Letter from 'KDF' soldier to his love: Waiting for tomorrow

She sat by the window, gazing into the horizon, motionless, nothing seemed to disturb her, not the eerie whistle nor the biting cold of the wind made her budge. She was a sorry state, her short black hair was unkempt, like the  Makuti roofs in the homestead, her finger nails were dirty, chipped and the pink nail polish resembled the peeling green paint of her wooden window panes, the soles of her feet bore a striking resemblance to the rifts on the earthen floor. 

Her skin looked like it had been deprived of oil for years, like the creaking hinges of her door, which had not seen a coat of grease for days, her lips, were dry and cracked, like the cragged walls of her house.

Her eyes were clouded with worry, fear and perhaps anguish, but there was something else behind those big, beautiful, dark eyes, a glimmer of hope. What was she staring at? The only thing outside the window was an old ugly baobab tree by the gate. Was she waiting for the tree to move, or was she waiting to see some leaves sprouting out of the bare brown branches.

She reached into the pockets of her faded red gypsy skirt and pulled out a piece of crumpled paper, this, she clasped tightly, like it was the only thing that was keeping her together, her last shred of hope, with tears trickling down her face, she unfolded the paper and began to read.

Kuom Jahera na Auma

Greetings from Somalia. How are you? And how is my mother?  Did you finish re- building the kitchen and did mother get the cow dung from Min Akoli? She told me that her owuoyo was the best in the village, I told her to get it and I will pay for it when I come back home.

I'm fine, we are doing our best to stop these Shabaab from crossing the border, everything is fine except for the weather which can be scorching sometimes and the network here is so poor I cannot even call you. I miss you, Auma. Oh! How I long to hear your voice my love. How I long for your kuon gi apoth, how I long to touch your soft skin and hold you in my arms all night my love, do you remember that day behind that baobab tree? Those are the memories that keep me going when things get tough here.

I know your fear for my life and I know you preferred I stay at home and dig, but no I will do whatever it takes to give you a comfortable life .I am strong like a rwath. I will fight these Shabaab gi thuon, I will defeat them and I will return home to you my love. Haven’t I always returned? When they deployed me to Wajir and Narok didn’t I come back home? Worry not my love, I will bring you those skirts you love and I promise you on my father’s grave I will come back home, Wait for me tomorrow. Say hallo to mother and tell my sister to work hard in school

An Chwori, Okoth.

They had been married for only 9 months when Okoth left for the army.  At first she was proud of her husband he was a gallant man, held in high esteem and she was the lucky wife and most envied woman in the village.

Auma walked with her head held high, she lived for the whispers behind her back, she basked in the glory her husband was receiving from the womenfolk. She was naïve; she did not know or understand what it meant to be in the army, until a certain university was attacked. That was when the reality of what her husband had chosen to deal with dawned on her.

That reality changed her; she went from being the proud woman to the worried wife. She wrote to her husband constantly begging him to quit, telling him she did not care about the skirts, she reminded him about their love and the need to start a family  soon and each time Okoth would write back, “Jahera na, do not worry. I will come back home, wait for me tomorrow”

And so every day Auma would sit by the window, waiting for him, murmuring a silent prayer, until the day she would recognize his tall, well-built figure by the baobab tree striding back home just as he promised, but this time, something was different.

She was mixing the cow dung when she heard the news on the radio about an attack in Somalia.  “Isn’t that were Okoth is stationed?” she asked herself. She spent the entire day and night listening to the radio, trying to fight back her tears, trying to ignore the negative thoughts from crossing her mind, hoping for some good news.

“He is safe, he is strong like a rwath and he will defeat those Shabaab” she muttered to herself.  Thirty one bodies had arrived into the country, she refused to travel to Nairobi, Okoth was not one of them, he could not be one of them, she consoled herself,  

Didn’t the woman who called herself Omamo say others were still in Somalia?  Okoth had to be one of them, He was still alive, she was optimistic, he promised that he would come back home, he would never leave her. He always came back to her.

Hours turned into days and days turned into weeks, she sat in the same spot, gazing at the same baobab tree hoping to see his tall figure but all she saw was the tree, it was as if it was taunting her, mocking her.

The same tree that used to be a symbol of love and hope now turned to be a symbol of despair, such irony!  That was when she took the letter from her pocket and read those same lines. “Haven’t I always returned?  When they deployed me to Wajir and Narok didn’t I come back home? ... I promise you on my father’s grave I will come back home, Wait for me tomorrow.”

And so, she sat by the same window every single day, gazing at the same tree, her only shred of hope clasped tightly in her hands, waiting… waiting for tomorrow.

Being a soldier is not just a portrayal of bravery but it is a true act of selflessness, people who leave their loved ones behind, and put their own lives on the line to defend their country. This piece is dedicated to all the sons and brothers, to all the husbands and fathers who lost their lives at the KDF attack in El-Adde Camp in Somalia. Fare thee well our fallen heroes.