Here's the start to a story that I've began writing. I'd like to get some feedback from you folks, if you'll read it
Also, please note that this story is set in a fictional world, and so some places may not actually exist.
10 Years Ago, Abak, Agbada
The sun beat down hard on the backs of farm laborers in Abak, Agbada. Very few of the workers had any shirts on. The punishing heat made it impossible to work with clothes on, and the economic realities of the situation made owning work clothes impractical. Working hard with plows, many of the workers looked as though they could pass out at any minute. Over 70% of Abak’s adult male population worked on one of the three farms in the village. Of the three farms, none were owned by black men. The white men in the village were the over-privileged few, the resented slime in the eyes of Abak’s black population.
The three elegant manor houses of the farm owners set themselves far apart from the average for the village. Their access to running water and electricity earned them the title of ‘luxury houses,’ and was the only ones of their kind for miles. The average, run-of-the-mill home in Abak was quite different from that of the middle class farm owners. The average home was made of mud and straw, and had one room only for an entire family to live in. The one room was often circular with a diameter of no more than six meters, and electric appliances were generally nonexistent. This lower class of the village, which made up over 99% of its population, shared a single well from which water was drawn. The electricity generators in the city were second-rate rejects from the big cities, and worked less than 50% of the time due to the expenses involved in running them.
Across the village from the farm, a mob of boys played football on an improvised course while girls stood on the sidelines cheering for their friends. The field itself was far from regulation. Its uneven dirt surface was nestled kindly near tall trees and thick brush. Puddles of mud lay scattered across the field, and yet still a soccer ball made of straw and colored hide bounced between the feet of children who had nothing better to do. Goals made from two sticks stuck in the ground were guarded viciously by goalies that were just as pathetically skinny and barefooted as all the other kids. The game progressed as any game elsewhere would, with the kids exercising their ability to play eagerly.
One of these kids stood out from the rest in his competitive drive. He was short and many would have expected him to be weak in spirit, but this was not the case. He ran down the field pacing a rival closely, looking for his teammates. When he saw no one nearby, he decided to take action into his own hands. He stole the ball quickly, turned around, and made a mad rush for the goal. Girls on the sidelines yellowed loudly. “Go Sani, go!” Sani ran fast towards his target goal, and, as if doing a dance, slid into the ball to knock it into the intended goal post. He held out his arms and did a small dance in his triumph, getting a pleased reaction from the ‘crowd.’ He had just won the game in a landslide victory.
After the game was over, Sani took his things and went back to his hut. He had a wide smile on his face as he greeted his mother. “Mama, we won!” He said joyously. Sani himself was a small, 12 year old boy with a large head and large feet. His awkward appearance was distorted severely by malnutrition. His skin was as dark as dark could ever be, and his eyes did not look brown, but instead rather black themselves. He wore no shirt, and his ribs could be seen clearly. His only garment of clothing was an old-beat up pair of pants.
His mother had a similar appearance. Her features were distorted from years of hard life. “Excellent job, Sani,” she said encouragingly.
“When will Papa be home?” Sani questioned. “The sun is almost down, shouldn’t he be back already?”
“Mister Johnson had him work later today for the large harvest. He should be bringing home some extra foods for us today though.”
Outside the hut, the sounds of a car’s engine could be heard. Loud music was being blown out of its speakers. “Who could that be?” Sani asked.
“I don’t know. Mr. Johnson is the only one around here with a big car, and he doesn’t have any reason to drive through this part of town,” mama said questioningly. “Maybe he’s giving papa a ride home for his extra hard work today,” she added. Even as she said this, she found herself doubting it. No matter how hard anybody worked, the cold-as-ice Mr. Johnson wouldn’t go out of his way to help a black man.
Outside, the sounds of car doors shutting could be heard loudly. What followed next were three loud gunshots in quick succession. Suddenly, everyone stepped outside to see what was going on. Holding an AK-47 in the air was a man dressed in an open vest, with a red beret on. He stood next to an old jeep-looking car. He wore large aviator glasses. He spat on the ground, held his rifle closer to him, and then spoke coldly. “I am Oblaki of the Ibokari militia. General Kutigi has been overthrown by the military. The new President, General Bankole, has ordered us Ibokari in charge of this village,” a small smirk drew high across his face.
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Returning now from work, many men who’d just been on the farms were headed home. Sani’s father, Dimeji, was walking with his neighbor. In their hands, each held a machete. As they walked down the dirt road, a woman ran out of her hut frightened. Dimeji, perplexed, approached her. “Ma’am, what is wrong with you?”
“The militias. They have found their way to our village,” as she spoke, the woman’s voice was shakey.
“The militias, ma’am?” Panic suddenly struck Dimeji and his neighbor.
“Yes, the militias!”
Suddenly consumed by fear for his family, Dimeji ran down the road. He was now in a race against time. He knew the brutality of the militias. They had no regard for human life. Dimeji even saw a few bodies lying in the road, bullets in their guts. Further panic stricken, and with just one more mile to go, Dimeji prepared himself for the worst. He was determined to save his family.
