The first girl to arrive at the rehabilitation centre was Sao. She was dropped off by Father Solomon in his dust-caked Land Rover, the priest cryptically explaining that the girl had survived by hiding behind a wide bookcase in the church’s mission house whilst feral rebels razed her village. 

Sao climbed out of the Land Rover clutching a bulbous plastic bag within which her possessions were stuffed. She wore a bright cotton blouse over a billowing, palm oil-stained skirt. Her hair had been hacked short, sections of her scalp visible through the dishevelled tufts. The girl’s complexion was of a rich brown, in the shade of coffee with a dollop of milk in it.

Marching up to Rebecca Dunleavy, the centre’s director, the girl extended her hand in greeting. “My name is Sao, and my heart is very glad to meet you.”

Taken aback by the girl’s confidence, Rebecca reciprocated the greeting, after which she took Sao on a tour of the facilities which included the classrooms, sick bay, social area, dining hall and dormitories where the boys slept. “But since you are our only girl so far, you will for now sleep in the family house.”

Smiling at these arrangements, Sao issued a thank you, her eyes warm as she nestled on the bed she had been offered. Rebecca then showed the girl where to wash herself and find sanitary products, after which she offered her a change of clothes.

Rebecca then suggested that Sao join the boys for afternoon classes. She handed her over to Mr Jalloh, the teacher, the boys giggling in excitement at the presence of a single girl in their midst. Offering Mr Jalloh a handshake in the same mode as the one she had given to Rebecca, Sao settled herself in the front of the class, her lips moving as she mouthed the lines written on the board whilst Rebecca and Mr Jalloh discussed strategies to expedite the girl’s integration.

Confusion erupted from amidst the children a couple of days later. Hurrying down from her office, Rebecca found Mr Jalloh restraining a boy who had blood seeping from a slight gash. The boy was screaming whilst straining to get at Sao who had retreated to lean against the high wall at the far end of the social area, a satisfied smirk on her face.

The commotion had brought the rehabilitation centre’s other staff to the social area, the resident medic, Dr Nash, ushering the wounded boy into the sick bay for treatment, whilst Mr Jalloh, with the help of the centre’s security watchmen corralled the boys back to the classroom.

Startled, Rebecca approached Sao, who had by this time settled on a wide concrete bench positioned beneath a giant mural of a traditional gumbay dance troupe.

 “What happened, Sao? Did you attack Abu? We do not tolerate violence here. Instead, we try to talk through our problems.”

“He is angry because I broke his mirror.”

“Mirror? What mirror? What do you mean, Sao?”

“He put a mirror underneath my chair in the classroom.”

“I do not understand what you mean, Sao!”

“The boys used to do that sometimes in school before the war came; they put mirrors under our chairs so they could see the colour of our underwear. And so, I broke his mirror. And then when we came outside after class, he said I must pay for his mirror, otherwise he would beat my face. I said no, and so he cursed my mother and said I was a witch-woman because I had short man-hair. And so, I hit his head with a stone, because nobody is allowed to curse my mother who died whilst bringing us into this world!”

“Us?”

“My twin sister, Jinnah, and I. Us. But she has been eaten by the war and I cannot find her.”

Shaking her head, Rebecca removed Sao from the company of the boys. She spent the rest of the week with her, the child entertaining herself by following the pending national elections on local radio, whilst also reading an old copy of The Passport of Mallam Ilia.

*

Since arriving from Scotland, the lead-up to girls being admitted to the rehabilitation centre had proved to be a severely serrated experience for Rebecca Dunleavy. A government press conference had claimed that the military had finally wrested the town of Daru in the east of the country from rebels, in the company of which were a group of girls. Shaking his head in regret, the military spokesman had pointed out that if he had his way, all captured rebels, and their associates, irrespective of age and gender would be summarily executed. The spokesman had then pointed out that these days they had to listen to the United Nations and overseas human rights groups who clamoured for the rehabilitation of vulnerable children affected by the war. As such, arrangements were in the pipeline for the demonic girl children to be eventually handed over to the rehabilitation centre in Freetown.

