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had to be careful not to trip over fallen bricks and masonry. A few people moved in and out of the darkness, some on foot, occasionally on a bicycle. At the corner, some men sat around a fire they had lit in an old oil drum, boiling water for tea and cooking something on the end of sticks. Their caps identified them as government soldiers. The rebels, for the most part, wore no uniforms.
The rebels had not controlled the town for long. Within a week of the attack, government soldiers were back on the streets. And then suddenly they had just stopped fighting. Nobody knew why, any more than they knew why they had started. Certainly nobody knew who had won. Joseph had seen pictures of rebel leaders in the newspapers above captions with the words "Minister of Agriculture" and "Minister for Development." The government soldiers were still everywhere. But here and there groups of 12 and 13 year old boys could once again be seen gathering at street corners, carrying kalashnikovs and machetes, talking in incomprehensible dialects, stirring memories of the horrors of that week four years earlier. Nobody seemed to know what would happen next, but violence seemed as inevitable as the rains that swelled the great sagging clouds hanging over the sea to the west.
They walked past the soldiers and drifted in the direction of the UN relief center, as they did each morning, rice buckets slung over their arms. They passed the Baptist Mission, its windows boarded up now. The foreigners, it appeared , were more afraid of the peace than they had been of the war. This made Joseph ashamed in front of Ibrahim, but his friend never said anything. The mosque at the end of the street was open.
They were about to turn back when they felt the first drops of rain. The great beads of warm water splashed on their noses and cheeks, mingling with the sweat and trickling down their open collars on to their chests and backs. Within seconds, the lazy drops had turned to driving shafts of solid water, bouncing off their faces and arms, pinning their shirts to their bodies, turning the dusty street instantly to mud. Ibrahim shouted something which was drowned out by the drum roll of rain on tin roofs. Joseph nodded and they started to run for the cover of the nearest of the shacks that lined the street opposite the mosque.
A small crowd of people thronged around the entrance to the little building, pushing through the doorway. The smell of wet cotton mingled with cooking odors coming from inside. Peppers, garlic. Sweat. Joseph edged through the crowd, pushing Isaiah before him, and found himself carried into a large room. The floor was covered with woven straw mats. A lantern hung from the roof, casting its flickering light on a number of large tables scattered around the room. Someone had jostled the lamp, for it swung back and forwards in a great arc, drawing shadows behind it. Men sat at the tables, kalashnikovs propped against their chairs, faces intermittently illuminated by the swaying lamp, laughing and shouting over the roar of the rain on the tin roof.
The new arrivals instinctively pressed to the edges of the room, merging as far as possible into the bare bricks of the wall. Clouds of steam rose from their clothes. Joseph tried not to catch anyone's eye. Ibrahim appeared at his side. "Let's get out of here."
Joseph nodded. "Come, Isaiah."
"Papa!"
"Come now, my boy! Come!"
"Papa, look!" The boy's voice shook. Joseph followed his gaze over the heads of the soldiers, through the haze of smoke and steam to a table in the far corner of the room. The table was smaller than the others and covered with a faded blue-checked cloth. Half a dozen men sat around three or four open bottles of whisky. One man, larger than the others, sat apart, lolling in his chair, relaxed, in command. His face was towards Joseph, but in the shadows, he could not make out the man's features. Suddenly the man threw back his head in a great laugh that bared a mouthful of flashing white teeth, and in that moment, as the swinging lamp threw its light across his face, Joseph caught sight of a glint of gold. He felt his guts contract. The muscles in his arms tightened in the remembered action of clenching fists. The man pulled at a chicken leg with one hand as with the knife in the other he hacked
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