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Oblaki continued to show his control over Abak. “Things in this village are going to be different now, to be sure. General Bankole means business in his takeover,” Oblaki’s tough smirk came on once again. “In order to ensure all of your protection, however, my militia demands concession.” The crowd that had gathered was quite and mesmerized by the sudden change that life had just taken. One hour all was good, and in the next they were invaded. “Every family will be required to send one man to the Ibokari militia to keep the dissidents under control. If a family has no man to contribute, then they must contribute a woman to satisfy our men.”
Dacia, a single mother with a three year old son spoke out. “What of myself? My son is too young to go off with you militias.” She was frightened. She knew she should not have spoken.
“You will give us your son. We will take good care of him ma’am, I assure you.”
“I will not give up my son,” she said sternly.
“Then you must give your son to another woman in this village and come with us. You will act as a whore without the pay of a lone woman,” said Oblaki crudely. He looked her over. “Perhaps you could be my own personal mistress?” He took off his glasses and suggestively winked at her.
“I’d just as soon die.” Dacia said with a fire in her eyes.
Oblaki suddenly was not so playful in tone. He stepped towards her and slapped her. “You do not talk back to me, whore. Get in the truck. We’ll have your baby to.” When Dacia did nothing, another man left the militia jeep and grabbed her, tied her up, and threw her into the car by excessive display of force. The baby was grabbed as well, and given to a militiaman. “Anyone else want to question my judgment?” Oblaki questioned everybody. When nobody said anything, he continued. “One man from every family. We will be back to claim you all tomorrow. Say your good-byes tonight.” Oblaki lit a cigarette and walked back into his jeep. The militia had left just as soon as they’d come. The sounds of them letting off victory rounds could be heard.
Dimenji was now back at the town center, seeing the militia van drive away as he arrived. The panic-stricken crowd signaled to him that he was far too late. Frightened children now shed open tears. In fact, almost all of the children, including Sani, looked as though they’d been tear-gassed. As the crowd broke up, Dimenji was quick to find his wife and son back at the hut. He entered to find Sani cradled in his mother’s arms, both of them crying. Dimenji would have to leave them. There was no way of escaping this sick twist of fate.
They explained to Dimenji what had happened. For a few more hours, the village was quite. Abak as a community had but two options. They could either comply with the militia’s demands, or form their own defensive militia without firearms and die resisting. Not willing to risk any more lives than necessary, it was generally out of the question to think about fighting back. The militia’s had won.
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Later that night, after Sani had fallen asleep, Dimenji and his wife spoke about the situation over candlelight. “Rusha, I do not want my son to be left exposed to this. We need to find a way to escape this place.”
“But how Dimenji? Understand that we are just poor folk. The rich white men do not care about us enough to help us leave. The government condones these militia’s, so there is no way they’ll help us! What can we do?”
“Rusha, Mr. Johnson has cars. More than he knows what to do with.”
“But Dimenji, he will not let us take one! Are you mad?”
“Rusha, we must take them. It is the only hope we have for Sani. He can’t grow up without a father in this village, and he cannot go about this world without a family. We need to escape. All of us.”
“I understand. But what if this goes bad? What if Mr. Johnson finds out it’s you who stole his car? If you’re caught, he’ll kill you.”
“And if we do know nothing, the militias will kill us all. Rusha, we must go through with this. And we must do this tonight.”
“We know nothing of cars. How do you plan to get his keys?”
“I took them many months ago. He’s convinced he just lost them. ”
“You do not know how to drive.”
“I’ve been to the city enough times to see how it is done. Now, go, wake up Sani.”
“Yes, Dimenji. I’ll wake up Sani.”
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Hours later, the family was out in the night in front of Mr. Johnson’s garage. The building was locked. Dimenji had already stolen a pair of car keys, and now they needed only to find the car. Quickly, Dimenji broke down the door. Sani nervously looked around. The coast was clear.
It was soon determined that the keys belonged to the red sports car in Mr. Johnson’s garage. The family quickly commandeered the car. As they pulled out of the drive way, Mr. Johnson’s lights flickered. He ran out of the house with a shotgun, yelling at the family as they drove away and letting off a few useless shots into the night.
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It was not much longer before the family was outside the village. Small campfires peppered the areas in the jungle that the militia’s camps inhabited. The roads were surely not fit for modern cars to drive on, but they made due. “Remain quite, everybody,” Dimenji advised. “If the militia’s awake, we are done for.”
Dimenji’s warning did not make a difference. As soon as they left the first road, a militia vehicle’s headlight shone on them. “Damnit, we’ve been caught!” yelled Rusha. “Drive fast, maybe we can outrun them!”
Dimenji stepped on the accelerator. Sani, terrified, remained quite the entire night. He did not have anything to say, and did not think anything he did say would matter in any case. The militia vehicle kept pace with them, shooting bullets at their tires as they went along. Finally, Dimenji realized the situation was hopeless. “I’ll give myself up. Rusha, you take Sani and leave this country. Any means possible. Leave this continent. I hear that some countries in Europe are accepting refugees, even helping them get there. I’m giving myself up. You must keep driving. If you fail, I will see you on the other side.”
Rusha understood. Dimenji kissed her, and then looked back at sani. “Be strong, Sani. Know that papa loves you.” Dimenji stopped the car, got out, and ran. The militia’s vehicle gave up pursuit, and instead chased after Dimenji. Rusha took the wheel and clumsily drove off.
