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It was hot. And like pieces of yam roasting over slowly smoldering
coals, people cooked in the unrelenting heat, fleeing into their
homes when they could no longer bear it. Hoes lay forgotten on farms,
foodstuff covered and abandoned in the marketplace. Lethargy settled
over the tiny village; only the buzzing of insects and an infrequent
pestle pounding a late meal could be heard in the stifling silence.
In a small bungalow, a mother and her three young children tried
their best to ward off the heat while an ancient fan creaked ineffectually
from the ceiling. The children fidgeted; just before dawn, they
had been woken from an uneasy sleep by the sound of low flying planes
and sporadic gunfire. It was quiet now, but the heat kept them on
edge.
The youngest child played on a raffia mat piling wooden blocks on
top of the other. From time to time, he would swipe at them, uttering
a shriek of delight as they tumbled to the floor. But tiring of
the monotonous game, he was soon diverted by the sight of his older
siblings in a kicking match.
Their mother raised her head with an effort. “Alright, you
two, that’s enough…”
She sat at the dining table, fanning her face with a small handkerchief,
and then, sighing, turned to stare out the window beside her. Shading
her eyes against the sun, she peered into the distance; there appeared
a faint rippling of the leaves of the Jacaranda tree in front of
the house. There it was, again; a barely discernible draft. She
listened intently. Around her, it was still and quiet.
“I think you can go outside now,” she said hesitantly,
and then nodded. “Take the baby with you; it might be cooler
under the tree.”
The girl sat up eagerly, and prodded her younger brother in the
ribs; but he had fallen asleep out of boredom, his little chest
gently rising and falling with each breath. Scrambling to her feet,
she went to the baby and picked him up, chuckling at his instantly
upraised arms and expectant gurgles. She hoisted the child unto
her waist, staggering slightly under his weight, and then with the
sideways gait of a crab, made her way slowly and carefully to the
Jacaranda tree in front of the house.
*
The helicopter flew east, and then turning on an arc, headed westward
to circle the village. Its pilot noted a few domestic animals roaming
the fields or that were tied up in yards; but there was no sign
of human presence. He sighted several long bungalows that, no doubt,
housed extended families. But there was the feeling, somehow, that
some supernatural force had swept through the village snatching
away souls as they performed everyday acts.
But the pilot knew the village was not deserted. Just before dawn,
he had trailed a company of military planes on exercise, startling
a group of early-birds on their way to farms or the makeshift market.
It was cool, even chilly, up in the skies; but below him, the steamed
air rippled. People would be in their homes seeking relief from
the sweltering sun. He would fly over the village one more time,
he thought to himself, and then banked left.
A young soldier, barely a man, sat directly behind the pilot; slouched
forward, his head bumped repeatedly against the seat before him.
Lulled into sleep by the morning sun and thin atmosphere, his mouth
had dropped open, a bit of drool collecting on his chin. But his
hold never slackened on the rifle on his lap. The pilot had made
several attempts at conversation, but encountering silence, had
retreated into his thoughts.
The pilot was searching for the infamous Ulli airport. Military
Intelligence had situated it in the area over which the helicopter
was flying, only not its precise location. A regular road, it had
been broadened to handle the take off and landing of aircraft. But
during the day, the enemy covered the strip with branches so that
from the air it resembled a tree lined avenue impossible to distinguish
from other roads.
Frustrated, the pilot thought of heading back to the camp, but he
did not like the idea of defeat. Growling at the soldier behind
him to ‘wake up, and be sharp,’ he began a slow descent
over the unfamiliar terrain, oblivious of the breath taking scenery
below. The thick brush obscured his vision; but now and again, a
neatly tended farm or abandoned school would suddenly materialize,
forcing him to acknowledge that human beings like him inhabited
the spaces below.
Suddenly, he saw a clearing in the distance. Three zinc-roofed houses
with a few grazing animals quickly came into view. Imagining some
movement under a tree right in the middle of the compound, the pilot
flew lower; sure enough, there was a young girl and a baby in napkins
playing under the tree. The pilot called out to the soldier in hushed
tones, but his companion simply stirred and slept on. In one of
the houses, a face appeared at a window, and then, aghast, quickly
vanished.
“Wake up, my man!” the pilot called out more urgently,
dipping the helicopter even lower.
*
Like everyone else in the village, the young girl could identify
the drone of an aircraft long before its appearance in the sky.
There were several underground bunkers in a nearby copse dug by
the villagers for refuge during air raids, and she knew to head
for the trees at the sound of a plane. But finding a plastic plate
half buried in the grass, she put her baby brother down under the
tree, and was transformed into a mother preparing the afternoon
meal.
So intent was she in her play that the young girl did not at first
hear the helicopter flying steadily toward the compound. But, suddenly,
there it was; hovering low, so low, that when she looked up, she
could clearly make out the shape of a man staring down at her. Her
heart swelled, and then jumped into her throat. And with a cry,
she ran, colliding with her mother who had rushed out of the house,
and was screaming questions that disappeared into the air. Straining
against the drone of the helicopter, the young girl listened, and
then froze. Her baby brother...
Whirling round with the shock of comprehension, she watched her
mother stagger toward the Jacaranda tree, her mother’s movement
magnified in her heightened senses. Suddenly galvanized into action,
the girl raced into the house where her other brother lay sleeping,
and frantically shook him awake. He woke up on cue and stood up,
sleepily rubbing his eyes. She pushed him into their parents’
room, under their King sized bed, and then hurried back out to the
verandah, petrified, yet fascinated by the enemy aircraft hovering
over her mother and baby brother.
*
Seeing his mother race toward him, the baby had crawled out from
under the Jacaranda tree; he stood up unsteadily, arms stretched
out to her, then fell back again on his padded bottom. An eagle
in flight, his mother swooped down and crushed him to her body,
finally glancing up to stare into the expressionless face of the
enemy. She walked back to the house with a quick pace, the fourth
stanza of Psalm 23 a mantra in her head. Above her, the helicopter
dipped and swayed, its heavy drone combating the afternoon calm.
At last, mother and child reached the house. Over the Jacaranda
tree, the aircraft drifted, and then slowly lifted up into the sky.
On the verandah now, the woman looked up, bemused, and then quickly
urged her eldest child into the house. She crawled under the bed,
huddled with her children, her limbs trembling with life of their
own. 
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