CHAPTER 6

There was no welcoming party at the terminal in Rumbek. Samuel saw no one he knew. The bus was hours late and he was not expecting anyone to wait on him. He flagged a moto-taxi and hopped on the back, clutching his two bags. The driver, a kid of no more than fifteen, handled the bike like all the rest, reckless and daring and determined to terrify his passenger. Samuel hung on for his life and managed to follow the custom of not complaining about the daredevil antics. The walk to Lotta was three miles and would have taken an hour under a blazing sun. The taxi ride was twenty cents, so Samuel splurged and laughed to himself about spending big money now that he was a star.

Beatrice was behind the house watering her vegetables when she heard Angelina squeal with excitement. She ran inside and saw Samuel standing in the kitchen, wearing a South Sudan practice tee shirt, modeling it like he owned the world. “I made the team, Mom! ” he yelled as he grabbed his mother and lifted her into the air. Beatrice hugged him back and began crying as Angelina bounced around the house, looking for someone else to tell. Finding no one, she ran into the street with the unbelievable news and within seconds the neighbors knew that their dream had come true. Samuel Sooleymon was going to play basketball in America!

A second celebration materialized within the hour as the village gathered on the street in front of the house. As Ayak came home from school with James and Chol, a loud cheer went up when Samuel ran to greet them. The neighbors brought boiled peanuts, sesame snacks, cinnamon tea, and mandazi, a popular fried pastry.

Samuel proudly showed off his new weapon, a Spalding NBA Street Ball, and explained that it was made of a durable rubber and designed for outdoor play. He tossed it to James who passed to a friend and before long the shiny new ball was crisscrossing through the crowd as the older boys passed it, held it long enough to admire, then zipped it to the next one. A radio began playing music as the day grew long and the shadows crept in.

As the sun set, the most glorious day in Lotta’s history was coming to an end, and there was so much hope for even more excitement. Their native son was on his way.

· · ·

The family sat in the dark house until late in the night, talking and laughing and dreaming of what might happen in America. Back on the bus, Samuel had decided not to tell his family about the bandits, the soldiers, the ambush, the smoldering corpses. He would be on the bus again in early July as he headed back to Juba for the trip and he did not want them to worry.

Later in bed, though, he could not shake the image of the young boy being killed for no reason. He was about the same size and age of Chol, who was twelve. Who was he? Where was he from? Did he have family? How did he end up raiding highways with a gang of thieves? Would anyone grieve over his death? Would anyone even know about it?

And though the soldiers had done their duty and probably saved a few lives with their ambush, Samuel was still bothered by the ease with which they killed and the complete lack of remorse over any of it. They had laughed as they watched the fire. They had reboarded the bus as if nothing had happened. Was it possible to kill so many and do it so often that they had become numb to any feelings? But they were young, like Samuel. Their fathers and grandfathers had probably fought the North in civil wars that lasted for fifty years. They had grown up with violence and killing. It didn’t bother them. Now, with yet another civil war raging through South Sudan, the bloodshed and atrocities were only getting worse.

Beatrice had a cousin who’d been murdered in a village slaughter only an hour away. Everyone in South Sudan had a story.

From burning bodies to basketball glories, Samuel’s mind raced back and forth when he should have been sleeping.

He woke up at dawn and felt tired, but life had a new meaning and there were important matters at hand. He dressed, gathered his eggs, swallowed breakfast in three bites, kissed his mother goodbye, and took off down the road, backpack over his shoulder and his new street ball bouncing away. All alone on the dirt court where he had spent half his childhood, Samuel vowed to perfect his jump shot with endless hours of practice. He would see Coach Ecko Lam and his new teammates in just over two months when they reunited in Juba for a week of practice, and he was determined to handle the ball like Steph Curry, shoot like Kobe, and play both ends like LeBron. No one would work harder. No one would spend more time on the courts than Samuel.

