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As the truck begins to gallop away, I waved goodbye to South Tinè a lawless land full of daggers where bullets and missiles are sold in open air markets alongside with fresh tomatoes, a land where the Zakawans and Arabs have been tearing each other for supremacy.
I also waved goodbye to North Tinè, just across the dried sandy river belt, a frozen town full of ghost, empty houses without roofs, doors and windows with strange sound, decorated with bullet holes, thick blood stains and empty bomb shells, a small rotten hidden crime; a constant reminder that where there is no water there is no peace.
As the rusty Land Rover truck struggled to gather paste across the bumpy rocky desert floor in a half moon night, we are constantly jerked up like excited electrons and then free fall back to the ground state energy level. The crying of the baby on board filled the other half of the night. Oxy and Gabasan cackled uncontrollably about Rasta.
Some five hours ago before the journey began, Rasta had cried profusely like a weaned child and refused to climb on board. He said he had seen his grandma in a dream crying in a graveyard and begging him not to enter the truck.It took us an agonizing five hours to make him change his mind and climb on the truck. Rasta was a young man with a completely trashed childhood by the bloody Liberian civil war. The dark complexion on his scarred skin that came with prolong exposure to punishable sun shine, tells the story of someone who has constantly been on the run for thirteen years.
The small truck was pulling a twenty six passenger workload; four sat in front and the rest of us squeezed each other behind the tiny boot.
The first light of dawn revealed the vastness of the rocky desert with mountain crest piercing the sky and sandy lines cutting through the landscape like human veins.
Suddenly, the truck started slowing down. I peeped in front and saw four men brandishing their rifles. Just as the truck was about to stop, it fired on. The men opened fire. Streams of bullets pounded the truck like heavy rain. The truck staggered for about five minutes before grounding in to a halt. We slipped off onto the sand. Sharp scream came from all direction mixed with high pitch crying. My heart racing, my eyes flipped round my body to see if I was made of blood. Gabasan appeared bloodless. Oxy was bleeding. Rasta was sucked in blood. He has been shot by not less than seven bullets. He gasped for air, his fingers and legs shake.