Aftershocks

by Nadia Owusu

In the North, children filed out of their family’s mud huts and walked barefoot on dirt roads. Some walked for ten miles. Every night, they walked to the nearest town: Gulu, Kitgum, or Lira. Eleven-year-olds carried toddlers part of the way. Much of the way was unlit. The children walked so they would not be stolen. Being stolen meant slavery and rape. The Lord’s Resistance Army forced children to kill each other in order to poison them with shame. The rebels stormed villages at night. The children slept on verandas, in bus stations, in hospitals, in the streets, in churches, in the homes of whoever would have them. They woke when the rain came, drenched them through. They woke when cars backfired, and drunkards fought. They woke from the rumbling of trucks in the distance and from fever dreams. When day broke, they gathered for the long walk home, to help their parents on farms and in kitchens or, if they were lucky, to attend school.

How does walking keep them from being stolen?