M’Komboti

Acoli

“Mama, Mama, amito bedo lamony ka adongo”, awaco lok man ikare ma mama onongo tye karuku bongo ikoma me cito igang kwan.

En onyero ci openyo-: “Ngo ma oyomo cwinyi ibedo lamony ma latin awobi maryek calo in mito imony?

“An amito bedo calo M’komboti”, awace kit menu.

M’komboti nongo obedo oteka-na, dok I odik-ko enuni ma an atye kangwec me cito igang kwan abedo katamo kit ma en ongwel kwede, kit ma war-ne ryeny kwede ki kit ma luduku-ne mil kwede maleng ni mak –mak.

Wan onongo wabedo inget gang mony dok M’komboti nongo maro bino ka limo wa kare-ki kare, dok ikare mukene nongo en woto ki lareme mo ma kome onongo tidi tutwal dok en onongo pe nen calo lamony matwal. En pol kare nongo kel-la cwit ki odeyo pa mony malim-mi (bicikwit). Inino mo acel en owac-ca ni:

“Musa, pingo inino mo kong pe ibin igang mony (barracks) wek inen kit ma lumony kwo kwede.

Mama otemo gengo M’komboti pe me bito cwinya, kun Waconi:

“Pe omyero item bito cwiny latin-ni- pien en pwod latin awobi matidi”.

“Meno lok atata”, “M’komboti ogamo kun woto ki bol-la i eme, “lutino awobe weng gi mito bedo lumony, pe ku meno Musa?”

“Eyoo”, an aye, kun ayengo wiya ki miti matek.

Ci inino moo acel dong adonyo igang pa lumonyi kama onongo con aneno wii-odi ma kiyubu alunga ki bati ma pol dano lwongo ni unipot. M’komboti ocwalo an matut ikin odi paka naka wa-oo I otte ma ngat mo ma cinge myel ocoyo ikome nama 51. En oweko cinga wek iyeny layab dogola ne ikin te jeba ne malac-dok madwong-oo ataa ikom uniform ne ma abaca bac. Ma en onongo layab, oyabo dogola ci wadonyo iot. En owaco ni ibikato icuron ma woko kong.

Ma acung kenyu ka kure, wanga opoto ikom muduku pistol matye iwi kabuto. M’komboti pol kare nongo tingu royo idel muduku ipyere. Onongo pol kare alege ni owek amak kong ento en onongo pe yee pire. Atuki kwanyo ne icinga. A nongo kom muduku ne ngic dok pek ma amako ki cinga aryo. En ikom cawa enuni aye M’komboti onguka.

“Eh, eh, eh”, en odange- “ket ping”. En okwanyo pistol ki bota. “Pistol pe pa lutino awobe ma tino; gin obedo pi coo madito”. Kijulu, a yengo wiya ping-malo kun aye ma cwinya peke iye. Ci wic owil i lokke ma wabedo piny ka mato cai kawa ki biskwit.

Abedo ka limo M’komboti i ott unipote ni tere-tere. Bedo calo Odeyo malim pa munu (biskwit) ma I gang-nge-ni nongo dwong ma pe tum, dok ipol kare ducu ka an acito gangnge abedo piny amato cai kawa malyet , awoto ki nyero ka aneno M’komboti tye kayele katemo myel. En nongo tem-me me yengnge dok turu wang-mwot-te mot mot wek orwat-te ki kit ma dwon tum-tye kakoko kwede. Inino mo acel an anyero en ci en owac-ca ni

“lutino awobe matino myero pe gunyee ludito; An dong adit atwero bedo woru kulu”.

An amed-de kinyero-na. I atura en openynya:

“In woru tye kwene”?

An pe angeyo. An pwod peya aneno-en dok maa bene pwod peya owac-ca lok mo mapol tutwal ma mako kome. En owaca-ni “en…en…oto woko….”. M’komboti oturu ki juk-ku myel-le ni ci obino bota. En owac-ca ni, “Obedo rac dok do”, obedo ka yweyo lema mot-mot me kweyo cwinya. Ki bwunu en owac-ca ni “pe ikoki pien ka imed-de kwede ci abiwaco woko bot Esther”. Esther nongo bedo igang mony. En nongo obedo nyako mo ma an anyutu mitina ikome dok M’komboti nongo ocik-ke me cunu en bota. “Imito ni awac bote ni in ikok calo latin matidi? Ee..ee…ee.” En odiyo wange tung-cel kayako obedo kacora ki tung gwoka.

