Buku Truth, by Omission by Daniel Beamish

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Truth, by Omission by Daniel Beamish

Author:Daniel Beamish

Language: eng

Format: epub

Publisher: Blackstone Publishing

Published: 2019-05-01T17:14:00+00:00

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Truth, by Omission by Daniel Beamish

name: Azikiwe Olyontombo

age: 12

height: 147 cm

 

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Truth, by Omission by Daniel Beamish

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Truth, by Omission by Daniel Beamish

Author:Daniel Beamish , Date: July 3, 2019

,Views: 53

Author:Daniel Beamish

Language: eng

Format: epub

Publisher: Blackstone Publishing

Published: 2019-05-01T17:14:00+00:00
name: Azikiwe Olyontombo

age: 12

height: 147 cm

weight: 41 kg

eye color: Black

identifying marks: Numerous scars on back, several scars on both arms, multiple scars on buttocks, one long scar and one circular scar on sole of left foot

A week later I was driven through the city, seeing for the first time concrete towers that stretched ten stories or more in the air, smooth paved roads, homes with solid roofs, and stores with goods in them. The soldier took me to the southern edge of the city, to a calm-looking compound surrounded by a hedge of azalea shrubs. The center of the grounds was dominated by a rectangular one-story church in a typical Central-African style, with a sloping roof of corrugated steel and a simple cross affixed to the apex on the near gable end. On one side of the church sprawled four low-rise dormitories and an administrative building. On the other side were four more single-story school buildings with windows thrown wide open to let the breeze inside.

I had been given clean pants by the soldiers, a shirt that buttoned up the front, socks, and shoes, all of them new and even the correct size. They also gave me a rucksack, two bars of soap, enough head powder to treat my lice for another two weeks, a toothbrush with toothpaste, an extra pair of socks, and two pairs of underwear, something I had never worn in my life. These sundries were stowed inside the rucksack along with my ivory-handled knife, which Wigy had kindly realized was my only possession in the world. This was how I was when the soldier left me in the office of the convent school.

The white priest spoke to me at first in French. I stared back at him quizzically, and when he realized that I didn’t speak the language he repeated it in Kinyarwanda. “Welcome to Notre Dame de la Paix, Azi. I am Father Michel Savard. You may call me Father Michel.” This time I nodded.

“Your lessons here will be taught in French, and you’ll be expected to learn the language quickly,” he said.

I had started to learn a few words as a small child when I was first sent to school in my village, but I couldn’t recall any of it. I hoped they would come back to me.

“How old are you, Azi?” he asked.

“Twelve.” I perpetuated my lie, somehow making me feel a bit more important.

“Twelve?” He looked me up and down. “You don’t look that old. You’ve been to school before. What grade have you completed?”

“Several,” I answered.

“Can you spell Christian?”

I looked blankly at him. He handed me a paper and pencil. “Can you spell your name?”

I carefully and rather proudly wrote out A-z-i O-l-y-o-n-t-o-m-b-o.

“Your village … where you’re from? Can you spell it out, please?”

This was a stickler. I shook my head.

“What is nineteen plus twelve?”

I looked down to my hands, opening one finger at a time, counting them until I ran out of fingers, and then without looking up at him, just shook my head again.

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