a moment the two youngsters remained like this, silent questions floated noisily between them and their honest eyes gave the answers. Jeridah reasoned that he was a mere three years old and she suddenly felt very responsible, carrying the wisdom of her twelve years on her shoulders, and more importantly in her heart. Suddenly the boy’s eyes faded and then flickered, within seconds he was doubled up on the floor with a more than concerned Jeridah at his side. She offered him leaves, which he refused to eat as if a three-course meal might be just on its way. Stuffed chicken and garlic rice with curried sauce and cabbage. Knowing that his lifeline was a little salt, sugar and boiled water she began frantically scanning the debris for a small amount of these invaluable substances. They were both on borrowed time, something had to be done. Fast.

Just as she was giving up hope and losing energy rapidly, she stumbled across the remains of a kitchen. Shattered glass and broken tins did not attempt to hide the fact that the salt and sugar were strewn chaotically on the floor. Grabbing handfuls of each, she fumbled to extract the gravel and other bits from the salt. Next, just as efficiently she boiled some misty river water and added the rather dusty salt and sugar into the steaming jumble of liquid. Just as her own mother had down when Sylvia was unwell she twisted some of the dry leaves into a funnel shape and slowly poured the consistency into the boy’s mouth. It was difficult getting the water to enter through his lips; the majority flowed over the sides and seeped through her sleeves. More water dripped down her arms and over the boy’s body than went in his mouth but Jeridah was undeterred. At first it did not seem to work, the boys head still hung listless, his eyes half closed in a lethargic manner. Slowly she managed to coax him to drink the mixture as she wrung it from her sleeve, dark with the moisture and sweat. 

Then, after a lifetime, it happened. The miracle that she had seen so often performed by many an anxious mother, the child’s life was returning, if a little cautiously but it was certainly coming back. His eyes brightened the brown that they were and Jeridah watched intensely as they began to sparkle in the sunlight. Joash was just three. On his third birthday, he watched what most children could not conjure up in their worst nightmares. Both his mother and father were shot in front of him, he had stood helplessly as they fell to the ground in slow motion, their warm blood oozing from the deep wounds, a red army fleeing its territory. Then, just two days later his only brother died from diarrhoea aged a mere one and a half. Life had been tough for Joash, yet like Jeridah he too was a fighter.

The two of them, with troubled expressions joined the faceless millions desperate to find food, shelter and most importantly, love. Jeridah had taken it upon herself to play mothers; it was proving more than just a little difficult. Joash was a silent and unresponsive child, unhappy, undersized, and unloved until now. She struggled to feed him and keep him warm; maybe she should have left for the city without him. Now living on the streets she had to learn fast if she were going to survive in a world that treated street children with contempt.

Many of the children had experienced severe poverty, living in shantytowns, abused by those they trusted they had left home, sometimes by necessity sometimes by choice seeking refuge under bridges and in shop doorways. Like Jeridah they were hoping to find a life better than the one they had left behind. It was a dog-eat-dog existence and only the toughest survived. Stealing and begging became a way of life for them all. Lying under the railway bridge with Joash curled up beside her Jeridah let the tears flow freely down her dry cheeks but she made no sound. It was all too much and she felt so small and hopeless, at this point in time she needed her Mama more than ever. She tried so hard to be brave, to hold the pictures of Mama and the others alive but however hard she fought to stop it, the gruesome night when they were all killed flooded, without invitation into her memory destroying any once happy thoughts. All her dreams were crushed; the streets did not provide refuge or the police protection, when she closed her eyes embracing sleep she wondered if she would see another day.

Some comfort was sought by sniffing glue, it numbed the harsh reality that was her childhood, but Joash needed her, like she needed her Mama and high on glue Jeridah was in no fit state to tend to the little boy. She had never had a brother yet Joash was so precious to her, she was responsible for him now, he had nobody else and she was not going to let him become used to being rejected or deprived of tenderness, love and most of all hope.  When there was nothing else, there was always hope, a free gift for those who chose to accept it. Bringing up Joash would be her life as her Mama’s life had been bringing up her. A stream of salty tears holding all her life’s ambitions flowed down the two brown cheeks running to an unknown destination, unsure of their purpose.