Rebecca had therefore called an urgent meeting to discuss the pending arrival of the girls. The meeting had been fractious with most of her colleagues opting for insensitivity, stressing that the clue as to what they did at the centre was quite clear – a responsibility to rehabilitate former child soldiers.

“Girls have no business being brought here! Cooking for the rebels and carrying their babies in the stomach is not the same as holding a gun, being force-fed drugs, and ordered to kill people!” one of the directors had argued, his eyes simmering.

Rebecca had lost her temper, standing erect to deliver a scathing lecture on the nature of trauma. Unaccustomed to seeing their White colleague this angry, the other directors had reluctantly back-pedalled, claiming they would consider her position on the admittance of girls to the centre.

And then Sao had arrived, a full four months before schedule.

*

After Mr Jalloh suddenly left the rehabilitation centre to climb into a lucrative position at a newly established private school in the city, Rebecca employed Mr Zombo as a replacement. The new teacher, a tall man who spoke with a languid confidence, had impressed during a hastily arranged interview with some insightful thoughts on government corruption, pan-Africanist theory, and teen-appropriate novels for African children.

“Boys, this is Mr Zombo, your new teacher, and a lovely man from who we can all learn a lot. Sao will also be re-joining us today and like Dr Nash and I explained to you last week, you must all treat her with respect as she is no different to you just because she is a girl.” She had barely finished her comments, when the boys broke into loud applause, Rebecca unsure if their enthusiasm was in anticipation of the knowledge they were to receive from Mr Zombo, or glee at the return of the girl.

Picking up after Rebecca had left, the new teacher addressed the children, his voice engaging and confident. “Right boys, and Sao, it’s an absolute pleasure to be your new teacher, and as Miss Rebecca said, I am Mr Zombo. Now it’s time for me to learn your names, and so I want to play a little game with you: could you please line-up at the back of the class and arrange yourselves based on the alphabetical order of your first names?” 

Chattering like yard chickens squabbling over spilled rice, the children – under Sao’s direction – grew into the task and had soon arranged themselves into a loose line that spiralled round the class. Nodding in approval, Mr Zombo picked up a green marker, still marvelling at the fact that he did not have to use messy chalk as had been the case in the government schools he had worked in.

He then asked their names, saying them aloud as he wrote them: “Abass. Abu. Alpha. Amadu. Bockarie. David. Daramy. Dauda. Fasuluku. Gadiru. Gassimu. Gibrilla. Idrissa. Ishmael. Jamal. Jamiru. Karimu. Lamina. Maada. Mohammed. Mohammed.” At this point, Mr Zombo asked the two Mohammeds their surnames, arranging them accordingly. He then continued: “Momodu. Moses. Nabie. Patrick. Rambo. But surely your name cannot be Rambo?” Mr Zombo queried, the green marker on pause, just short of making contact with the whiteboard.

“But that is my name,” Rambo replied, his expression surly and confrontational. “In the bush during the war, General Mosquito told us that once we had smoked djamba and drank bullets, our names had to change. He said that if we were to have the mind and zeal to shoot our enemies dead, then we had to stand away from the little names given to us by our useless parents.”

There were murmurs of acquiescence from some of the other boys, obviously familiar with this mantra from their war experiences. “So, I am Rambo,” the boy continued, raising his head to hold the teacher’s gaze. “That’s the name I was given. And even in the movies, Rambo is a great actor-fighter who kills many people with just one gun and his shirt off. So, I like the name Rambo!”

Defeated by this premise and unwilling to cause a stir on his first day, Mr Zombo wrote down the name Rambo. He then continued: “Rashid. Sallieu. Santigie. Sao. Sulaiman. Vandy. Victor.”

*

The other girls finally arrived at the rehabilitation centre a couple of months later.   

They were dropped-off by a military truck just after noon on a Saturday, the soldiers delivering them leaping down from the vehicle, their eyes hostile and suspicious. The captain in charge, a slender specimen who walked with a loping bounce, insisted that they completed the paperwork in Rebecca’s office.