“Ku”, agamo, kun ateme matek pe me nyero.

En omed-de ki myel-le-ni kun woto ki wiro adegi-ne calo dano matye kawinyo miti me kom (KWELE).

Nongo dong pe atwero kanyo-ne ci aturu ki kako twon nyero mo matek dok malongo li kwak-kak-kak-kak…

M’komboti nen calo nongo obedo dano mo ma olony. Ikare ducu ka an acito gong-nge nongo en tye ki kit gin mo manyen ma myero onyut bota. Inino mo acel en onyut-ta cawa ngut-cing ma-ryeny aryenya lidang-dang gin abicel.

Dok dong obedo inino mo acel ma en obedo piny kun woto ki dunyu luduku-ne AK47 an awac-ce ni: “M’komboti in in nen calo ilony baa, wek ibed ki kerome wil-lo jami magi ducu”. En onongo otyeko dunyu luduku-ne icawa meno ci oilo malo otelo lagwel-le. Ma en tye katelo lagwel-le ci kom luduku oiwo li ra-ka-kak. Lareme ma kome tidini ocako nyero, ci onyutu lake woko ma otop dok kwar calo rangi. M’komboti olok-ke bota kun woto ki buny:

Abi-mini gin mo “kadogo” (gin weng nongo gin lwonga kit meno ki igang monyi) kit ma meni, obedo larema matek tutwal-li. “In imito ngo?”

“Lela”, aturu ki gamo lok-ke aruya labongo gal-le,

“Manyutu ni in dong imito bedo laco madit do, eh? M’komboti openyo ma kun woto ki nyero, “ayela pe. Abineno gin ma atwero timone boti”.

Aringo adok paco ma nongo yomcwiny oketa woko ki miti me nongo lela-na wang tyen me acel-le. Acako tamo ne ni abiringo ki lela-na-ni acito kwede wa igang kwan kun nongo atweyo kica buk-ka ingeye. Ceng ducu i otyeno inge icawa me gang kwan aringo acito i gang mony ki tam ni abinongo lela mo manyen mapwod mil amila lilyak-pyak ma kijengo ikom-ot inipot ni, ento kare ki kare anongo lagam marom aroma – “pe pwodi Musa. Kong idi cwinyi manok”.

Kombedi dong atyeko niang ni M’komboti obedo calo jo mukene-ni weng ma gidito ma gimaro cik-ke cik-ke ma gin pe cobo. Amed-de gire me cito kalimo en kadi bed dong pe ceng ducu kit ma ikare ma okato angec-ci. Wa cwinya bene dong nongo tye ka a kwany-nye woko ki ikom lok man. Pol pa lim-ma igang monyi onongo rwat-te ki lim pa lotino mukene ma gin bedo kunu-ni. Iceng abicel mo acel I odik-ko con ikare ma onongo atye ka kato inget ott pa M’komboti, aneno ka lurema mapol gugure kun-nu dok M’komboti tye kanyut-tu botgi lela mo matidi ma nen obedo calo ature gongo to (da-malakwang).

An nongo dong pe atwero diine ci amwom-me ki ngwec madwir me cito tung bot-gi. Adange matek ni “M’komboti, M’komboti”.

“Musa”, en ogamo makun woto ki bunyu kweda, “lela ni lela maber, ku?”

“Eyo”, agamo makun awoto kingiyo ne maber adada. Lela-ni nongo obedo lela pa lotino anyira, nongo nen tidi-gire ki an ento nongo tye ki lating jami ikome.

“Atwero ngwec kwede dong kombedi?” Apenyo ki awaka me nyut-te inyim lurema-ni.

M’komboti oturu ki juk-ku bunyu woko cut. “A-a-a Musa, an atye kacwal-lo lela-eni bot nyara matye wa icarro. Abinongi megi cokcok-ki”.

Lurema gutung ki nyero. An acelo ngwec me dok paco ki koko, kun acik-ke pe me dok ka limo M’komboti dong matwal ikwo na.

Maa gire ogak lareme dok pol kare ducu en cito igang mony menu. Ikare mukene en cito kunu idyer-woo ci dwogo wa odiko kun waco nongo ni eol tutwal ci donyo iot-butune ci nino woko lirwat. M’komboti bene omed-de ameda ki lim-mo-wa ento an dong aringo woko cen wa kama bor teke anenoni en tye kabino.

