His name is Aggrey.

Aggrey has been ‘living’ at my home for the past four days. He’s the temp watchman, brought in by the regular guy, Martin, who traveled to Arua this week to visit his sick mother.

 

Last night, I noticed Aggrey’s strange gait. He doesn’t walk with a limp, but he’s bent to the right and hunched over like he has something to hide.  His right arm is always in his pocket, attached to his thigh, it seems. Everything about him is lopsided, even the smile he flashes when I say hello.

 

“So what’s in your pocket, Aggrey?” I teased him. “You’re not hiding something illegal in there, are you?”

 

“No madam.” he smiled.

 

“Really? You’re guarding something awfully close,” I said. “What is it?”

 

“Nothing madam.” He started to amble away.

 

“Aggrey,” I said strongly, “what is in your pocket?”

 

“No nothing,” he insisted.

 

“Aggrey …”

 

He pulled out the right sleeve from his pocket and I noticed for the first time that it is empty. I was overcome with shame. I stood there looking like the fool I am. The silence was overwhelming.

 

“I’m sorry Aggrey,” I said as if that could make up for my insensitivity.

 

“It’s okay madam,” he replied with his lopsided grin.

 

This morning, as I opened the door of my ramshackle for the early drive to the city, I could barely meet his eyes.  I mumbled something at him and pretended to be awfully busy, in a hurry to get away from my home.

 

“Madam,” Aggrey called as I opened the ramshackle’s door, “I’m done something bad.”

 

I stopped in my tracks.

 

“I’m done something bad and they cut me my arm.”

 

Over the next half hour, in the faint light of the new day Aggrey told me the horror of his past. In 2003 he and thousands of other children in Namukora in Kitgum district, he was abducted by the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA). His two sisters, his brother and he were forced out of their home on New Year’s Eve 2002.  They spent the next day plodding through mud and bushes, crying in despair, afraid for their future.

 

Aggrey’s brother was seven years old at the time.  Unable to carry the big sack of loot that was forced on to his back by the rebels, he stumbled and fell.  The rebels were incensed and beat him to a pulp. Handing Aggrey a large wood pestle, they ordered him to hit his brother on the head; to kill him for being weak.

 

Aggrey said he would rather die than kill his own brother. So as punishment for his disobedience, he was forced on to the ground and with one loud thud, his arm was cut off.  That wasn’t enough to save his brother whose head was smashed with the pestle. One of his sisters was raped in front of him as he lay writhing in agony on the ground. He has never seen either of his sisters again.

 

Aggrey was rescued by Italian missionaries who drove to Namukora after news of the attack there was made known. As soon as he had completed the ‘mandatory’ rehabilitation process, he boarded a bus to Kampala and has not looked back. 

 

What could I say in response? What did I know of such suffering?

 

“I’m sorry Aggrey.”

 

He leaned against the ramshackle with that infuriating grin spreading across his face. “Okay madam. I’m pay for something I’m done bad.”

 

“But you didn’t do anything wrong Aggrey. You didn’t kill you brother. You didn’t cause the madness in this country. You were just a boy!” I protested.

 

“Maybe God he’s pay me for something else I’m done,” he said thoughtfully.

 

“God?” I shouted angrily. “Not God, them! The rebels. The government! Someone else! How can you not see that?”

 

“Ah me, those rebels, me I’m forgive them,” he responded. “Me I’m forgive them.”

 

Forgive, he said. How? I wondered. How?

 

I got into the ramshackle and turned the key, waiting for it to warm up.  Aggrey turned, put his right arm sleeve into his pocket and walked hunched over to the gate. As I drove away, he flashed his half-and-half smile at me and waved.