At seven, James and Chol appeared with their old basketball. Three more boys arrived with theirs. The five became rebounders and feeders as they retrieved Samuel’s shots and fed the ball back to him.

Ball high, elbow aimed, shoulders squared, an easy jump. Samuel repeated Coach Lam’s instructions before each shot. And for some reason he counted. After 200 he began to tire. At 300, it was time for school.

He’d read that Kobe took 500 shots a day when he was a teenager. He’d also read that Steph Curry once hit 77-straight three-point shots in practice. He liked those numbers.

· · ·

At the end of May, Samuel finished his final year of secondary studies and was given a certificate in an outdoor graduation ceremony. There were ten others in his class, all boys, and their principal reminded them of how lucky they were to complete their studies. Across their young and troubled nation, only a third of all boys got a certificate. One in ten for the girls, and those graduates were found only in the cities.

Samuel had applied to the University of Juba and been accepted. He planned to enroll there in the fall, though he did not have enough money for the meager tuition and expenses. If things didn’t work out in the U. S., he would return home, move to Juba, find part-time work, hustle for student aid, and somehow get by as another starving college boy. He had seen the bright lights, was about to see even brighter ones, and vowed to seek a better life away from the poverty and violence of the bush.

Those thoughts, though, were rather remote as he proudly held his certificate and listened to the principal go on and on about the country’s need for younger leadership. He tried to listen but his thoughts were on July and the trip of a lifetime, the incredible opportunity to play in front of college scouts. He did not want to spend the next year studying economics or medicine at the University of Juba.

· · ·

The send-off was not what the neighbors wanted. They fancied another block party with music and dancing late into the night. Beatrice and Ayak were grateful but felt otherwise. They wanted their son to go to bed early, get plenty of sleep, and make a quick getaway.

The family breakfast was quiet. They ate eggs and pastries and drank tamarind fruit juice, coffee for the adults. Angelina, James, and Chol were torn between the excitement of their brother’s big adventure, and the sadness, even fear, of him leaving home. The family had always been together, and the thought of Samuel going away, now or next month for university, was unsettling.

He joked with his siblings and promised to send postcards, though mail service in rural South Sudan was virtually nonexistent. He promised to call whenever he could. Coach Lam, of course, had a cell phone and had promised to devise a method of calling home, though it seemed unlikely the family would get a call so far from Juba.

When it was time to go he grabbed his carefully packed gym bag and stepped outside where a dozen neighbors loitered in the front yard to say goodbye. He thanked them, hugged a few, then hugged his siblings. Angelina was wiping tears. Beatrice gave him a small cardboard box filled with food for the bus ride, and he hugged his mother for a long time.

For the occasion, a cousin who owned one of the few pickup trucks in the village had washed the dirt and mud off and parked it in front of the house. The tailgate was down. He took Samuel’s gym bag, tossed it in, and patted a cushion on the tailgate. A throne for the guest of honor. As the crowd inched closer, Ayak pulled a small envelope out of his pocket and gave it to his son.

“What is it? ” Samuel asked.

“It’s money, cash. From all of your friends. They collected a few coins from everyone and the bank converted them to pounds. About ten. ”

“Ten pounds? ” Samuel asked in disbelief.

“Yes. ”

“That’s far too much money, Father. ”

“I know. But you can’t give it back, can you? ”

Samuel wiped his eyes and stuffed the envelope into a front pocket of his only pair of pants. He looked into the faces of his friends and neighbors and softly said, “Thank you, thank you. ”

His cousin said, “We’re going to miss the bus. ” He got behind the wheel, slammed the door, and started the engine.

Ayak stepped forward and embraced Samuel. “Make us proud, ” he said.

“I will. I promise. ” Samuel took his place on the cushioned tailgate, his long legs dangling almost to the dirt street. He waved at Beatrice and his siblings, nodded again at his father as the truck moved away.

Ayak stood there, waving goodbye as only a proud father can do.

Samuel returned the wave and wiped his cheek.

He would never see his father again.

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