In their absence, Mr Zombo attempted to engage the other soldiers in conversation, their replies though terse and uncompromising. He therefore offered them something to drink from the canteen, the soldiers’ eyes lighting up at the prospect of free alcohol. Their enthusiasm, however, dipped when Mr Zombo informed them that the facility had no alcohol on account of being a residence for children.

They therefore settled for bottles of Coke, one of the soldiers scoffing at the ridiculous concept that considered boys who had shot and killed people, as children who should be kept away from alcohol. “These dung-demons who drank drugs like water are now presented as soft angels?” he queried, shaking his head in disbelief. “And we wonder why our country is backward!”

Rebecca and the captain returned soon, his time in her company doing nothing to douse his animosity. Mr Zombo offered him a bottle of Coke, which he declined, instead barking at his subordinates to unload the girls from his truck. The back section of the vehicle was concealed by dull green tarpaulin, the flap of which one of the soldiers deftly untied, lowering the tailgate in a fluid follow-up movement. He then spat into the dark recesses of the vehicle, ordering the people inside to make haste and climb down.

The girls descended into the sunlight, blinking, and stretching. There were seven of them, two above the number Rebecca was expecting. Not bothering to point out this contradiction, she moved towards them, an uncertain smile on her face. The girls were attired in matching dockett and lappas sewn from blue gara material. They all wore head-ties, Mr Zombo observing how the outfits made the girls appear much older than they were. They stepped to one side to avoid the army truck which was performing a clumsy U-turn before accelerating out of the compound.

Smiling, Rebecca cross-checked the girls’ details, Mr Zombo writing their names in a slim register for use in class: Maseray. Assanatu. Baindu. Anne-Marie. Manjia. Jeneba. Satta.

Sao suddenly appeared in the social area, screeching in excitement as she hurtled towards them, embracing them all whilst jabbering words of greeting. The new girls smiled uncertainly, embarrassed by her enthusiasm.

*

The first lesson Mr Zombo taught after the arrival of the new girls at the rehabilitation centre was on Sengbe Pieh and slavery.  

He started the lesson by holding up a turquoise five thousand leone note on which Sengbe Pieh’s image had been placed, using it as a prop to explain the harrowing concept; of how men, women and children from their own country, Sierra Leone, had been sold across the sea to work on massive plantations. Of how Black Africans were sold like cattle, mere pieces of property to be arbitrarily used and abused by vicious slave owners.

“And that is why people who have our skin colour can be found in almost every corner of the globe far away from their native home. In countries like Haiti, Jamaica, The Bahamas, and Cuba, there are massive Black populations. And even the mighty America, who every one of you knows about because of their violent movies and precious dollars, has many Black people whose ancestors came from our very own country, just like Sengbe Pieh!”

Rambo was however quick to point out a contrary view. “But Mr Zombo, going to America is not the worst thing to happen, because even today people fight and do everything within their power to be able to go to the White man’s countries. When we went in the minibus to watch a movie at the Roxy Cinema last month, there was a long line of people outside the tall building that has the American flag on top of it; the building in the city centre next to the Cotton Tree!”

Mr Zombo realised the boy was describing the American Embassy.

“Miss Rebecca explained that the people in the line were there to apply for papers to allow them to go and live in America, and that they all wanted to leave because they had no jobs here and struggled to buy food to eat!” Rambo’s view gained traction, most of the other children nodding and murmuring in agreement as the words climbed out of the boy’s mouth.

“People think that the power to go overseas to London and America is more important than anything,” Sao added. “When you went to the church in our village before the war came down on us, the men always prayed for the opportunity to be able to have a big farm or to be able to climb into a plane to go overseas. But the women often prayed for God to place children in their stomachs. Or for them to get a big money-man who would sit down with them in marriage!”

“But slavery was nothing like this,” Mr Zombo countered, rising from his seat behind the desk to stand in front of the whiteboard. “Our people who were taken overseas in the ships were treated worse than animals and many died on the way there, their bodies thrown into the water! And those who survived the trip were placed in chains and beaten with whips if they did not work hard enough. They had no rights and worked for no money until they grew old and died. If they had children, then they were also automatically slaves who similarly had no rights!”

