Wild Spirits Pita Okute Originally published in Issue XVIII of Vulgata, February 2008.

1

The river flowed towards the battle.  The sun appeared
to be running away from it.  The sound was fearsome
enough; several huge monsters growling, howling at one
another.  Ever so often, a large band of wild dogs
would add their own ferocious yelps to the quarrel. 
The action was, perhaps, six or eight miles away, at
some point on the north-western tip of this remote
countryside.  Distance not withstanding, its noise and
furore were hard to ignore.  The breezes were still,
the birds were silent too.  Further down the river,
add another mile or two, children frolicking in the
water had stopped in their play: to contemplate, as
their senses would allow, the import of these ominous
disturbances…
        But the river flowed on; gently, bravely, towards the
sounds of war.  As if it was on a mission to drown all
those terrifying animals and carry them far away into
the ocean beyond.  Cruising on to the western skies,
the sun appeared to be tracing a cowardly track.  No
doubt whatsoever, it had a grand view of the area
below: the bright sparkling river rolling through the
green rug of tropical trees; the valley straddling the
river like a lover; the children, once playful, now
rushing home with emotions as diverse and as heavy as
the jugs and pans on their little heads.  Downstream
from these minors, a road had cut through the trees to
meet the river.  Not a road as such, just a wide track
with a bald and beaten strip in the middle.  Yet, by
some means unknown, it had been able to cross the
river and continue its journey on the other side. 
        A curious activity was going on at this junction of
road and river.  To the sun it may have looked like a
colony of ants.  These were human beings who, whilst
the thunder fell in bushes five miles away, lent their
passions to the harvest and haulage of cassava tubers.
 Somehow though, their frantic progress down the
slope, over the river and up again, matched the mad
pace of the orchestra playing in the jungles farther
north.  But the sun did not stop to listen or watch. 
It sped across the skies to a distant haven on the
western ends of the earth…
                                                     
2

Foolish women!  The young lad squatting in the bushes
reached for a leafy shrub.  His other hand held a
bolt-action rifle whose butt rested on the ground
between his feet.  Idle civilians!  Ignorant fools! 
They were about to pass, no more than ten yards from
his cover and he had heard their mindless chatter from
fifty yards on!  Didn’t they know it was dangerous, to
be so loud?  Yes, the war front was nearly eight miles
away; but for all that you know an enemy patrol could
be sneaking around!  Foolish women! 
        “Thank God, the shooting has stopped”. 
        He knew that voice.  It belonged to the fat woman
with the gap tooth.  The yellow one, yes.  You would
have thought she was calling the price at an auction! 
Suddenly, the drift of their conversation halted at a
point directly opposite him.  He caught, through the
shrubs, the partial profiles of a sweaty brow, parted
lips … nothing definite... Oh, they appeared to be
sharing something… a cherry.  Stupid women; takes
common cherry to shut their stupid mouths!  But not
for long. 
        “I have not seen our lover boys today”. The speaker
tinkled like a bicycle bell.
        “Ah, the dark one is on duty at their bush house”, a
gong with a broken edge replied.  
        There, he could see an arm, raised and pointing in
the direction of what was supposed to be a secret
military post! From his vantage place under the
overhanging foliage, the young lad released a
fusillade of muttered curses. 
        “So there’s no water bottle to fill today?’’  This
was the fat woman.  Laughter, Laughter…
         “Wonder when he’ll empty his big bottle into her
tiny pot!”  Again,  the fat woman.  And more laughter.
 At his expense! Oh, he was going to teach them.  Just
you wait, he assured some invisible companion and
fuming all the while, gathered the leaves in his hand
into a soft small pad.
        “Hmm!” the fat woman with the gap tooth now
exclaimed.  A frown had creased her beefy face. Her
short broad nose had gone up an inch to register
discomfort.  Then she spat, chrrt, a tracer like
missile, which hit the bushes with an eloquent splat! 

        “Hmm! Hmm!” the others then chorused. Giggling, like
a bunch of school girls, the six women raced down the
hillside to the waterfront…

