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Hymar David<br />
Angels <strong>of</strong> Redemption<br />
more pronounced.<br />
“We are the messengers <strong>of</strong> Allah,” Mallam Ibrahim starts speaking. “We are sent to bring judgement<br />
on this world <strong>of</strong> infidels.”<br />
You don’t get it. How’s your father an infidel, or your mother? Quiet people who lived devout lives.<br />
Your father was always scolding you and your sister, but he never once hit either <strong>of</strong> you. And your<br />
mother had a voice so s<strong>of</strong>t, every word was music, beautiful music.<br />
You listen to him. His voice rises and rises like firewood smoke ascending to become clouds. The<br />
boys shed their sober demeanours. Their voices rise in cheer and defiant chants. Reflexively, you<br />
join in. Your voice is not yours, it is too loud, too impassioned, too much like theirs.<br />
The women finish the cooking and pass steaming platefuls around. The food scalds your tongue<br />
and makes your eyes to water. But you eat every grain, even flicking the runaway pieces on your<br />
shirt into your mouth. As you do that, your mother’s voice echoes in your head, “Stop eating like a<br />
beggar,” and nostalgia washes over you again. For a place that used to be home.<br />
Night comes, you lie awake, staring at the stars from an aperture in the ro<strong>of</strong> where the grass parts<br />
wide enough. Sleeping bodies surround you.<br />
Sleep robs the boys <strong>of</strong> their aggression and bloodlust. They are boys once more. Boys whimpering<br />
in their sleep, boys sleeptalking. Boys lying there, innocent, pure and at peace with the world. Your<br />
playmates. And friends.<br />
7
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