The children nodded along, their eyes uncertain, most of them failing to understand how being taken overseas, irrespective of the circumstances, could be viewed as a bad thing, especially as the descendants of the Africans who had been taken away now lived lives of opulence and fame. Intrigued at this argument, Mr Zombo shook his head and smiled, asking the children to name Black people who now lived this life of fame, wealth, and privilege that they now envied.

“Mike Tyson is the best boxer in the world!” offered Rambo, his eyes dancing in excitement. “He is a gallant Black man who beats anybody who stands up to him to fight! We used to watch videos of Tyson fighting when General Mosquito took over the diamond fields in Kono! We connected a generator to a television in the yard and watched Mike Tyson bouting. They say that people would still be buying tickets at the entrance to the fight when news would come through that the fight was finished as Tyson would smash-out the other boxers with one blow in one minute! Powerful, American Black man, Mike Tyson!”

“And there is Eddie Murphy,” pointed out another of the boys. “We watched his movies before I became a soldier. He was a clever policeman who worked in the places where rich white people lived.”

The floor now open, the children proceeded to throw down the names of Black people who lived overseas and were famous, anxious to display their knowledge to their new teacher.

“Michael Jordan, the basketball man!”

“Florence the Olympic woman who runs faster than men and has long fingernails and long hair!”

“John Barnes who plays football for Liverpool!”

“Ajax play the best football and have many Black players!”

“But Ajax play in Holland, which is not in America!”

“You have an empty coconut head and have not understood what Mr Zombo just explained to us! All Black people are from Africa, and so they are all the same blood!”

“How about the brothers and sisters who sing and dance on Top of the Pops that we watched last month? Five Star they are called! And there was also the Whitney woman who sings like she has a loud radio in her throat!”

“And Wesley Snipes is also Black and very strong!”

“And Michael Jackson! Nobody dances like him! Nobody sings like him! And everybody, both men and women, want to have Jheri curls like him!”

Not having the heart to curtail the discussion on Black accomplishment, Mr Zombo half listened to them as they flowed into the social area for their break, their voices carrying through the open door.

They continued to discuss famous Black people, Rambo eventually transitioning to explaining the plot of a violent action movie he had watched during the war, which involved people being burned alive.

“Burning people was a popular way for us rebels to get rid of enemies when we were fighting in the bush,” he pointed out, his eyes hard and expressionless. “General Mosquito told us that according to The Book of Revelations in The Bible, fire would be the way that God would destroy the world, and so it was okay for us to use it on our enemies. So, we would spray kerosene on the houses of enemies and light them on fire! No mercy! And whilst the fires burned, we would shoot into the houses to make sure nobody escaped alive. No mercy!”

His comments were greeted with a considerable degree of agreement, most of the boys recognising their crude rebel manifestos which had also advocated the policy of no mercy for perceived enemies. Troubled by the trend of the discussion, Mr Zombo moved to the door, with the intention of demanding a change of topic.

Sao had picked up the conversation though, her voice piercing. “What you describe Rambo, is what happened at our village. Small rat-rebels like yourself arrived early in the morning and started burning houses and shooting people. The only thing that saved me and my friends was the fact that we had gone to the water’s side to wash clothes. But although we were over a mile away, we could smell the burning bodies, hear the gunfire, and see the bright red flames in the sky.” She paused, her eyes for all the trauma she described calm and composed. “An enemy cannot be somebody who cannot pick up a gun to defend themselves. You are a watermelon, Rambo; you think you are an angry red rebel on the inside, but on the outside, you are a little green boy who pisses his bed every night!” 

Outraged at Sao’s comments, which had reduced the other children to derisive laughter, Rambo leapt to his feet and ran towards her, a stream of abuse flowing from his mouth, decrying Sao as a diseased koro prostitute who had opened her dirty legs to rebels and soldiers alike.