3

The fighting had resumed again.  The sergeant appeared
to be paying some attention to the discordant rhymes
of gun and mortar fire.  Yet he was taken in also by
the actions of the second man in the long trench.  He,
the corporal, was   stooped over a mound of cassava
flour and a bowl of soup.  Before him was an
assortment of mess cans.  The trees above the trench
and the lean face of the corporal danced on the oily
surface of the soup.
        The lad stood at attention behind the sergeant, who
was sitting on the steps at the short end of the
L-shaped trench.  The sergeant had pointedly ignored
him all this while.
         “You’re a lousy soldier, do you hear me?”, he
announced at last.  Gruffly, like some heavy calibre
automatic.
         “Yes, Sir”, the lad agreed.
         “Can’t even be trusted to empty your bowels sharply.
Like a man!”
        “Yes, Sir!”
        “And because of your bloody idleness, corporal here
has to share the food himself.”  
        “Sorry Sir!”
        “Sorry for yourself, idiot!”, the sergeant snarled. 
“We’re moving to the forward lines tomorrow”, he added
in the same harsh tone.  “Let’s see how you cope with
this your lazy attitude!”
        Whistling tunelessly, the corporal used a vicious
looking jack-knife to cut the mound of boiled flour
into three portions.  Already, he had scooped much of
the soup into the two mess tins before him.  Standing
yet at attention, the boy spared a look at the soup
bowl.  The corporal had gone through it with a rake! 
It went without saying that this miserable remnant was
his share.  Shuddering, he held back the rising bile
in his throat. 
         “Permission to sit down, Sir”, he ventured. 
The sergeant turned around.  There was a mocking grin
on his hard round face.  
        “Stand easy, my boy”, he chuckled.  “We’re going to
make a soldier out of you yet. Aren’t we corporal?” 
        The corporal grunted his assent, and then stopped
whistling briefly to say that he was done with the
allocations. The sergeant nodded in approval and
reached out with both hands to receive his ration.
        The whistling resumed.  It rose out of the trench in
a slow and meandering tempo.  In part, it sounded like
a hymn, like something out of Requiem Mass - an eerie
salute it seemed, to the patron devils of war.  Across
the river, the bickering had stopped again.  Perhaps,
they too were having lunch!

4

The ragged line was led by one yam pole of a man.  A
large burlap bag on his head gave him the appearance
of a giant mushroom.  His face was buried under the
bag, but he bore the load with much assurance.  The
sparse muscles of his legs moved with the precision
of an efficient machine.  Behind him came the fat
woman with the gap tooth.  The big basin on her head
had seen many a working day. Hammer blows of uncaring
fate had torn off its enamel whiteness in several
places.  A huge pad of rags cushioned her head from
the weight of the basin.  Her short neck appeared to
have sunk even further into her chest.  The pressure
told on her nostrils.  They flared with each step and
her full breasts strained against her blouse.  The
sweat and grime had traced a map around her shoulder
and armpits.  Her waist quivered also to a tender
beat, as her little feet claimed each additional yard
without undue haste.  Otherwise, she matched the man
ahead for the determined way with which she climbed
the hill.  Following closely still, came the others; a
convoy of human mules laden with cassava tubers…

        This was the Survival Platoon: a detachment of
elderly men and women who, under escort of the regular
troops, went out to forage for food and provision in
the abandoned farmlands and houses on the other side
of the river.  From his post in the trench, the boy
watched them weave through the groove of trees.  He
had a grand view of the waterfront as well.  Sarge was
there, holding discussions with the two sentries and
taking stock of the day’s harvest.  It was usually
shared in two, between the fighting men and the
civilians.
        His little bottle in her tiny pot!  The jibe and the
jeering laughter echoed in his head.  The anger
returned.  Calmly, he lifted the rifle and took aim. 
The fat woman’s head came in sight.  He shot her in
the head, or so he hoped.  Then he reloaded and shot
her again in the chest, in the navel, in the tummy. 
And the last imaginary bullet, he sent into the dead
centre of the patch where her swaying hips met her fat
thighs.  The sharp cold retort of the empty chamber
was a counterpoint to the gentle hum of the wind.
        A certain warmth filled his being, a silent insistent
pressure which flowed downwards till it seemed as if
his crotch would burst at the seams.  The rifle lay
now across the sand-heap in front of the trench.  He
fondled the bulge in his groin. He wondered if he
could see her again, one last time before… tomorrow. 
Idly, he wondered what he could give her for a parting
present.  He had no possessions to speak of; nothing
but his dreams for a happy friendship.  And a love
that filled his young heart with restless
anticipation.
        On the living stage of river, valley, the trees and
boats, there hung now a palpable air of detachment. 
The platoon had done its duty; finding, foraging,
fetching and ferrying through the din and devilry of
war.  Now, they were content to leave the terror
behind till the morrow.  But even this, in the
menacing face of war, was a date too far.  He had to
see her-that was it-and he hoped he had time enough
before Sarge came back to an abandoned observation
post.  Corporal was away to the barracks.  Quickly, he
leapt out the trench and rifle in one hand, ran in a
crouch to the little patch where he was sure she would
be; at the very end of the line.