Maa bedo kawer kekene. En onongo ruk-ke ki diro mada, kun medo ki wero-doge wa ki wange ducu. Onongo obedo iceng abic i otyeno, en nongo mito cito ka-namu. Okiro mo-mo mangwece kur atikatika ma oloko wa ngwec-ot wa woko liweng cut.

“Musa”, olwongo kun mede ki wer ne, an pwod abicito’oo pi kare moo manok . Pe abidwogo cen gang kany paka-wa iceng cabit otyeno. Atenyo ciling mo manok bot min Omona. ‘En obibedo katedo dek pi in”.

An ayengo wiya piny-malo me nyutu ni aniang. Wawinyo motoka mo matidi katye kangwec me bino tung gang-wa. Ci motoka okok cut idwon me lwongo ni tut-tut-tut-tut….ci maa cut cut oa malo liwic ci okwanyo kibego ne icinge kun wac-ca ni dong in idong maber. Ma-en tye kakato woko, awinyo ka kijolo en ki woo malongo ma aa kati ki I motoka-ni ma bedo calo jo ma I motoka-ni nongo gin gumer woko atika-atika ki kongo. Laro-lok mo matidi-tidi ocak-ke ma maa oo idog motoka pi ka kwene ma en omyero obed iye ci gumoko ni en obed anyim, inget M’komboti. Ikare madong en onongo kabedo, Land rover ni ocelo ngwec oceto orweny ikin piny ma onongo tye ka yutu.

Iceng cabit kutyeno, akuru dwogo pa mama na ki yomcwiny, ento en pe odwogo. Dok en bene pe odwogo iceng baraja, ceng aryo, ceng adek…-Pud peya aneno mama na watin. Ikare moo acel min Omona oceto otemo penyo pire ibarracks, ento en odwoko ki awanu marac adada ikume. M’komboti dong onongo lareme mukene. Icawa mukene aneno gi kato ki igang pa lumony gi dwoyo en matoka land rover acel ma onongo dwoyo iye mama na ni.

English

“Mummy, mummy – I want to be a soldier when I grow up”, I declared as my mother dressed me up for school. She laughed and asked:

“What does a clever boy like you want to be a soldier for?”

“I want to be like M’Komboti”, I said.

M’Komboti was my hero and that morning as I run off to school. I thought of him with the bulging muscles, the shining boots and the gleaming gun. We lived just outside the barracks and M’Komboti came to see my mother quite often, sometimes bringing along a thin friend with who did not look as if he belonged in the army at all. He usually brought me sweets and army biscuits. One day he said to me:

“Musa, why don’t you come and visit the barracks, see how a soldier lives.

My mother had tried to discourage M’Komboti from inviting me, saying:

“M’Komboti you shouldn’t encourage him, he’s only a young boy”.

“Nonsense”, replied M’Komboti as he bounced me on his lap, “every boy wants to be a soldier, not so Musa?”

“Yes”, I agreed, nodding my head enthusiastically.

So I at last entered the fortress of which I could only previously see conical shaped metal rooftops. M’Komboti led me deep into the maze of metal huts until we came to his hut on which someone with a shaky hand had etched out the figure 51. He let go of my hand as he searched for the keys in the large pockets which seemed to be all over his spotted uniform. Finding the key he opened the door and we walked in. Placing his AK-47 on the floor he excused himself, saying that he had to go outside to the toilet.

As I stood waiting for him my eyes fell on a pistol lying on the bed. M’Komboti often carried it in a holster strapped around his waist. I had begged him to let me touch it, but to no avail. I now took hold of it. The metal felt cold and heavy and it took both my hands to lift it up. It was at this moment that M’Komboti returned.

“Eh, eh, eh”, he shouted, “put it down”. He took the pistol from me. “Pistols are not for young boys; they are only for men”. He continued his admonitions. So pouting, I added my head in reluctant agreement. The incident was soon forgotten as we settled down to a breakfast of biscuits and hot coffee.

I became a frequent visitor to M’Komboti’s metal hut. His supply of biscuits seemed never ending and often I would sit down to a steaming mug of coffee, laughing as I watched M’Komboti’s attempts at dancing. He wriggled his body stiffly in an effort to keep up with the music. Once as I laughed at him he said,

“Boys shouldn’t laugh at their elders; I am old enough to be your father, you know”.

