The Iron Bridge: Short Stories of 20th Century Dictators as Teenagers Read Online Free

transparent—”
    “Of course, of course.”
    “And hollowed out and ghostly white—”
    “He always is.”
    “And he slit his one eye and grinned his half teeth andlaughed in a hyena’s distinctive voice. It was only then that I realized
he
was the hyena I’d heard.”
    “You see?” cried his mother. “You are Lugbaran! I told you!”
    “I got down on my knees and prayed like Mohammed Al Ragab showed me.
Allah is great, Allah is great
 …”
    “And that did nothing, of course.”
    “No,” said Idi. “
Adro yaya
stayed right there. Then I woke up.”
    His mother roared with laughter and fell onto her back. She convulsed in some entirely fake fit, sat up suddenly, and pounded the ground in front of him. “You,” she hissed, pointing at her son and trembling her hand as if it were possessed. “Idi Amin—
sssssswhit!
—you turned your back on the
askari
. You must never do that. Never forget you are an
askari
. You will be an
Effendi
. And then
adro yaya
will not touch you; he can never touch you, not unless you turn your back on the other soldiers. You have to go and join the soldiers. Do you understand? You cannot wait or you are in grave danger from
adro yaya
. You are master of men, butcher, strangler. Your lineage is Lugbaran. You are not Kakwa like your father!
Sssswhit!
You are blessed and you are chosen.”
    His mother nodded to announce that she was finished, and then she laid her palms on the dirt and closed her eyes. Idi stared at his mother, thinking that this advice was not at all what he’d expected. He was amazed that she was encouraging him to return to Jinja, that she read his dream in that way. For the first time in years, Idi realized that his mother wanted him to succeed. She wished the best for herson. Suddenly, he had mixed feelings about leaving. He scratched his heel in the dirt and didn’t know what to say.
    Idi watches the game. Out on the field, while lunging for the ball, one of the drunken players involved in the recent altercation rams his opponent with such force that he knocks the latter over and sends him tumbling through the dust, wailing in agony. Battle lines are immediately drawn, the
askaris
bumping chests and shoving each other. At first the divisions are clear and easy and a product of the team’s rosters—a skirmish over soccer—but when the racial slurs begin, the division spontaneously reorganizes along ethnic lines. The Acholis and Langos condemn the small brains and backward ways of Kakwas and related Nubians. The Kakwas, in turn, threaten their eastern Nile foes with astonishing acts of violence, such as the puncturing of their lungs with sharpened bayonets and the severing and raw consumption of their weak Acholi hearts. Idi smiles at that last threat, wondering if the soldier who uttered it is serious. You can never be certain with a Kakwa. The young
dupi
steps out of the mess hall to observe the ruckus more closely.
    A punch is thrown and returned. A Kakwa hits the dirt. Amidst equal-part cheers and jeers, he rises and charges, dive-tackling his Acholi opponent. The two men grunt as their fists pound into each other’s ribs. The opponents stand and separate, and then the Kakwa kicks the Acholi’s shin with an audible
crack
! The Acholi howls and rolls in the dirt, but gets up on his one good leg to re-engage his enemy. Auxiliary battles erupt across the field, but it somehow remains clear that the real war will be won or lost by the original twocombatants. A Kakwa and an Acholi: tribal representatives. An enterprising soldier could have sold tickets to the fight for a healthy chunk of the
askaris’
monthly pay.
    Adrenalin now pulses through Idi’s limbs. His breath quickens, his pupils dilate. He wants to get in the middle of the battle, no matter which side—skulls need to be cracked with his fists. He’s hungry to participate in the skirmish, in an event that actually
matters
, a test of his strength and endurance. Idi wonders for a moment if he