Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 4 - 7 2018 | Page 25

The Children of War
Carmel School Association Elsa High School, Cheng, Janice - 16
T
he last ray of sunlight finally melted into the golden dusts of Simbakoro. One by one, the small
windows of the village houses illuminated with flickering lights. Zainab climbed onto a narrow
ledge, grabbing hold of the window with one hand and fighting off the swarming moths with the
other. She stared out into the dark forest where her father would come through after his long day of work at
the nearby diamond-mining town. “Allah, please bring Father home safely,” she murmured to herself over
and over again.
The civil war had been going on for seven years, the Revolutionary United Front targeted the rich
diamond fields of Sierra Leone and showed no mercy to the children and women of their motherland.
There was not a day where Zainab lived without fear.
A strong gust of Harmattan wind awakened the monstrous Bombax trees. The sound of crackling
fire filled the atmosphere like giant cicadas. A loud thud startled Zainab. She turned around. It was only her
mother plopping down the pot of steamy rice.
“What are you staring at? You don’t want rice ?” she said mockingly.
Zainab knew not to say anything. She turned back towards the window. A tall and slender figure
appeared amidst the short forest bushes. Zainab recognised her father’s untypical figure and let out a sigh of
relief.
The family gathered around the pot for dinner. Father got the first choice for food, followed by Ahmed,
Mother then Zainab.
“Take the tidbit of meat, Zainab,” Father gestured as she reached out to the pot.
“Abdullah, you must not spoil her like that. She is just a little girl,” Mother admonished.
“Mahfuzah, Zainab is a growing child. Just four years old, yet she already has to do many chores
during the day. She should at least get enough food.”
Father and Mother were polar opposites. Father came from an ill-fated family: He had thirteen
siblings and yet only three of them were males. When his elder brother died, he was pressured into marrying
his widow and taking care of the precious male infant she had named Ahmed. Father treated Ahmed like
one of his own, teaching him the Arabic alphabets and reading the Quran to him everyday. When Zainab
was born, he treated her no differently. He never stood without flinching when watching his father beat his
sisters.
“Be realistic Abdullah, don’t you realise the rebels may come one day? What would a spoiled,
untamed child be able to do then?”
“Don’t worry, Allah will take care of us.”
The following morning was gloomy. Howling cries in the distance woke Zainab, but inside her
home, it was dead silent.
“Mother? Ahmed?” There was no answer. She walked outside her home and around the village.
Still, she could not find them.
“Zainab, what are you still doing here?” a passing neighbour asked, “Go home and pack up, leave
with your mother as soon as possible.”
She stood there silently, puzzled.
“Didn’t you hear? The rebels came to the mines today. It won’t be long until they arrive here.”
“But… I can’t find my mother, I can’t find Ahmed. When is my father coming back?”
“Zainab, they shot all the workers,” the neighbour murmured.
“Father! No! Not Father!” Zainab wailed and wailed. The sky shattered on her, but deep down she
had always prepared for this day.
A few hours passed by and no one came back for Zainab. The neighbouring family took her and they started
their journey away from Simbakoro and the Koidu diamond fields. By evening, they arrived in Tefeya.
“Welcome to the Mercy Children’s Orphanage.”
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