Running for My Life: One Lost Boy's Journey From the Killing Fields of Sudan to the Olympic Games (20 page)

Once I convinced them I had unfinished work I had to do in America, my father said to me, “I know you are with good people now. You are safe. So I will let you return to America, but first we have some unfinished work of our own we must complete.”

The dream I found myself in was about to become even more surreal. I was about to go home.

NINETEEN
Back from the Grave

M
y father had unfinished business in our home village. I had a plane to catch. “I must show the village you are alive,” he said. “And I must make you alive again.” My Buya was very rusty. I did not fully understand the second part of what he said. I tried to talk him out of his plan, but he refused to take no for an answer. It wasn’t that I did not want to see my home village. I did, very much, but I didn’t think I had enough time to go all the way to Kimotong, then make it back to Nairobi before my flight home.

“I only have a couple of days for the extra trip. Can we make it in that time?” I asked. My question showed how American I had become. I came from the land of clocks and calendars and schedules that must be kept, none of which meant anything to my father. “How long?” I asked.

“Not long,” my father replied.

“I have to get back in time to catch my plane back to America.”

“No problem,” my father said.

I should have known better than to have listened.

HBO flew my father down from Kimotong to meet me in Juja. However, the producers went back to New York before my father insisted I go back to our village. I was a college student who lived on Ramen noodles and peanut butter and jelly between semesters. I could not afford to charter a plane back to Kimotong.

“No problem,” my father said. He’d made this trip many times and knew what to do.

The next day I found myself wedged between my parents on a seat made for two in the back of a packed-out Kenyan bus. Three and sometimes four people wedged themselves into each seat, many of whom had their farm animals right beside them. Behind me, a family laid a two-by-four across the center aisle to create extra seating for their children. Chickens weaved between the children’s legs, clucking and roaming up and down the aisle. No child could fit down the packed aisle, much less an adult. The goats not lucky enough to find a seat inside the bus were strapped to the roof between the boxes and baskets that passed as luggage in Kenya. Even with the windows open, no air moved inside the crowded bus. Dust filled any empty space. The farther north we drove into the desert, the hotter and dustier it got. I could hardly breathe.

The bus rocked from side to side as it navigated between washed-out portions of road. My legs ached from the cramped space. I squirmed, trying to get comfortable. My stomach growled; my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. I glanced at my parents. The trip was pure luxury for them. They were accustomed to walking everywhere. A bus ride felt like first-class accommodations for them.

Day turned into night. Night turned into day. We stopped very infrequently for food and water. More people packed the bus at each stop. A few got off, but it felt like more always got on.

After forty-eight hours on the bus, we arrived at the town of Kakuma near the Sudanese border. The nearby camp where I spent ten years got its name from the town. “How much farther?” I asked. I knew the answer.

“Not far,” my father said. He was accustomed to walking from here to our village. I did not have time for that. I found a place to rent a car in Kakuma and hired a driver and a bodyguard to take us the rest of the way.

Six hours later we pulled into Kimotong, my boyhood home of which I had no memories. I climbed out of the car and into a celebration that began before we got there. I do not know how everyone knew we were on our way, but they did. My sister stood in the middle of the crowd. I did not know her until she introduced herself. People seemed glad to see me, but they kept their distance. I did not understand why. My father barked out directions, sending one person off to the fields to bring back my brother, instructing someone else to bring the animals for the sacrifice.

I started to step forward into the celebration, but my mother stopped me. “First we must cleanse the spirits,” she said. I had no idea what she was talking about. My sister handed my mother an egg. Mother broke the egg and poured it out on the ground between us and the celebration. She and my father hurdled over the broken egg. “Do the same,” she directed me. I did as I was told.

