Football singularity

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I jolted awake, a couple of hours later, just as the morning sun peeked over the horizon. My body felt heavier than lead, as if gravity itself had wrapped chains around my limbs. I blinked hard, the air thick with the coppery scent of blood, diesel, and rotting bandages. Sweat trickled from my temple to the crook of my neck, the jungle heat taking full effect, letting me know I was awake and this was not a dream.

Taking a deep breath, I fought through the pain around my abdomen as I swung my feet off the cot, sitting up for what felt like ages. Ignoring the sounds of snoring and the fact that my bare feet dug into the earth that had been softened by either blood or rain, I forced myself to stand. I needed to see it for myself, as no amount of memories or the pain that coursed through my body could suffice.

Taking a shallow breath, I willed my legs to move, which was much harder than I would like to admit. Then again, considering what I had, no, what this body had been through, it wasn't that hard to believe. I could smell the last members of a bonfire just behind the flaps of the tents as I neared. I pushed through the tent flaps with the last dregs of willpower, the canvas slapping softly behind me as I emerged into the smoky morning.

The air outside hit differently. It was hotter somehow—denser. Sweat broke across my shoulders immediately, soaking into the coarse fabric wrapped around my torso. The sunrise bled through the jungle like gold spilt across an oil painting, but nothing about this view was beautiful. The camp appeared to have been hastily assembled with desperation and a hint of rusted ambition.

Shanty tents and patched tarps stretched between termite-bitten posts. Fires had burned low, leaving nothing but embers and skeletal logs. Tin cans, bullet casings, and wet boots littered the ground as teenagers slept next to them, not having the luxury to look for a bed.

In the distance, I heard the shriek of a monkey echo through the jungle, answered by the distant thump of automatic gunfire—somewhere beyond the treeline. My legs buckled, in despair, but I caught myself against a crate marked with faded Cyrillic script—old Russian munitions, probably.

A boy walked past me barefoot, carrying a jerrycan almost his size. He couldn't have been older than ten. He looked at me, eyes sunken and unreadable, before turning his head forward again. That glance that lacked any sign of hope or joy told me everything. This was real.

~~~

It had been two weeks since I awoke from what I can only describe as the cruellest of nightmares. Since I hadn't known joy, getting to experience it genuinely was the equivalent of sipping from a gold chalice. Now I feel hollower than I ever did before, often waking up from vivid dreams of my life with the Rex family, only to wake in this reality.

Every night, the dreams grew more vibrant, unwilling to let me forget in some twisted form of torture. I barely spoke anymore, not because I didn't want to, but because words felt useless. I was barely resisting the urge to end my own life, as dealing with people who had been brainwashed to fight for the lunatics' cause would push me over the edge.

A worn-out Bible that belonged to one of the boys who didn't make it became my only solace. Kwame had slipped it into my grasp after catching me with the barrel of a pistol in my mouth. Strangely, he didn't talk me off the ledge and simply waited for me to come to my own conclusion.

"You lack courage, boy," were his only words as he thrust the bible he had just been about to throw away into my hands. Remembering the nights spent reading verses with Emma and our parents, strangely, kept me calm.

Getting the good book didn't magically fix things; I didn't suddenly become okay with my situation. No, in fact, I became more indignant, but I stopped asking why me and instead started to figure out why not me. Since this life had decided to play the cruellest of jokes with mine and many others' lives, I realised that only I could save myself.

But what I prayed for the most was for god to stop me from doing what I was considering doing, but he never did. As a matter of fact, things seemed to align in my favour as not long after I had healed enough to hold a weapon, I was assigned to a mission to pick up the peace maker. He wasn't some saviour either, as we referred to him as the merchant of death for obvious reasons. Whenever he came to visit, kids died, spilling blood for the man's ambitions.

~~~

"Rakim!" Kosongo's voice cut through the morning humidity like a blade. "Get your gear. We move in ten."

I looked up from the Bible's worn pages where I'd been reading Ecclesiastes—something about a time for war and a time for peace. The irony wasn't lost on me. At seventeen, Kosongo carried himself with the seriosness of someone who'd never known childhood, his assault rifle slung across his back almost like a seasoned soldier.

"The Peacemaker, what's he like?" I asked, since I had never actually met the guy in person, as I was never assigned to be his meat shield.

"It doesn't matter, just do your job, the others are waiting." Kosongo curtly replied as he adjusted the machete hanging from his waist.

I clenched my jaw, slipped the Bible into the inner pocket of my torn flak vest, and tightened the makeshift belt that kept my cargo pants from falling off my hips. Picking up the battered semi-auto that leaned against my cot, I didn't bother responding as I followed him out to a worn-out Jeep.

The Jeep squatted under a neem tree, its safari-yellow paint long scabbed away by rust and bullet pocks. Ade Kosongos' second in command sat behind the wheel, foot feathering the throttle so the engine throbbed like a sick heartbeat. 14-year-old Abu was already in the cargo bay, swinging his legs and stroking the green tube of his RPG like a pet python.

13-year-old Kwame checked magazine springs with the quick, deft fingers, manoeuvring around his weapon with practised ease. Ade leaned against a front fender, humming a half-remembered pop song while he honed the edge of his knife on a whetstone no larger than a dog tag. Kosongo hopped into the passenger seat as I vaulted into the cargo bay, joining Kwame and Abu.

The Jeep jolted forward, rattling hard enough that my teeth clicked. Red dust kicked up behind us, swallowing the camp as though it had never existed. Roads didn't exist in the jungle, only dirt tracks churned through repeated travels.

Abu filled the silence with nervous chatter. "They say the airstrip used to fly out copper ingots. Now it flies in diamonds and bullets." His knuckles tapped the RPG's warhead like a lucky charm.

Kwame shot him a warning glance. "Save your breath. If things go wrong, we need steady hands."

Ade cut in from the driver's seat, eyes on the rutted path. "Things always go wrong. That's why we're here." He downshifted, engine growling as the Jeep crawled up a steep rise slick with moss.

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Fifteen miles later, as the noon sun reached its apex, the sound of the engine resounded as a muddy jeep broke through a line of trees. It drove onto the dirt path leading to the makeshift landing strip that was intentionally kept far away from the camp. Ade manoeuvred the car to the end of the landing strip, coming to a stop as they waited.

They waited for an hour straight doing routine perimeter scans to pass the time, but luckily, they only had to wait an hour. The buzzing sounds of propellers resounded overhead as a small black and white passenger jet descended on the landing strip.

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To Be Continued...