I continued laughing. Suddenly he asked:

“Where’s your father?”

I didn’t know. I had never seen him and my mother never talked much about him. She once told me that he died in the war.

“I don’t know”. I replied subdued, “Mummy says that he used to be a M’Komboti like you…he…he died…”

M’Komboti stopped dancing and came over to me. “I’m sorry”, he said patting me on the cheek. Suddenly grinning he continued, “don’t cry or else I’ll tell Esther”. Esther lived in the barracks. She was a girl I had taken a fancy to and M’Komboti had promised to talk to her for me.

“You don’t want me to tell her you are a cry baby, do you? Eh.. eh”. He winked, nudging me on the shoulder.

“No”, I replied, trying hard to keep from laughter.

He resumed his dancing, gyrating his hips suggestively. I could not hold back any longer and burst out in laugther.

M’Komboti certainly seemed to be a rich man. Everytime I went to his home he had something new to show. The first time he showed me six gleaming watches, the next a new electric typewriter and then a portable black and white TV. One day, as he sat cleaning his AK-47 I commented:

“M’Komboti, you must be rich to be able to buy all these things”.

He had finished cleaning his gun by this time. He held it up, aimed and pulled the trigger. It clicked as he did so. His thin friend who was present at the time began to laugh, showing off a set of rotten brown teeth. M’Komboti turned to me smiling:

“I will get you something ‘kadogo’ (they called me that at the barracks) since your mother is a good friend of mine. What do you want”?

“A bicycle”, I cried without hesitation.

“So you want to be a big man, eh?”, said M’Komboti laughing. “OK, I’ll see what I can do for you”.

I run home beaming with happiness as I anticipated receiving my first bicycle. I began to draw up plans. I would ride it to school, strapping my bag on the carrier…. No, no. Someone might steal it. Instead I would use it for…

Everyday after school I would run eagerly to the barracks, hoping to see a gleaming new bicycle leaning against the metal hut, but each time the answer was the same : “No, not yet Musa. You have to be patient”.

Now I knew that M’Komboti was like all old people. He made empty promises. I still continued to go and see him, though on a less regular basis and with less enthusiasm. Most of my other trips to the barracks were occassioned by visits to the children living there. It was with this aim in mind that I went one morning. I intended to by-pass M’Komboti’s hut, but there I saw most of my friends gathered, watching as M’Komboti showed off a pink little bicycle. I could barely contain myself as I run towards the gathering.

“M’Komboti, M’Komboti”, I called out loudly.

“Musa”, he replied, “It’s a good bicycle, isn’t it?”

“Yes”, I replied running my eyes over it. It was a girl’s bicycle and a bit small for me, but it had a carrier all the same.

“Can I ride it now?”, I asked, eager to show off in front of all my friends.

He stopped smiling. “A…ah, Musa. I am sending this to my daughter in the village. I’ll get you yours soon”.

My friends burst out laughing at this rebuff. I could not stand the shame. I run back home crying. I vowed never to go and see M’Komboti again.

My mother remained a friend of his and still went to the barracks regularly. Sometimes she spent the night there, returning in the mornings saying she was feeling tired and would go straight to bed. M’Komboti continued to visit us, but I would always run away whenever I saw him coming.

My mother sang to herself as she dressed up with extra care, painting her lips and eyes. It was a Friday evening and she was going out. She sprayed herself with perfume so that the whole of our home stunk.

“Musa”, she said still singing, “I’m going away for a white. I won’t be back until Sunday evening. I’ve left some money with Omona’s mother, she’ll be cooking for you, OK”.

I nodded my head. We heard a car draw up outside, succeeded by two sharp bursts of the hooter. My mother picked up her hand bag. “Bye”, she said. As she walked out the door she was greeted by a chorus of wolf whistles and drunken cheering. A brief argument ensued as to where she should sit and it was decided that she should sit at the front, next to M’Komboti. That settled, the land-rover drove off and was quickly swallowed by the gathering darkness.

On the Sunday evening I waited eagerly for my mother’s return, but she did not come. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday… did not bring her either. I still have not seen her to this day. Omona’s mother once ventured to ask for her at the barracks, but she returned badly bruised. M’Komboti has now got himself a new friend. I sometimes see them driving out of the barracks in the cream land-rover in which he used to take my mother.