Once I hurdled the egg, the mob closed in on me with hugs and kisses. We went into a thatched roof hut next to the car. It looked vaguely familiar to me, like something out of a long-forgotten dream. A fireplace stood in the center, with a cooking area on one side, sleeping mats rolled up on the other. A ladder went up to a storage shelf above the cooking area. It seemed so small now compared to the giant house of my dreams. People crowded inside. “This is where you were born,” my mother told me. The party in the hut this day had to be like the celebration they held on the day I was born. The son had come back from the dead.

Every few minutes I instinctively looked at my watch. I felt guilty every time I did. All around me people talked and laughed, oblivious to time and schedules. Time doesn’t exist in Kimotong, at least not in the way it does in America. As much as I tried to savor the experience, I found myself torn between the excitement of the moment and the knowledge that I had a plane to catch. We’d traveled nearly three days to get here. I did not know how I would get back to Nairobi in time for my flight.
Don’t worry about it. You’ll get there. This trip is a miracle from God. Enjoy it
, I told myself over and over. Next thing I knew, I was looking at my watch again.

Two hours after we arrived, my long-lost brother John walked through the door. I knew he had to be my brother, but I did not recognize him. The moment John walked in, the celebration started all over again. Someone else walked in and whispered something to my father. “Follow me,” he said to me.

The two of us walked out onto the path in front of the hut. A group of men came up to us, leading a white goat. They were the village elders. One of the elders took out a knife and slit the goat’s throat. The goat fell to the ground. The elder then took his knife and made a long cut from the goat’s chest to the bottom of the stomach. Everything the goat had eaten over the past few days spilled out onto the ground. The smell . . . I cannot describe it. My American stomach nearly emptied. The elder then scooped up a large handful of the goat’s stomach contents and smeared it across my chest. My stomach wrenched at the smell. Before I knew what had just happened, he took another handful and smeared it down my stomach, then onto my arms and legs. Thankfully I wore jeans instead of the shorts I wore the day I went to my mother’s apartment in Juja.

The crowd that was gathered around us seemed relieved by the elders’ actions. Apparently, smearing goat guts over a person bestows a great blessing on the smearee while also driving away any evil spirits. Judging by the amount of goat guts smeared on me, I was very, very blessed. I waved my hand over the goat guts. “How long?” I asked.

“Sundown,” my father said. I had to stay like this until the sun went down for me to get the full effect. The guts soaked through my T-shirt. I didn’t think I could wait until sundown to wash, but I had no choice. The elders took what remained of the goat over to the women. They quickly butchered it. The village feasted on goat that day. It was a rare treat for them all. Livestock is very valuable. People eat meat very rarely.

In spite of the guts and smell, people flocked around me. Rapid-fire questions flew at me. I could not understand what anyone said to me. I felt like I did when I first arrived in America. My Buya now was on the same level my English was back then. Even though my mother and I spoke every week, she now spoke Swahili. Living in Kenya, she had to learn it to get by. I’d held onto my Swahili, but not Buya beyond a handful of words. Thankfully a new person came into the village. Clement came down from Juba, which is now the capital of the newly independent South Sudan, when he heard I was on my way back home. He worked for a mission organization, translating the Bible into Buya. Because he also spoke English, he became my translator for the trip.

“They want to know if you are really Lopepe,” Clement said.

“Yes, yes. I am him.”

“‘Are you going to stay here?’ they ask.”

“No. I have to go back to America.”

While Clement translated my answer, I looked closely at the children playing nearby. A very vague memory came back of making bulls and other animals out of mud. I tried to picture these kids in America, playing with LEGOs and video games. Instead, they were covered with dirt from head to toe. That was me, I told myself. I was that kid. I could barely make myself believe it. The village did not have a school. None of these kids would ever learn to read and write as long as they stayed here. Only a few lucky children, like my brothers Peter and Alex, got to go away to Kenya for an education, and they only had this opportunity because my American parents paid their way.

Sundown came. My sister went down to the river and brought back a bucket of water for me. I washed the goat guts off myself. That night I slept outside under the stars. There was not room for me in the hut.

