What is the What Page 7

  I was running to my father’s shop, through the market’s thick Saturday crowd. On Saturday the trucks arrived from over the river, and the marketplace doubled with traders and activity. The shoppers came from all over the region; Marial Bai’s market was one of the largest within a hundred miles, and so drew far-flung commerce. When I reached my father’s store, running as usual at my top speed, I almost collided with the great, unblemished white tunic of Sadiq Aziz.

  —Where have you been today? my father said.—Say hello to Sadiq.

  Sadiq’s hand descended onto the crown of my head, and he let it rest there. Sadiq was of the Baggara, an Arab tribe that lived on the other side of the Ghazal. The Arabs were seen during market days and during the dry season, when they came down to graze their cattle. There had been centuries of tension between the Dinka and the Baggara, largely over grazing lands. The Baggara needed the more fertile southern soil to graze their cattle when the earth of the north cracked with drought. Arrangements were generally made between chiefs, and cooperation had been managed historically through alliances and payments of cattle and other goods. There was balance. During the cattle season, and often on market days, there were Baggara and other Arabs everywhere in Marial Bai. They moved freely among the Dinka, speaking a jumbled mix of Dinka and Arabic, often staying in Dinka homes. There were very good relations between the majority of their people and ours. In many areas there was intermarriage, there was cooperation and mutual respect.

  My father was popular among the Baggara and other Arab businessmen; he was known to go out of his way, sometimes comically so, to court and please the Arab traders. He knew that his own success was due in large part to his access to the merchandise in which the northerners specialized, and so he was ever eager that the Arabs knew they were welcome in his shops and homes. Sadiq Aziz, a tall man with large eyes and arms twisted with bone and ropy muscle, was my father’s favorite trading partner. Sadiq had an eye for unusual things, could find the most exceptional goods: mechanized farm tools, sewing machines, fishing nets, athletic shoes manufactured in China. More important, Sadiq usually brought something for me.

  —Hello, uncle, I said. It is customary to call an older man uncle, as a term of familiarity and respect. If the man is older than one’s father, he is called father.

  Sadiq raised his eyebrows conspiratorially and retrieved something from his bag. He tossed it in the air to me and I caught it before I knew what it was. I opened my hands upon some kind of gem. It looked like glass, but inside were radial stripes, yellow and black, like the eye of a cat. It was so beautiful. My eyes watered as I stood, staring at it. I was afraid to blink.

  —It’s made to look like a gem, Sadiq admitted,—but it’s made of glass. He winked at my father.

  —It’s like a star! I said.

  —Say that in Arabic, Sadiq said.

  Sadiq knew I had been learning basic Arabic in school, and he often tested me. I tried to answer.—Biga ze gamar, I stammered.

  —Very good! Sadiq said, smiling.—You’re the smartest of Deng’s sons! I can say that because the rest of them are not here at present. Now say Allah Akhbar. My father laughed.—Sadiq. Please.

  —You believe God is great, don’t you, Deng?

  —Of course I do, my father said.—But please.

  Sadiq stared at my father for a long moment and then brightened.

  —I’m sorry. I was only joking.

  He reached for my father’s hand and held it loosely.

  —So, he asked.—Can I put Achak on the horse now? Both men looked down to me.

  —Of course, my father said.—Achak, would you like that?

  My mother had said Sadiq knew intuitively what a boy likes and wants, because each time he visited, he brought me gifts, and, as long as my mother was not close enough to disapprove, for she did disapprove, he lifted me onto the high saddle of his horse, tied just outside the shop.

  —There you are, little horseman. I looked down at the men.

  —He looks very natural up there, Deng.

  —I think he looks very afraid, Sadiq.

  Though the two men laughed, I barely heard them.

  Atop the saddle, my first thought was of power. I was taller than my father, taller than Sadiq, and certainly taller than any boys my age. On the horse I felt fully grown and adopted an imperious look. I could see over the fences of our neighbors and could see as far as the school and could spot a lizard at eye level, scuttling across our rooftop. I was enormous, I was the combination of myself and the animal I could control. My grand thoughts were interrupted by the teeth of the horse, which had found my leg.

  —Sadiq! my father yelled. He lunged, grabbed me and removed me from the saddle.—What the hell’s wrong with that animal?

  Sadiq stammered.—She never does that, he said, seeming genuinely puzzled.—I’m so sorry. Are you okay, Achak?

  I looked up and nodded, hiding my trembling hands. Sadiq assessed me.

  —That’s my fierce boy! Sadiq said, again resting his hand on my head.

  —I knew this was a bad idea, my father said.—The Dinka are not horse people. I stared into the eyes of the horse. I hated that accursed animal.

  —Plenty of Dinka have ridden horses, Deng. Wouldn’t it be good if Achak here could learn? It would only make him more appealing in the eyes of the girls. Wouldn’t it, Achak?

  This made my father laugh, breaking the tension.—I don’t think he needs help in that area, my father said.

  They both roared now, looking down at me. I continued to stare at the horse, and found, to my mild surprise, my anger already gone.