Jumping into the social area, Mr Zombo and a couple of the other boys leapt between the adversaries, restraining the incandescent Rambo who continued to hurl dark threats. The boy was moved to a far corner where he was told to sit on one of the benches underneath a newly installed huge mural of a supple mother carrying a sleeping baby on her back.  

Rebecca and Dr Nash had by this time emerged from their offices on hearing the commotion. The doctor agreed to stay with Rambo, placing an arm around the shoulder of the boy who was now weeping silently, his shoulders shuddering in anger and frustration. Mr Zombo explained the fracas to a puzzled Rebecca, her face furrowed with concern at Rambo’s latest meltdown as she led Sao and the other girls away.

*

Meals were eaten in the centre’s dining hall, a high space the walls of which were festooned with giant paintings of scientists including Isaac Newton, Marie Curie, and Nicolaus Copernicus. “It is called image-based education,” Rebecca had explained to Mr Zombo on a tour of the facilities after the teacher’s interview. “Because a lot of the children here have very limited education due to the war, the objective is to transfer knowledge through bright paintings that should be universally accessible. And as their teacher, we will be looking to you to supply future suggestions on other people who you think should adorn our walls.”

Today’s evening meal was garri made from fermented cassava gently fried in oil and served with tomato stew and fried fish. The children, as usual, collected their yellow trays, an unspoken protocol now having been established which allowed the girls to stand at the head of the queue. 

They chatted warmly as they waited, their conversations lifted by memories of their afternoon visit to Lumley Beach on the centre’s minibus, where they had frolicked in the sea and played ball on the sand.

From the middle of the food queue, Rambo broke away and ambled towards the front, an empty Apple Sidra bottle in his hand, the adults thinking nothing of his movement, assuming that he was perhaps going to return it to the plastic crate at the far side of the hall.

And then a piercing scream tore through the dining hall, the queue breaking apart, the children scattering in horror. Sao was on the floor, Rambo standing over her, the knife for his meal in one hand, the now broken Apple Sidra bottle in the other. The adults were by this time moving, screaming at Rambo to halt his assault. It was as if they were invisible, their cries doing nothing to dissuade Rambo who brought the green glass down on Sao’s neck. Only after he had made contact did he run from the hall, the noise as he moved, a hacking laugh of triumph.

Mr Zombo reached the prone girl first, a jagged shard wedged in her neck, blood streaming from the wound. As he knelt by the girl, he felt Dr Nash’s firm hand easing him out of the way, noticing as he moved that a knife was also embedded in Sao’s leg. 

*

Some of the other children had chased after Rambo, returning to breathlessly report that he had jumped over the front gate and fled in the direction of the junction at the top of the road.

Dr Nash led Sao to the sick bay where she repaired the girl’s injuries with some neat stitches and a delicate tan-coloured bandage. Mr Zombo and Rebecca stayed with the other children, soothing them whilst insisting they continue their meal. A fastidious dinner lady used a wet rag to wipe away the drops of blood on the floor, pointing out that the dark events were evidence that Satan had chosen today to visit the rehabilitation centre.  

Her explanation was interrupted by the sound of chopping gunfire coming from up the street. Instinctively, everyone in the dining hall hurled themselves underneath tables, the same dinner lady launching into a ranting prayer, declaring that the blood of Jesus would protect them from the darkness unfolding beyond the walls of the centre.

After about five minutes, one of the security watchmen burst into the dining hall, his eyes round in panic. “Soldier-men are at the gate! They say that the bosses of this place should come out immediately, or they will damage this whole building and everybody in it!”

Crawling from underneath the tables, Rebecca and Mr Zombo followed the cowering watchman, Dr Nash joining them also.

At the gate was a menacing posse of soldiers, all wielding automatic weapons. Taking the lead, Mr Zombo addressed them, knowing that this was an incendiary situation that required guile and delicacy.

“Good afternoon officers and hope things are going well with security for these elections. How can we help you?”

“Who be in charge for this place?” barked one of the soldiers, a narrow man whose uniform seemed a size too big. He eyed Dr Nash and Rebecca as he spoke, assuming a Black man could not oversee a place where there were also White people.