The next morning I got up, expecting to drive back to Kenya. If I hurried, I should be able to catch my plane. My father, however, had other ideas. What I thought had been a celebration the day before was merely the warm-up for the main event. Even more people crowded into our village from the surrounding area. The church from which I’d been taken served villages from all around the area. My father sent word to all the villages which had lost children to come and celebrate with us. “One of the lost ones has returned from the grave,” he said. Very few, if any, of those taken with me were ever seen again. My appearance gave all the other families hope that they, too, might one day have a child return from the dead.

My mother and father led me just outside the village to a small, fenced enclosure about the size of a backyard vegetable garden back in the States. Inside the short fence I saw piles of rocks lined up in an orderly fashion. We walked to a small pile of rocks in a far corner. A man stood nearby holding onto a white bull. The crowd from the village had followed us to the fenced area. They lined up just outside the fence, watching us. That’s when it hit me. I was standing in the village cemetery. The pile of rocks in front of me was my grave.

My father turned to the crowd. Everyone fell silent. He started speaking. The translator told me what he said. “Many years ago, my son was taken from us. We thought he was dead. This is his grave. We buried what remained of him and mourned him for many days. But now, my son who was dead has come back to us again!” The crowd cheered. Many people wept.

The man with the bull then pulled out a long spear. Right there on top of my grave, he rammed the spear through the side of the bull. It dropped to the ground, dead. The blood soaked the ground. Just like the day before, the elders then split open the bull’s abdomen. I prepared myself for what I knew was coming next. The American in me did not want to have guts smeared on me again. The sight and the smell made my stomach queasy. Yet, as the boy who had returned from the grave, I very much wanted to do whatever it took to be alive again in my village. These were the traditions of my mother and father and my people. This ceremony was a part of who I am and who I will always be, no matter what country I call home. I nodded to the elder as if to say, “I’m ready.” He scooped up a handful of the remains of the bull and rubbed it onto my arms and legs while the entire village looked on.

After the bull ceremony, my father took a spade and dug up my grave. Carefully, he pulled out a shirt and a pair of shorts, both ragged from the years in the ground. Then he removed a couple of toys and a belt of traditional beads. In Buya culture, these beads meant as much as a string of diamonds or pearls. I did not recognize the beads, but I knew they were valuable by the reaction of the crowd when my father lifted them up for all to see.

The elders took the bull away to be butchered and cooked. My father motioned for me to make a speech. I wanted to do as he asked, but I could not speak. The flood of emotions pouring over me choked the words out. My father did not understand why I stood there silently. “Speak,” he said.

I choked back my tears. “Okay,” I said to him. Every eye was on me. I paused to gather my thoughts. What do you say at your own gravesite when you come back from the dead? I thought for a moment, swallowed hard, then started. “I am very glad I am alive,” I said in English. Clement translated. “I did not think I would ever see my family again. I thought they were dead. I survived in the refugee camp in Kenya. After many years, I went to the United States. It is very far away. You must go there by airplane.” A buzz went up at that line. People pointed up in the air to one another, amazed that someone who had actually flown on one of the jets high overhead was actually in their midst.

“Do not give up on any of the kids who were taken with me. Do not forget them. God is great. Do not give up on life, and do not give up on Him. He can and will bring more of these kids back to you.

“I must return to the United States, where I currently attend university. I never thought I would have this opportunity, but God gave it to me. Now I must return to finish the work I started. I will return. Do not give up on anybody. God is great.”

I could not say anything more. The crowd seemed surprised I spoke such a short time. In Africa, speeches stretch out for hours. Emotionally, I could not last hours. On top of that, I had a plane to catch and a very long journey in front of me to get to it.

The crowd made their way from the cemetery back to our house. I followed, answering questions along the way. The women cooked the bull. The celebration was just getting started. Again I looked at my watch. I could not stop myself.
Relax. You will get there when you get there. Hakuna matata—stop worrying
. I started to glance at my watch but stopped myself. This celebration was too important to rush.