#WEPff #June challenge - #Year of the Art - my story - Wave After Wave in Search of Freedom

Here we are. Posting for the June WEP challenge for the Year of the Art. This month we honor  Hokusai. Katsushika Hokusai (1760-1849), a  Japanese artist from the Edo period. His painting, Great Wave, is arguably his most famous work. My skin doctor has a huge print in his waiting room for me to meditate on each time I go.

There are so many possible reactions to the Great Wave, but I could never get waves of refugees out of my head. I hope you like my story which is a retelling of one previously posted for an earlier challenge.

Wave After Wave in Search of Freedom

 

Abioye looked down. African red dirt dyed his swollen, ripped feet as he put distance between himself and his desecrated village. Burned and looted, everyone he loved, dead.

 His eyes roved the roadside. He found a rolled-up old mattress, a cringing dog, a goatskin of water. For weeks, he'd been getting his swag together in the village - tins the warlords missed when they swooped into his village, dozens of them crammed in the back of dusty Jeeps painted to blend with the desert. Raiding and raping, they then drove off into the hills, automatic rifles over their shoulders. They stole the UN dried milk tins from the mothers’ tents, taking from the babies' mouths. They stole the rice, showing not a whit of conscience for the starving villagers.

 Then they took more than supplies.

 One day they returned, took the lives of everyone - all the old men, all the women, all the children. The only survivors were young men like him, around the age of sixteen, who roamed the sparse land where the grasses waved in the breeze, giving up edible herbs to those who knew the secrets of the landscape. After a day spent scavenging, he'd returned to unimaginable horror. Heart in mouth, he’d grabbed his swag from where he’d buried it under the one remaining tree … and ran. If the warlords found him, he'd be forced into the life of a boy soldier like so many others who'd disappeared.

 Abioye felt the sob in his throat. How he missed his friends, recently taken to be trained to intimidate, to maim, to murder. 

 He was what they called a refugee. Wave after wave of humans escaping privation, destitution, murderous gangs, a future without hope. Their destination? The boats. The sea. Freedom.

 Boats left from Tangier in Morocco. He'd work in Tangier until he saved the fare. He'd been given the name of a man who hired young men to escort tourists through the medinas*. He knew boats got caught in great waves of murderous seas. Many refugees died. But he’d gladly take the risk. He’d cross the water. To a free land. A land with food. A land with jobs. If all else failed, he would swim across the great waves. It’d been done. He would do whatever it took to reach the new land. Utopia.

 Excitement pulsed through him. It kept his mind off his painful feet and the sun beating down mercilessly on his rag-covered head. He sipped from his meagre water supply. He must make it last. He might walk for months and find no village, no water, no food. 

 The dog cried. He poured a little water into his cupped palm. The dog lapped, not wasting a drop. It licked Abioye's leg. He reached down and patted the mutt’s head.

 He adjusted his makeshift belt made of vines. He'd lost so much weight in the past few days, the trousers slipped over his hips. Now they flapped around his ankles. He laughed at the ridiculous situation, then stopped, afraid he was hysterical from horror or sunstroke. But it didn't matter if he laughed, cried or screamed. There was no one to hear him. He was crossing the Sahara Desert. Alone.

 Rocks tore his feet. He stumbled. Landed on his knees. Sobbed. He couldn’t help it even though he was wasting moisture. The sun. The rough road. The hunger. The thirst. The vision of his parents' burned bodies. His young sisters. His beloved -- How could he go on?

 The dog licked his face. Abioye dragged himself to his feet. He must go on. In memory of his father, his mother, his two sweet sisters, his Candis who’d been promised to him when they were children.

 His head whirled like when his father used to swing him around when he was a little boy. Falling, falling, falling, but never hitting the ground. 

 How long till he reached freedom? Surely, he must soon pass by the green plants that leaked water. Then he and the dog could drink their fill. As he dreamed, moisture formed on the tip of his tongue.

 I'm so tired. I need to sleep. Just for a little while. 

 No. He mustn't stop. To stop was death. Then there'd be no one to remember his family. No one to remember his Candis. He saw her in his mind – her wide smile, her red lips, her teeth pearly white, dazzling him, her short black hair cropped close to her scalp, her graceful long limbs, her colorful, modest dresses that brushed the red sand when she walked.

 I will never forget you, my little love.

 He took another step. For Candis.

 While ever God gave him life, he would press on. To a new life. Away from his cursed land. The land God forgot. Maybe God had turned his back on Africa but still lived in that new land where the boat would take him. Maybe God would welcome him to its shores and surround him with love and plenty. He smiled, imagining the vision.

 He'd seen mirages in the desert many times. A mirage was coming toward him. A big green tank shimmering through the waves.

 Thank you God!

 The mirage came closer. No! A Jeep. Soldiers in the back. Soldiers in the front. Guns pointed. At him.

 He spun around. Away. Away from the killers. Away from bondage. Away from death.

 He heard the dog yelp. Abioye’s throat closed over. Turning, he saw its head a bloody mess and its eyes stared sightless into the searing sky. 

 'Stop or you're next!' One of the soldiers waved his gun, then shot a machine gun round into the air. Takka! Takka! Takka! 

 ‘Don't take another step, boy. Or it’ll be your last.'

 * Medina - the old walled part of a North African town.

WORD COUNT: 958

FCA

PLEASE VISIT OTHER PARTICIPANTS IN THE JUNE CHALLENGE. CLICK ON NAMES IN MY SIDEBAR OR GO TO THE WRITE...EDIT...PUBLISH WEBSITE HERE.