5

“Hey  you! Come fetch some clean water for me from the
middle of the stream!” Of course, it was an order, no
doubt about it. But the idle civilian girl was
behaving as if… 
        “Hey you”, he thundered this time; “Yes, you. Come
here!”  He could not understand why it took her so
long to walk over. 
        “My name is not Hey - you!” 
        He merely raised an eyebrow.  Her eyes met his after
a leisurely trip from his jungle boots to the cap on
his head.  Her lips taunted him, but her pupils had a
shy glint in them.  
        A husky tremor: “the water at the edge is not good
enough for our hero?” He handed her the water bottle
without a word.  His tongue had struck to the roof of
his mouth, and his heart seemed about to leap out of
his chest.   He turned away with a sheepish gaze in
his eyes. 
        That was how many… four, five weeks ago?  The days
had merged into one solid stretch of guard duty at the
waterfront.  The war had dragged on miles away.   A
battle had raged in his soul all along.  He had
surrendered to it.  The light green four-litre
demijohn bore the lifeline of an intense romance
between the shy seventeen-year-old recruit and the
pretty sixteen-year-old canoe girl of the Survival
Platoon.  It was a convenient excuse for them to meet
whenever he was on guard duty there. The women
observed their flirtation with wry understanding and
much amusement 
        “You finished early today!!”
         She whirled around gasping.  “You... you frightened
me”, she was going to say, but the gleam of his cheeky
smile was like a ray of the settling sun on her
spirits.  So, she laughed too, blushed, and then
looked down suddenly at the ground between them. 
          “You are not carrying any load today” 
         “Yes, they did not find much cassava today; the
fighting was heavy”
         He nodded.  “We’re moving to the front tomorrow”, he
said, somewhat matter-of-factly, as if he was going on
an expedition of the Geography Students’ Society!
         “Yes, I heard”.  A soft resigned tone, which matched
the hushed mood of the evening. “How did you know? 
It’s supposed to be a secret.  The signal came in
barely an hour ago!”  
        Her laugh had a tired edge.  She looked away toward
the river.  A frown had come across her face.
         “What’s the matter?”  The surprise was thick in his
voice. 
First, she shook her head.  Then as if it was against
her will, shot back at him, “Do you think they will
cross? “ Her eyes dared him to lie. 
         “I …I don’t know, we’ll do our best to stop them
that’s all”. He reached out a calming hand. She fell
into his arms.  She did not appear to feel the rifle
belt, which bit into chest, but clung to him as if he
alone had the power to ward off the demons that
threatened her peace.  On his part, he was sure he had
swallowed one of the five bullets, which had been
given to him after lunch.  It was stuck somewhere in
his gullet he was sure, just below his Adam’s apple!
        Her friend, the other boat girl stood some paces away
from them. A tiny bundle of little tubers on her head,
she deferred to their intense communication by looking
up at the trees… the river… everywhere else but at
them. 
         “Sarge is coming”, she announced.  Sure enough, the
sergeant was strolling up the hill, at the double! The
air could pass now between the two lovers.  She was no
longer snivelling. 
        “Come to the barracks tonight”
         “If the moon’s out”
         “Please, and you too”, he told the other girl.  “My
friend has been asking after you.” Then he was off, in
a crouching gallop, to his appointed place in the
bushes…
 
6

“Lef’ Righ’… Lef’ Righ’…” The parade commander’s flat
monotone trailed the dull shuffle of the company
around the open field.  This was the barracks - an
oblong wooden shack and a squat brick house set in the
middle of a rubber plantation.  In the era before war
it had been the stores and offices of the Rubber
Company.  Now, these two stood calmly at the centre of
a moon-washed stage, while soldiers moved up and down
the grounds in a ghostly mass.
        “I thought you said….”
         “Shh.”
         “Don’t shush me! You said the parade was the last
thing they did at night.”         
        “That’s what I heard.” A poignant hiss. “You want us
to go?” 
        Silence! 
        Somewhere, in both their teenage hearts, a fire had
kindled; come to life like a harmattan blaze, and the
smoke of it was thick in their eyes.  Theirs was the
last act of primal affection; a farewell visit to
loved ones.  But the military life had intervened to
stall this ardent wish.
        “Suppose Mama sends for me at your place?”
         “Or mine comes to your house? Let’s go, now!”
         “Yes, let’s go!”
        They turned to go, but had only taken a few steps
when the first girl halted abruptly. The second bumped
into her friend and growled in denunciation of her
tardiness. “What is that?” the girl in front asked her
mate. Her dread conveyed itself in a very hushed tone.
        “What is what?’’ her friend asked in the same tenor.
        Each girl reached out for the other’s hand. There was
some assurance in this. It represented, in some ways,
a joining of fears.  There, three yards ahead and
lying across their path was something that looked like
a rope; a thick and moving rope, dark, but shining at
the points where it was touched by the broad beams of
moonlight seeping through the trees.  The girls were
transfixed to the spot.  Twin shudders ran through
them like violent ruptures of the spirit.  The one
behind felt the pressure of her friend’s retreating
body.  Clinging still to each other, they moved back a
pace, then another.  The parade commander, their
Romeos and all, belonged now to a different world.
        “I think it is moving away to the other side of the
bush”, the second girl whispered.  She spoke too soon.
 The snake rose from beneath a crop of wild
evergreens.  The moonlight caught its flat and tiny
head in a flash.  It was barely six feet away!  Its
darting tongue and puffed throat completed a stark
picture of imminent danger.  The girls did not wait to
see all of that.  Their screams flew across the
fields, to mingle with the snappy barks of the parade
commander.  They would not stop running either till
they got to the safe limits of the little parade
ground…

