CHAPTER 15

They stopped at the edge of a dry creek and rested on some boulders. There were twenty of them, six women who were now widows, and their children, and they huddled together in the predawn darkness and whispered now and then. Beatrice knew two of the other women; all were from her village. All believed that their husbands and sons were dead, though they could not yet dwell on the massacre. It felt as though it was still happening.

They were desperately thirsty and hungry and had nothing but the clothes they were wearing. The smallest children whimpered and clutched their mothers, who were dazed, exhausted, and stricken with fear. They did not know where they were, nor where they were going. They weren’t sure they were fleeing the carnage in one general direction, or whether they had been moving in circles. The narrow footpaths they had tried to follow forked and twisted and led them nowhere. Several times during the night they were aware of others moving silently in the pitch blackness of the woods.

The sky to the east began to lighten, so they at least had a sense of direction. East over there, north to its left. But what did it matter when they had no destination? All that mattered was food and water. And safety. There were no sounds; no gunfire, no trucks. Nothing. Did the silence mean they were safe?

Emmanuel, a teenage boy from Lotta, appeared and asked if he could join them. Of course he could, but they had nothing to offer. He said he had passed a small farm an hour earlier and thought they should try to find it. Maybe the farmer would give them food and water and tell them where to go.

Beatrice asked him if he had seen Angelina but knew the question was useless. He did not know her. His own family had been slaughtered by the rebels—mother, father, three older brothers. If he had a gun he would go back and kill the rebels. Going back might be suicide but they still wanted to see their homes. Maybe there were survivors. Maybe Angelina had somehow been spared. And maybe Ayak had escaped and was looking for them. Beatrice desperately wanted to go search for her daughter and husband.

Emmanuel said that he had escaped into the woods and climbed high into a tree on a hill, and from there he had watched the village burn. There was nothing left. The gunfire had continued as the rebels executed the men.

Weak and bone-weary, they followed Emmanuel along the creek bed, hoping to find a pool of water or even a puddle, but it was the dry season and the ground was parched and cracked. The sun was up and getting hotter, but mercifully the creek ran beside the woods and there was shade. Emmanuel turned onto a dirt path made by livestock and they walked half a mile and stopped. He told them to sit and wait while he approached the farmer and asked for help. They waited in the shade and listened for sounds of other people, possibly soldiers. They prayed for food and water.

Emmanuel came back with nothing. The farmer had little food for his own family and he was out of water. He said they were about six miles south of Lotta and that other villagers had stopped by in the night, begging for help. He felt sorry for them but had nothing to share. There was a camp further south and he had heard the rumor that there was water and shelter there. That sliver of hope lifted their spirits somewhat, and they began walking.

And walking.

· · ·

The coaches were up early. They ignored the free breakfast in the lobby and took their coffee to the conference room where they opened their laptops and began searching. There was nothing on the U. S. sites, nothing out of Johannesburg. The BBC was reporting a fierce conflict in and around the city of Rumbek, but the story was not significant. After decades of conflict and massacres, and broken peace accords, and countless dead civilians, more bad news from South Sudan was not worthy of coverage.

On the fourth try, Ecko got the lieutenant on his sat phone. According to him, the battle had shifted and their army was gaining on the rebels. They hoped to reclaim the villages in a day or so. Lotta was still controlled by the rebels and it was in the hardest hit area.

The lieutenant asked about Samuel, and Ecko said things were awful. No, he did not know if Samuel had relatives in other parts of the country.

Ecko called a coach in Juba but the guy knew almost nothing. They were fighting in and around Rumbek, but there was plenty of bad news across the entire region. The coach promised to work the phones and call back if he found something.

After an hour, they had learned little. Evidently, Samuel was the only player touched by the fighting. The other nine from the country had all spoken to their families the day before.

Frankie said, “I sort of hate to bring this up, but we have a game at two o’clock. ”

“Oh yeah. That. Any ideas? Our team is not exactly in a competitive mood right now. ”

“But we have to play. Right? ”

“The boys will want to play, I’m sure of it. ”

“And Samuel? ”

“Let’s talk to him. ”

Game Seven: South Sudan versus the United Kingdom

There was no chatter in the vans as Ecko and Frankie drove the team to Rollins College for the seventh and final game. None of the usual banter and joking, no singing. The players had convinced Samuel to dress out and sit with them on the bench, so they could stay close to him. He had no desire to play and just wanted to leave and go find his family.

It was Frankie’s idea to start the five from the States, including Dak Marial and Jimmie Abaloy. Perhaps they might not be as affected as their teammates from home. Besides, it was their strongest lineup and a rousing start might inspire the others. The U. K. team had won three straight and its two losses had been by a combined six points.

Watching his team warm up, though, Ecko knew they were in trouble. They were listless. The smiles were gone. He tried to fire them up with his usual pre-tip-off pep talk and warned them of what they already knew. A loss would send them packing.

Fortunately, the U. K. came out cold and missed its first four shots. Dak hit his first two short jumpers and yelled at his teammates on defense. When Jimmie Abaloy took a low-percentage shot from too far away, Ecko yanked him out of the game and chewed on him. Anything to get their attention.

Samuel sat between his coaches and tried to encourage his friends, but the bench was flat. After the first 10 minutes the game was tied at 14, and Ecko sent in his B squad. Midway through the second period, the U. K. ’s star forward took charge of the game and couldn’t be stopped. His name was Abol Pach, and, to rub salt in the wounds, he was one of them. He had been born in London to Sudanese parents from Juba, and he had verbally committed to Michigan State. Pach hit from everywhere—behind the arc, the top of the key, inside, outside. When pressed he streaked to the basket and slammed down impressive dunks. Pach scored 14 points in the second period alone and his team led by 10.

The sky was falling and there was no way to stop it. Ecko put in his best players and they chipped away at the lead, but Pach was on fire and wanted the ball. When he hit back-to-back bombs, the air left the building for the boys from South Sudan.

There were tears in the locker room and little was said. Ecko and Frankie talked to them, told them how proud they were, what an honor it was to coach such great people. Samuel sat in a corner, blaming himself for everything. But his thoughts were back in Lotta and he just wanted to go home.

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