  I ate with the men that night, a dozen or so merchants at my father’s compound, all of them circled near the fire. I knew a few of the men from the shops but many were new to me. There were other Baggara among the guests, but I stayed close to Sadiq, my foot resting on his leather sandal. The conversation had concerned the price of maize, and raids of cattle by certain Baggara groups north of Marial Bai. It was generally agreed that the regional courts, on which sat representatives of the Baggara, the Dinka, and the government in Khartoum, would settle the matter. For a time, the men ate and drank, and then a Dinka man across from my father, a large wide-grinning man younger than the rest, spoke.

  —Deng, you don’t worry about this business of the insurrection?

  He said this with a brilliant smile; it seemed to be his default expression.

  —No, no, my father said.—Not this time. I was part of the last rebellion, as some of you know. But this new one, I don’t know.

  There were murmurs of approval from the rest of the men, who seemed eager to have the matter settled. But the grinning man persisted.

  —But they’re in Ethiopia now, Deng. It seems like something is brewing. Again he smiled.

  —No, no, my father said. He waved the back of his hand at the young man, but it seemed more theatrical than convincing.

  —They have the support of the Ethiopians, the grinning man added.

  This seemed to surprise my father. It was not often that I saw my father learning something before my eyes. Sadiq threw a piece from his stew to one of the goats on the perimeter of the compound and then addressed the young man.

  —You think, what, twenty deserters from the Sudanese army are going to come back and make Sudan a Communist nation? That’s madness. The government of Sudan would crush Ethiopia. And they’ll crush any little insurrection.

  —I don’t dispute that the deserters would lose, the young man said.—But I don’t see a great love of Khartoum in Dinkaland. They could gain some support.

  —Never, said Sadiq.

  —Not this time, my father added.—We know the cost of that. Of civil war. We do that again and we’ll never recover. That would be the end.

  The men seemed to approve of this assessment and it was quiet again, with the sounds of eating and drinking and the animals who retake the forest when the night comes.

  —How about a story then, my father Arou? Sadiq said.�
��Tell us the one about the beginning of time. I’m always entertained by this.

  —Only because you know it to be true, Sadiq.

  —Yes. Exactly. I throw out the Koran and adopt your story.

  The men laughed and urged him into the story. My father stood and began, telling the story the way he always told it.

  —When God created the earth, he first made us, the monyjang. Yes, first he made the monyjang, the first man, and he made him the tallest and strongest of the people under the sky…

  I knew the story well, but had not heard my father tell it in the presence of men who were not Dinka. I scanned the faces of the Arabs, hoping their feelings would not be hurt. All were smiling, as if they were hearing a fable of some kind, and not the true story of creation.

  —Yes, God made the monyjang tall and strong, and he made their women beautiful, more beautiful than any of the creatures on the land.

  There was a quick burst of approval, this time of a more guttural tone, joined by the Arab men. It was followed by a wave of loud laughter from all. Sadiq nudged me and grinned down to me, and I laughed, too, though I wasn’t sure why.

  —Yes, my father continued,—and when God was done, and the monyjang were standing on the earth waiting for instruction, God asked the man, ‘Now that you are here, on the most sacred and fertile land I have, I can give you one more thing. I can give you this creature, which is called the cow.

  My father turned his head quickly, spilling some of his cup into the fire, where it hissed and sent a plume of smoke upward. He turned the other direction and finally found what he was looking for: he pointed to a cow in the distance, one of those waiting to be sold at the market the following day.

  —Yes, he continued, God showed man the idea of the cattle, and the cattle were magnificent. They were in every way exactly what the monyjang would want. The man and woman thanked God for such a gift, because they knew that the cattle would bring them milk and meat and prosperity of every kind. But God was not finished.

  —He never is, Sadiq said, to a wave of laughter.

  —God said, ‘You can either have these cattle, as my gift to you, or you can have the What.’ My father waited for the necessary response.

  —But…Sadiq said, helping out,—What is the What? he said, with an air of theatrical inquisitiveness.

  —Yes, yes. That was the question. So the first man lifted his head to God and asked what this was, this What. ‘What is the What?’ the first man asked. And God said to the man, ‘I cannot tell you. Still, you have to choose. You have to choose between the cattle and the What.’ Well then. The man and the woman could see the cattle right there in front of them, and they knew that with cattle they would eat and live with great contentment. They could see the cattle were God’s most perfect creation, and that the cattle carried something godlike within themselves. They knew that they would live in peace with the cattle, and that if they helped the cattle eat and drink, the cattle would give man their milk, would multiply every year and keep the monyjang happy and healthy. So the first man and woman knew they would be fools to pass up the cattle for this idea of the What. So the man chose cattle. And God has proven that this was the correct decision. God was testing the man. He was testing the man, to see if he could appreciate what he had been given, if he could take pleasure in the bounty before him, rather than trade it for the unknown. And because the first man was able to see this, God has allowed us to prosper. The Dinka live and grow as the cattle live and grow.

  The grinning man tilted his head.

  —Yes, but uncle Deng, may I ask something?