“I am Rebecca Dunleavy, one of the directors,” Rebecca replied, her voice hitting a reedy note. “And these are Moses Zombo, our teacher, and Dr Annabel Nash, who is responsible for the children’s health.”

“The bastard-dogs you keep in this place are not children! They are rebels who kill and rape, and even if you give them every kind of care from your White countries, nothing will change! No amount of soap can change the colour of a monkey’s hand!” the lead soldier snarled, his eyes hard and uncompromising. The narrative was then picked up by another of the soldiers, who spoke with a cold calmness.

“We just shot one of your rebels at the top of the road. He was carrying a very sharp knife and was running. This is election time, and we are on high alert. We therefore have received instructions from above to allow no confusion, and to eliminate any risks to the smooth democratic process!”

The armed men then instructed them to follow to the top of the street where they would identify the creature who belonged to them. As they travelled, crowds of people, agog with curiosity, came out of their houses to gawk, rumour and conjecture spreading.

Another group of soldiers were gathered outside a bar at the top of the street, most of them holding bottles of Star Beer. They had formed a loose phalanx around a section of a deep gutter, a couple of them barking at curious onlookers to stand back or risk being shot for tampering with military protocol. 

Rambo was lying in the gutter. His face was away from them, the light blue football top he was wearing smeared with the orange-red of dust and the crimson-red of blood. There were long grazes on his arms, one of his legs bent at a disturbingly askew angle. He only had one sports shoe on, the back of his head covered in blood.

Barging through the soldiers, Dr Nash jumped into the gutter, barking at Mr Zombo to help her move the boy. He was surprisingly light as they settled him between a couple of bamboo benches outside the drinking establishment. Dr Nash’s fingers travelled to the boy’s neck, searching for a pulse.

*

The lead soldier had explained that since Rambo had posed such a significant security risk, they were confiscating his body for further examination at a nearby military hospital; his corpse would only be released for burial after they concluded their investigations.

Rebecca, Mr Zombo and Dr Nash returned to the rehabilitation centre, filling in the other adults on the situation, choosing to keep the children in the dark for now.

They carried Rambo’s metal trunk from the boys’ dormitory to Rebecca’s office. Buried beneath his neat heap of clothes was a collection of cassette tapes and bright pictures of expensive cars ripped out of magazines. They also found four other table knives sharpened into crude daggers.

“He must have been taking them from the dining hall,” pointed out Dr Nash, her face furrowed. “His trauma must have caused him to think that he needed protection from enemies, even though he was safe in this very secure location. And so, when Sao spoke against him, he saw her as an enemy that he needed to eliminate.”

*

Mr Zombo left the centre for home later that evening, catching a poda poda at the top of the road where Rambo had been shot dead a few hours previously. There were even more soldiers in the drinking establishment, laughing loudly as they argued over a football match unfolding on a television screen.

About the Author:

Born in London, Foday Mannah hails from the delightful nation of Sierra Leone where he studied English Language and Literature at Fourah Bay College. On graduation, he worked as a teacher and lecturer before returning to the United Kingdom. Foday currently lives in Scotland where he is employed as a teacher of English. He holds an Msc in International Conflict and Cooperation from the University of Stirling and an MA with Distinction in Professional Writing from Falmouth University. Foday’s writing especially seeks to explore the disproportionate use of power, both domestic and political. His short story, “Amie Samba,” was shortlisted for the 2019 Bristol Short Story Prize, and was published in the anthology the same year. Foday has also had stories shortlisted and or longlisted / highly commended for the Bridport, Sean O’Faolain, Mo Siewcharran, Brick Lane, Commonwealth, Morley, Bloody Scotland, and Queen Mary Wasafiri writing competitions. His short stories have also been published in Doek, The Decolonial Passage, Iskanchi, The Other Side of Hope literary and The Feminist Food Journal. His novel – “The Search for Othella Savage” – won the 2022 Mo Siewcharran Prize and is due for publication in 2025. He can be found at: https://manasque.com/ https://twitter.com/FodayMannah https://www.instagram.com/foday_mannah/.

* Feature image by DAVIDCOHEN on Unsplash