7

They were massed at the riverside, a hundred or so
men; silent, each in his own thoughts
like so many sheep. Their dark shapes, their rifles,
knapsacks and what not filled the sandy space at the
waterfront. Now and again, a sigh or grunt would
escape into the calm night.  Or, someone would clear a
throat, furtively, as if the very idea was a breach of
fragile manners.
        There were only two boats, so the company had to
cross in turns, one platoon after the other.  Each
crossing struck a symbolic note. This die would be
cast six more times before it got to their turn. A
crusty sergeant major was the new platoon commander.
        “I don’t have to tell you, what to expect,” he told
them. “The bastards are resting now.  It will be our
duty to rouse them… And chase them away.” He spat into
the river. “You two lads stay close to your section
leaders and do whatever you are told.”  He spat again.
They expected some more talk, but that was it.
        The river had lost its daytime sparkle to the night. 
Still, the moon darting in and out of the clouds was
able to probe its depths with a silver mirror. A
gentle wind raced across the valley. The trees and
shrubs stirred in its wake and a lone night bird threw
a sudden challenge into the darkness. Soon enough the
calm returned.  The brief speech, the frivolous wind
appeared to set loose the weighty feelings of the men.
 Someone coughed, loud and clear; another swore at a
mosquito, the sergeant major farted, a piping
serenade, which drew a few titters. The two boys stood
together at one end of the ragged formation in front
of the river. Their relative youth apart, they shared
the further distinction of being the only ones without
any battle experience to their credit.  Their muffled
conversation was directed only at each other.
        “Your girl, what did she give you?”
        “A   necklace.”  He touched it tenderly as if it
carried with it some essence of the one who had given
it.  “And yours, she gave you something too!”
        “Yes.  A wet kiss and a gigantic hard-on!” Chuckle,
chuckle…
        “I got those too.  I let her have my water bottle. It
was the least I could do…”
        A chuckle, then another; soft barks that faded into
the surrounding night like shadows.
        “What’s so funny?
        “The commotion they caused at the parade!”
        “Ah…”
        The parade had broken up as soon as the terrified
screams overtook the mechanical drone of the parade
commander.  The commander was flat on his tummy in an
instant.  Several hardy fellows dashed for whatever
cover they could find; yet some others milled around,
momentarily confused, like frightened goats.          
        “Shut up! Right now!” the Sergeant Major bellowed as
the screaming girls came close enough.  For answer,
they fell at his feet like two poorly trained dogs.
         “What’s the matter”, the commander thundered.  He
had recovered his bark! 
        “A snake, sir”, one of the girls whispered.
         “A very big snake”, the other amended. The sudden
guffaw of a hundred men was like a minor explosion,
but the commander was hardly amused. What were the
girls up to?  He asked the Sergeant Major to find out.

        The old veteran had covered well for his boys.  The
two girls had come to give an important message to
their cousins.
        “What message, sergeant major?”
        “They had been invited to dinner, sir!” 
        “Too bad...  All men restricted to barracks.”
         “Yes sir!”
         “Their cousins can walk them to the gate.” 
        “Yes sir!” 
        “Provost!” 
        “Yes sir!” 
        “Escort these girls and the young lady in my quarters
back to the village!” 
        “Yes sir!”
        Their minds dwelt on these things, not because they
wanted to. Rather, it was a way to escape; no,
suppress the insistent fear that lay on their hearts.
Midway across the stream, they could make out the
returning shape of the boats. A flash of orange
streaked across the horizon. It was trailed by a
rumbling echo, then the short gruff snarls of a
machine gun; like a pesky guard dog in the middle of
nowhere. One of the boys moved away to the edge of the
bushes. The other observed him, warily. The trickle
sound of water dropping on leaves answered his
unspoken question. He felt he could benefit from the
same exercise as well. He did not bother to move away
but unbuttoned his fly on the spot. Already, the boats
were close to the shore. Beyond the call of nature lay
an urgent and heavy summons. He made the sign of the
cross…