  My father, noting the man’s good manners, sat down and nodded.

  —You didn’t tell us the answer: What is the What?

  My father shrugged.—We don’t know. No one knows.

  Soon dinner was done and the drinking afterward was done, and the guests were sleeping in the many huts of my father’s compound, and I was lying in his hut, pretending to sleep but instead watching Sadiq and holding Sadiq’s glass gem tightly in my fist.

  I had heard the story of the cattle and the What many times, but never before had it ended this way. In the version my father told to me, God had given the What to the Arabs, and this was why the Arabs were inferior. The Dinka were given the cattle first, and the Arabs had tried to steal them. God had given the Dinka superior land, fertile and rich, and had given them cattle, and though it was unfair, that was how God had intended it and there was no changing it. The Arabs lived in the desert, without water or arable soil, and thus seeking to have some of God’s bounty, they had to steal their cattle and then graze them in Dinkaland. They were very bad herdsmen, the Arabs were, and because they didn’t understand the value of cattle, they only butchered them. They were confused people, my father often told me, hopeless in many ways.

  But none of this was part of my father’s story this night, and I was glad. I was proud of my father, for he had altered the story to protect the feelings of Sadiq and the other traders. He was sure that the Arabs knew they were inferior to the Dinka, but he knew it would not be polite to explain this to them at dinner.

  The next morning I saw Sadiq Aziz for the last time. It was a church day, and by the time my family rose, Sadiq was outside, preparing his horse. I crawled out of the hut to watch him ride off, and found my father there, too.

  —You sure you won’t come with us? my father said.

  Sadiq smiled.—Maybe next time, he said, grinning. He swung himself onto his saddle and rode off in the direction of the river.

  This day was also the last day I would see the soldiers posted in the village. Government-army soldiers had been in Marial Bai for years, ten or so of them at a time, charged with keeping the peace. After church, which lasted past noon, I walked to the Episcopalian chapel and waited outside for William K and Moses. As much as I dreaded the length of our Catholic Masses, I was glad not to be among the congregation of Reverend Paul Akoon, whose sermons had been known to last till nightfall. When William K and Moses were finished and Moses had changed his shirt, we walked to the soccer field as the soldiers and the men of the village were getting situated, warming up with the two balls the soldiers kept in their barracks. The soldiers spent a good deal of their time playing soccer and volleyball, and the rest of their time smoking and, when the afternoon came, drinking wine. No one said anything to them about it; the village was happy to have the soldiers, to protect the market and the cattle nearby from raids from the murahaleen or anyone else. The soldiers stationed in Marial Bai were a cross-section of ethnicities and beliefs: Dinka Christians, Muslims from Darfur, Arab Muslims. They stayed together in the barracks, and led lives of relative ease. They spent their days on minor patrols around town, and otherwise at my father’s shop, sitting under the thatched roof, drinking areki, a locally made wine, talking about the lives they intended to build after they finished their stints in the army.

  As the game began, William K and Moses and I took our place behind one of the goals, hoping to retrieve any missed shots. All over the field, on every sideline and in every corner, boys too young to play with the men were positioned, waiting for a chance to chase down a stray ball and throw or kick it back into play. As the sun set and the dinner fires were lit all over the village, I was able to retrieve two balls, and each time kicked the ball accurately back onto the field. It was a very successful day for me. The game ended and the men shook hands and scattered.

  —Red boy! a soldier yelled.

  I turned. I looked down at my own shirt; I was wearing red.

  —Come here if you want something good.

  I ran toward the soldier, a short man with a broad face and deep Nuer scars across his forehead. He held out a small package of yellow candies. I stared but didn’t move.

  —Take a few, boy. I’m offering them to you.

  I took one and put it quickly into my mouth. Immediately I regretted being so impulsive. I should have saved it in my pocket, saved it for a special occasion. But it was too late. It wa
s in my mouth and it was delicious—like lemon, but not sour like a lemon. More like a lemon-shaped lump of sugar.

  —Thank you, uncle, I said.

  —Take another, boy, the soldier said.—You have to know when to take what’s offered to you. Only a rich boy could be so careful. Is that true, boy? Are you wealthy enough to be choosy?

  I was not sure if it was true. I knew my father was prosperous, was an important man, but I couldn’t agree that this had made me choosy. I was still trying to think of an answer when the soldier turned and walked away.

  The war started, for all intents and purposes, a few weeks later. In fact, the war had already begun in some parts of the country. There were rumors of Arabs being killed by rebels. There were towns that had been cleared of Arabs, mass slaughters of Arab traders, their shops burned. Rebel groups, mostly Dinka, had formed all over the south, and they had sent a clear message to Khartoum that they would not stand for the enforcement of sharia law in Dinkaland. The rebels were yet to organize under the banner of the Sudan People’s Liberation Army, and their presence was sporadic throughout the south. The war had yet to come to Marial Bai, but it did soon enough. Our village would be one of the hardest hit, first by the rebel presence and later by the militias empowered by the government to punish the rebels—and those who supported them, actively or otherwise.