In the dim glare of the fireworks, Dongona shed a tear. It was a tear of joy. Though he was far away from the frenzied crowd milling hundreds of feet thick around the flagpole, he could not afford to show emotion. He was a military man. He flicked off the single tear with his right thumb. He didn’t have a left thumb or forefinger. A lot had been lost in the war.
He clenched his right fist over his chest with the belting of the first few notes of the familiar tune. It crackled metallically from the Ahuja horn speakers. This was the first time the military band was playing it in public. The hundreds of thousands of dark faces quieted down in awe. A great many of them were hearing their national anthem for the first time. It was a sacred moment. They would proudly narrate this to their children’s children. They would remember every detail of this moment.
His thumb traced the thick scar running across the left side of his chest. He had paid dearly for the struggle. He tried to remember what she would have looked like standing by his side. How many years had it been? How old would his son have been? He had spent too much time in thick bush and dark caves. He could not remember. None of it mattered anymore. This was a new beginning. There was a new nation to be built. This was not a time to succumb to weakness. It was a time to show strength and it was a time for tolerance and forgiveness. They would have to live together now. He could hardly believe it himself. He was free of the red hot hatred that had seared in his heart all those years. It had achieved its purpose in the bush, but it no longer had a place in his life. He was at peace now.
He mouthed each word of the anthem. He felt honoured that he knew the words beforehand. He had waited a long time for this moment. It was only when the anthem gave way to a thunderous roar that he was sure that he wasn’t dreaming. The bush did things to your mind that you were incapable of explaining. But things were different, he said to himself. He heaved a sigh and started his way back home over the brow of the hill. He had a motor cycle now. The general had been kind enough to give it to him. Some fleeing Kaburus had left everything they couldn’t carry away with them. He liked the machine, but he felt a pang of guilt every time he rode it out of the hovel he called home. He knew things would get better. The General had promised to look into his matter. It was difficult to get through to the General. He understood the General was busy. “Once things quiet down he’ll send for me,” he thought. “I was a good soldier and I followed orders. I did what needed to be done. He’ll send for me”.
He knew the party would last well into the week. The restrictions had been lifted. Tonight the drums would not be silent. The people would enjoy their traditional beer without being ferreted out of their shacks by the traitors. The traitors had been good at sniffing out the beer dens. He wouldn’t have any of that beer. It was a source of weakness that he had watched creeping into the lives of his people. Much like the sickness that had eaten away at his mother; a weakness that he was powerless to do anything about. He thought about his people and wondered how it had come to this. But he had a job to do the next morning. It wasn’t worth much, but it would keep him busy.
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