[Published Malawi News 1 October 2011]
Farook saw the makeshift roadblock in the night before anybody else in the battered Toyota pickup, as it snaked its way in the thick forest. He knew what that meant. Death! He clumsily hurried from where he sat, to the displeasure of the other passengers who hauled insults at him, and slammed the driver’s door. Breaks were startlingly rammed, forcing the beat-up vehicle to whine into an abrupt stop. Some passengers became airborne. There were frantic cries and shouts allover. Then the men at the roadblock also started to shout, ordering them to lie down.
Farook saw the makeshift roadblock in the night before anybody else in the battered Toyota pickup, as it snaked its way in the thick forest. He knew what that meant. Death! He clumsily hurried from where he sat, to the displeasure of the other passengers who hauled insults at him, and slammed the driver’s door. Breaks were startlingly rammed, forcing the beat-up vehicle to whine into an abrupt stop. Some passengers became airborne. There were frantic cries and shouts allover. Then the men at the roadblock also started to shout, ordering them to lie down.
But the people, more confused now, ran helter-skelter, except Farook who, with his portable traveling bag on his back, avoided the headlights and expertly ran for cover, his head held low. The attackers now started to shoot haphazardly, hitting some passengers. More screams followed. Farook lowered his body further but never broke his run. But unexpectedly he ran into a woman who forced him to briefly straighten up, and at that moment a bullet hit his Scapula. He felt paralyzing pain and suppressed a scream. And in a Sylvester Stallone style he threw himself to the ground, taking the woman with him. Shots whizzed over them. He quickly and skillfully crawled to a considerable distance before cautiously getting up and resuming his run. After zigzagging his way for minutes he slowed down to focus. But suddenly he felt the presence of someone, hot on his heels. He was about to tiptoe behind a tree when he saw the person; it was the woman.
“What do you want?” Farook irritably asked in a low tone.
“They’re shooting,” was all she managed in a startled shaky voice.
“Those people are after me…” Farook realizing his mistake quickly said, “Leave.”
The woman shrugged her shoulders. Farook felt his back getting wet with blood, and his shoulder was numb. He felt dizzy and resolved to deal with the woman later provided she behaved, to avoid delay. He dragged himself away.
“You’re in pain,” the woman said. Farook just trudged on.
“Why are those people after you?” not dissuaded, she changed the subject.
“It’s a long story,” Farook curtly said, clenching his teeth to control killing pain. He wished she knew his profession made him trusts nobody.
Farook had belonged to a gang behind a spate of bank and house robberies, and car hijackings rampant in cities and towns, operations executed with expertise and precision that left the police chasing shadows. One evening it had wanted to hijack a car. But as fate might have it the occupants in the car happened to be Farook’s fiancée and her friend. She was the woman Farook had dilly-dallied telling her his occupation.
In confusion, the two girls started to run away. Everybody hasted but Lino, leader of the group, did not. He swiftly hoisted his gun ignoring Farook’s desperate shouts of ‘No’. The gun coughed twice and the girls were dead before their bodies had hit the ground. Farook was devastated and incensed, but in the most he felt betrayed. The girls’ actions might have rendered them threats, but everybody knew one of them was his fiancée. Lino should have tried other means to have them stopped. And if the other members did not restrain him that day, he would have skinned Lino alive. After his fiancée’s burial Farook resigned from the group, vowing revenge, and was immediately on the run: nobody had left the group before and lived.
They walked quietly, intently listening for possible danger; tactically moving against the wind, which minimized their chance of betraying themselves to wild animals through their smells or sounds.
“What’s your name?” Farook, desperate and pale, broke the silence.
“Irene,”
“Do you know how to dress a wound?”
“Not much,”
“I’ll show you. With an object embedded in you bandage it to control bleeding without pressing the object in, and minimize infection,” he instructed, showing her how to do it. Within minutes it was dressed using Farook’s vest, though not expertly as he might have wanted, but still he felt better. Later they slept. The sun rose finding them still sleeping. Irene woke up and strayed into the jungle.
The distressed cry woke up Farook with a start. He instantly ran towards it and found Irene pale skinned, consciously impaired and in pain. He instantly knew it was food poisoning. He quickly perused the vicinity and saw what he wanted: charcoal pieces, which were a good base as milk or salt. He swiftly collected and crushed them into powder and quickly mixed them with water from his drinking bottle and forced Irene to drink. Within seconds she was vomiting like hell. Minutes later she normalized, and an hour later they were off again.
“Why were those people after you?” Irene insisted. Farook feeling really weak felt irritated by her resolve. But he knew he needed her now more than before to make it to assistance. He had to buy her cooperation but he felt drained to cook up any story. He just told her a patched up ordeal.
“Why don’t you go to the police?” Irene asked, taking Farook by surprise. “You can be government’s chief witness in the case. You might be pardoned or be given a lighter sentence.”
Farook faintly nodded an agreement for convenience’s sake. All he wanted was death to the group for heartlessly slaughtering his fiancée.
“First let’s get help,” Irene said, tenderly getting hold of Farook’s hand. They together marched, marched into the future; different futures.
