Omhajer was swamped with military tents and food stalls run by former askaris. The town swung to a military beat and sweat glistened on the men’s unshaven faces. The pulse of the town stopped for a moment when the Eritrean woman disembarked the bus: cobblers stopped cobbling, merchants stopped selling, and jaws paused in midsentence. Men who had got used to the hard angles of male bodies now fixed their eyes on undulating curves, and nearly died of delight. The woman felt the heat of their eyes burning away her clothes and rushed down the dusty path toward her village. Jama saw Somali, Eritrean, and yellow-skinned Libyan askaris standing about, but none looked friendly, their faces were contorted and imbecilic with lust.

Behind the straw back of a stall, Jama counted his abattoir money and let out a desperate sigh. It was barely enough to buy food, never mind pay for another bus or lorry into Sudan. Jama sprinted out into the streets, cheetah-fast, hunting for groups of Somali askaris, running close to a clump before realizing they were Eritrean and skidding on his heels. Askaris turned and watched the strange boy run in and out of alleys. A Somali askari yelled out, “Hey, what are you looking for, kid?”

“A clansman, an Eidegalle askari!” shouted Jama.

The askari laughed. “Well, you can stop running, you’ve found one!” Jama ran to him; the soldier had a kind face, he put a thin hand on Jama’s head.

“Why are you looking for me, then?”

Jama cleared his throat and began, “I need help finding my father, he lives in Sudan but he used to be an askari.”

“Who is your father?” interrupted the soldier, a cigarette in his hand.

“He is Guure Mohamed Naaleyeh,” panted Jama.

The soldier exploded in laughter, coughing out a dark haze. “You’re Guure’s son?” he said, eyes round in delight.

Jama nodded, folding his arms around his bare chest.

“Waryaa! Everyone come and look! It’s Guure’s son!” More laughing men approached Jama, they slapped him on the back and manhandled his shoulders.

Jama stayed silent as they poked him and pointed out his father’s nose, or argued over whether Jama had the same slouched posture. They were close enough for Jama to smell the wood smoke and sweat on their uniforms. The first askari broke through the crowd and pulled Jama away. “Where have you come from?”

“Hargeisa.”

“By all the saints, do not lie to me.”

“Wallaahi, I swear, I came from Hargeisa.”

The askari was silent, and Jama could hear the others throwing his father’s name around as if he were a long-lost brother.

The askari held Jama’s hand. His dark skin matched Jama’s exactly, and their slender fingers merged indistinguishably. Jama looked hopefully into the man’s thin, angular face. “Your father is a good friend of mine, of us all. He was always telling me about his son, his strong little warrior, he would threaten us with your vengeance, but look at you! You’re nothing but a few bones strung together.”

“I would kill for my father,” Jama protested. “Anything he wants I would do! How can I get to him?”

“There are no buses to Gedaref, only military vehicles, and the Italians do not allow passengers, but you can get a ride with one of the Sudanese merchants here. It is only a few hours’ drive, but they leave only once a week and they charge a hefty sum,” the askari explained. Jama’s heart was racing. He didn’t want to spend any time in this garrison town but it was dawning on him that he would be forced to.

The askari read the dejection in his face. “We can get a message out to him, though, tell him you’re coming.”

Jama’s eyes reddened. All the fatigue and strain and misery of the journey had reached a crescendo at its near end and came pouring out. He turned to hide his face, and the soldiers looked to one another for solutions.

“Don’t worry, while you are here, you are my guest, you will sleep in my tent, eat my food, learn how to be an askari; this is the least I could do for Guure,” proposed the first askari.

The askari led him to a long row of identical canvas tents, stopping at one of them to pull aside the flap. “This is it, have a rest. If you need me I will be five tents down on the left. I will bring you a bite to eat soon.” Jama entered the gloomy tent and collapsed onto the dirt floor.

After a night on a sweaty borrowed mat, with soldier food lying badly digested in his guts, his skin red and swollen from the attacks of mosquito hordes, Jama decided to get up. His arms, legs, and back ached but he needed to find out more about his father. He shook the flap of the tent the askari had directed him to the previous night, and a man’s voice shouted, “If you are not the devil, come in!”

Jama went inside; five men were on the floor, bundled over one another in the cramped space. “Hello, Guure’s son,” the askari said; other askaris groaned, placed their arms over their heads to block out the sound disturbing their sleep.

“Hello,” said Jama, looking around the spartan tent, pleased he was finally someone’s son.

“What brings you here so early?” asked the askari. He reached in his trouser pocket for his toothstick, a thin twig with a splayed fibrous end.

“I want to know more about my father,” replied Jama, as if it was his due. He squatted in the corner and waited as the man eased the toothstick over each tooth, spitting out its fibers.

“You don’t even know my name yet, you little suldaan! I’m Jibreel. Guure is a great friend of mine, he is a happy, generous man, and the best company you can find. When we marched, we used to jostle to be close to Guure, so we could hear his jokes and impressions. He mimicked everyone to perfection, especially the Eritrean bulabashas — time would just fly by. He was always first to start off the marching songs. Do you have a beautiful voice like him?”

Jama shook his head regretfully.

“He talked about you a lot, you know. He would sometimes get word of you from askaris who had lived in Aden and knew your mother. He was proud of you.”

Jama wanted to ask Jibreel if his father had ever explained why he did not send word to them or ever visit but he became embarrassed and instead asked, “Isn’t he a driver?”

“Maybe. You need identity papers and money and other things, we all left home with only the clothes on our backs, maybe in Gedaref it’s easier. A group of them disguised themselves as Sudanese traders and snuck off in a truck, pissed off with the Italians and their stupid white-man, black-man laws. They want you to step into the gutter when they approach, say master this and master that. I think Guure left just after he saw an Italian sergeant make two askaris drink his piss as a punishment. That’s the way here, it’s not a life but it’s better than death, but good on Guure for getting out… The longer you stay, the less of a man you become.” A sleepy soldier repeated this dozily after Jibreel.

Jama’s appetite for information grew as it was fed. “What does he like look?” he asked with bright eyes.

“He is smallish, stocky, looks young for his age, your kind of brown, he has a big head, strange yellowish hair, strong arms, big teeth like you.”

Jama’s face contorted as he tried to picture his father, but the image was too sketchy to be satisfying, and not as handsome as the man in his fantasies.

Jibreel laughed. “Don’t tax yourself, you’ll soon be able to see him with your own eyes. Your presence here is big news, so it won’t take long for someone to reach Guure and tell him you’re on your way. It’s unlikely he will be able to get back here — they don’t take kindly to deserters — but we will have a collection and see if we can help,” he said with a wink.

Jibreel put a cigarette to his mouth and Jama watched the way he held it between his lips, struck a match, and let tendrils of smoke escape from his nostrils as he inhaled. “Let me have a try.”