IF YOU LIKE THE IDEA OF WRITING FOR WEP, OUR NEXT CHALLENGE IS FREEDOM OF SPEECH. 

Thanks for coming by and reading.

#WEP/IWSG Challenge - 28 Days. My #flash fiction, Steps to Freedom.

Welcome to my blog! Today I'm posting a little early for the February WEP (Write...Edit...Publish) challenge, 28 Days.

I struggled to come up with an idea for this prompt. 

Finally, it hit me and I began to write faster than I've ever written before. 

I began to imagine this refugee trudging through Africa heading for an imagined freedom. I come from a country where the boats are turned back, not a good look. Nor my belief. My argument is - what did I do to be lucky enough to be born in Australia? Nothing. 

I want to share the fictional Abioye's story. But I'm not sure how fictional it is...

Steps to Freedom

He took another step.

Abioye looked down. He saw red dirt, swollen, ripped feet, and his lengthening shadow. Miles behind him was his village, burned and looted, everyone he loved, dead. Ahead of him lay freedom.

He took another step. 

As he walked, he kept his eyes on the roadside. Already he'd been lucky enough to find a rolled-up mattress, a cringing dog, a goatskin of water to add to his swag. He'd been getting his swag together for weeks - a few tins of supplies the warlords dropped when they swooped into his village and drove off into the hills, automatic rifles over their shoulders. They stole the UN dried milk tins from the mothers’ tents, taking from the babies' mouths. They stole all the rice, showing not a whit of conscience for the starving villagers.

Then they took more than supplies.

When there was nothing left to steal, one day they returned and took the lives of everyone - all the old men, all the women, all the children. The only survivors were the young men like him, young men who roamed the sparse land, looking for edible herbs and grasses in the desert-like landscape. He'd returned at nightfall to the devastation. He ran. If they found him, he'd be forced to become a boy soldier like so many others who'd disappeared.

He took another step. 

Abioye felt the sob in his throat. But he was a man. He refused to cry despite what he'd lost.

He took another step. Then another. And another.

It was the only way forward to the north. To the boats. To the sea. To freedom.

He'd heard stories of boats that left from Tangier in Morocco. Boats to take him across the water to another land. A free land. A land with food. A land with jobs. He'd work in Tangier until he saved enough to board the boat. He'd heard stories of a man who hired young men to escort tourists through the medinas*. He'd heard it took 28 days of working 7 days a week to save enough for his trip to the new land. To Utopia.

He took another step. His feet pained so much he was surprised when they moved. One step. Then another agonizing step. 

The sun beat down mercilessly. He sipped from his meager water supply. He must make it last. He might walk for months and find no village, no water, no food. 

The dog cried. What could Abioye do? He carefully poured a mouthful of water into his palm and the dog lapped, not wasting a drop. It licked his leg in gratitude. Abioye reached down and patted the mutt’s head.

He took another step. 

Every few steps he had to adjust his belt. He'd lost so much weight in the past few days, the belt kept slipping down over his hips. Once he'd forgotten and the next thing he knew his trousers were flapping around his ankles. He laughed at the ridiculous situation, then stopped, afraid he was hysterical from the horror he’d seen. But it didn't matter if he laughed, cried or screamed. There was no one to hear him. He was crossing the Sahara Desert. Alone.

The road became rocky. He stumbled. Landed on his knees. He was sobbing now. He couldn’t help it even though he was wasting moisture. The sun. The rough road. The hunger. The thirst. The vision of his parents' burned bodies. His young sisters. His beloved -- How could he go on?

The dog licked his face. Abioye dragged himself to his feet. He had to go on. In memory of his father, his mother, his two sweet sisters, his Candis who’d been promised to him when they were both three years old. They were all alive in his head.

Abioye took another step.

He felt like he was falling, not walking. Falling, falling, falling, but never hitting the ground. 

How long had he been on the road? Was it 28 days already? Surely, soon, he must pass by the green plants that leaked water. Then he and the dog could drink their fill. He felt the moisture on the tip of his tongue as he dreamed of it.

I'm so tired. I need to sleep. On my mattress. Just for a little while. 

He took another step.

Toward the edge of the road.

He mustn't stop. To stop was death. Then there'd be no one to remember his family. No one to remember his Candis. He saw her in his mind – her wide smile, her red lips, her teeth pearly white, dazzling him, her short black hair cropped close to her scalp, her graceful long limbs, her colourful dresses that brushed the ground when she walked.

I will never forget you, my eternal love.

He took another step.

Whether it took 28 days or a year, he would press on. He would make a new life. Away from his cursed land. The land that God forgot. Maybe God had turned his back on Africa but still lived in that new land where the boat would take him. Maybe God would welcome him to its shores and surround him with love and plenty. Instead of sobbing, he smiled.

He'd seen mirages in the desert many times. A mirage was coming toward him. A big green tank shimmering through the waves. Surely it was full of water.

He took another step.

The mirage came closer. No! It was a jeep. Soldiers in the back. Soldiers in the front. Guns pointed. At him.

He spun around and took another step. Away. Away from the killers. Away from bondage. Away from death.

He heard the dog yelp. His throat closed over. Turning, he saw its head a bloody mess and its eyes stared sightless into the searing sky. 

'Stop or you're next!' One of the soldiers waved his gun, then shot a round into the air. Crack! Crack! Crack! 

'Don't take another step, boy. Or you're dead.'

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

* Medina - the old walled part of a North African town.

WORD COUNT: 976
FCA 

Thank you for reading. Please join us if you have an entry that would fit 28 Days. If not, please consider joining us for April's WEP challenge - JEWEL BOX.