The Interlude #WattysShorts

Chapter 1

I don't know how my father was convinced to let me accompany my mother to the countryside. One day in August 1997, she came home from work and said to me: "Tomorrow you will go with me to see Aunt Alice. "

Aunt Alice was my mother's only sister who survived the war so far. I was both excited to make this trip and scared to leave my father and brother behind. The war was raging; I would say it had never been so close to our doors. Death and life were living side by side on a daily basis. Ambushes on the roads, targeted assassinations, massacres in the villages brought the bad news that we were fed with every day.

At night, we lay under the beds, wrapped in several layers of clothes, ready to flee. A disastrous concert of heavy fire and grenades rocked our sleep and filled our dreams with strange noises.

In the mornings, life took its course. My parents went to work, I went to school and my three-year-old brother stayed home with the nanny. In class, an empty seat on a bench reminded me of the death that was always lurking and how lucky I was to still be breathing. Quiet nights were rare, surprisingly long and singular. Strangely, this oppressive and unusual silence terrified us.

I was eight years old and had only known Burundi at war. I born and grew up with it. I didn't understand the ins and outs of this armed conflict, but according to the vague explanations given by my parents, it was all about the nose. Nevertheless, my strong belief was that this story was more than just the form of a nose: aquiline or flat.

Curiously, there had been a certain lull in the situation for the past two months. June ushered in quiet evenings and peaceful days. No redder and orange flames tearing at the sky, no more noise threatening our rest. I finally spent a whole night in my bed, dressed in light pyjamas. It was unique!

On the day of departure, my father dropped us off at the bus station; near the big central market around seven o'clock. By the time we arrived, the square was full of people but there were no buses. My father left us to go to work just thinking that the buses were late. I stayed with my mother.

Two hours later, the first minibus arrived, with broken windows and bullet holes in the doors. The driver came out dripping with blood. He had a huge wound on his left arm. People rushed towards him to ask about the lack of a bus, but they didn't help him. Before fainting, he managed to articulate that since dawn, the rebels had been ambushing the road, robbing the passengers and sometimes killing them. Many cars had been burned and corpses were lying on the road. My mother took me away.

- "Don't be afraid," she said, "we'll be with your aunt tonight. Don't tell your father what you've just heard. Trust me, everything will be all right."

Then she placed the large green travelling bag under an umbrella next to the doughnut seller, sat down on it, put me on her lap and surrounded me with her long arms, willing to wait and determined to leave no matter what.

I felt sad and morose. It was not going to be a good day. If we started our trip, our return would be in vain. Many dark thoughts went through my head. I suddenly felt like running for my life, going home and hiding under the bed where I felt safe.

Another minibus came, followed by several others. Their drivers confirmed what the first one told us. The fighting had been intense since last night in the hills above the town. You had to be reckless to want to travel that day. Some people decided to go home. My mother chose to wait some more. She began to mumble unintelligible words, a little prayer no doubt. The waiting was killing me.

I was hungry and thirsty. We had been at the station for hours; the sun was high in the sky; it was very hot. I was suffocating in my black jumper. My mother bought me a juice from a shop and took its place on the bag, imperturbable.

At noon, my father came back to check if we had left and was surprised to find us there. She justified our presence by a story of fuel shortages which he pretended to believe. Her determined face should not be contradicted. She was on the defensive, ready to bark.

My father sat down next to us and they started talking about mundane things as if nothing had happened. At about two o'clock, a driver finally agreed to start driving. Only hotheads like my mother agreed to get on the bus.

 "You shouldn't take the seat next to the driver or the seat next to the windows", my father advised her. "They are the most dangerous. Sit in the middle seat, between two or three people. At least you'll be protected if there's an attack."

He hugged us as if it was the last time he would see us and made us promise to come back safe and sound. My mother followed the instructions while she took out her rosary on the way. We were crammed into the bus like sardines but happy to leave.

As soon as the bus left the capital, it started to climb, so much so that I thought we were flying to the sky. My city was surrounded by high mountains with the road winding between them. Bujumbura lay low, flat, tiny and far away. The metal sheets of the houses shimmered with a thousand lights under the scorching sun. The lake, immense and majestic, could be seen in the distance. White dots on the horizon evoked the airport. Between the houses, different species occupied the green spaces: mango, avocado, jacaranda, flamboyant... Corn, tea, banana, manioc and oil palm trees were planted on the steep slopes of the hills.

I wondered how people could cultivate on such steep slopes without falling into the river or the road below. The bus raised clouds of red dust, where huge potholes appeared, causing shaking and banging of the adults' heads against the passenger compartment. The steady hum of the engine and the tight turns made me sleepy. 

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The best moment in life is when you are still young to understand everything, you are just a viewer of life. You enjoy simple things even in hard times. That was my journey growing up in war country. 

I hope you enjoye this chapter! I also hope you will consider to vote if you are liking what you are reading. And comment to start a good conversation.

See you to the next chapter....