CHAPTER FIFTEEN  -- A Staggering Surprise

Phoenix, Arizona – April 2001

Arketa arrived in Arizona as the month of March disappeared. As April emerged and Arketa got her bearings, she sent a letter to her mother in M’boki urging her to walk to Uganda with three grandchildren—orphaned teen siblings Rosetta and Angelo, and Arketa’s twelve-year-old son, Timothy. Arketa knew they faced weeks of treacherous walking through three countries—still, emigrating from Kampala seemed safer than a lengthy trip to and long stay in Kinshasa. But, Arketa’s letter chased through U.N. channels for months like a rabid rabbit through connected warrens before it reached Lucia.

 

By September, when the letter she wrote to her mother finally did reach M’boki, Arketa had moved to the house provided by Homeward Bound. She held a reliable job, and she had survived her first summer in Phoenix—Valley of the Sun. Arketa had traversed many valleys in Africa—none, even those with sun, had pressed such unbearable heat on her.  

 

° °  °

 

M’boki Refugee Camp—September 2001

Once reading Arketa’s letter, without hesitation Lucia began preparation for the journey. She gave away most of her belongings: her massive garden, her household items, and her community duties. Then, with little explanation, she instructed her grandchildren to prepare for a journey. They were instructed to gather particular things, to wash their clothes, and to wear slippers—heavy tire-tread flip-flops.  

These three jungle-wise children knew the M’boki camps from one end to the other. They knew the rivers, the gardens, and the local forest. They knew in all the miles their tough feet covered, shoes rarely ever accompanied their treks. What was this that Grandma was requiring? This was no typical hunt or exploration; way too much preparation was underway. Way too many adults looked worried or sad. That much, the children knew but nothing more. Never before had Grandma insisted the children wear slippers. Never had such wailing and so many tears accompanied a departure.

 

One evening, not many days after she received the instructions posted from America, under a gibbous moon, Lucia said to say goodbye to family and friends. 

 

“Where are we going?” the children asked again and again.

 

“Hush. Walk with me.”

 

Lucia and her three grandchildren walked for hours until they reached the edge of Camp 25, where they settled for the night in a hunters hut.

 

Then, having some sense of what this walk was going to require of them all, as they lay in darkness, Lucia said, “We are going to be near where your mom is. Be strong. Sleep now. It will be many days walking.” She said nothing more. 

 

° °  °

 

Phoenix, Arizona—May 2001

A month after posting the letter to her mother, one very hot spring day, Arketa and her children walked across the empty dirt lot that separated their apartment building from the IRC offices. With them, was a Ugandan “Grandma,” their second-floor apartment neighbor, a woman in her mid-fifties who spoke only Arabic. Arketa and Christopher both spoke Arabic “good,”The woman surely had a name but the African code of ress-pectdemanded that they not ask for it. For them, her name was Grandma. 

 

On this occasion, Grandma’s recently immigrated nephew accompanied them to the IRC offices. He was fluent in Arabic and Ugandan English. He was pleased to walk with the younger Christopher, volleying word challenges. Christopher worked hard to hear and pronounce words of Uganda’s major language, Luganda. The Ugandan’s suggested superiority melted when Christopher tossed in Italian, French, Songo, Lingala, and words of Balanda Bor and Viri. Touché. 

            

While they waited for their appointments, the group greeted other refugees, compared American experiences, and complained about the Phoenix heat. At last, Arketa’s caseworker, Luka, stepped into the waiting room, motioned, and, as was his habit, called for Arketa by using her last name.

 

“Zambakari!”  

 

The four Zambakaris trooped to his office. It was familiar now, this building, these meetings, the questions Luka would ask Arketa. 

 

°  °  °

 

“Zambakari,” the Ugandan nephew repeated to Grandma. “Does this woman have a brother in Uganda?” he asked. He knew the Zambakari name. Grandma shrugged. Everyone went about the business of appointments, and everyone returned separately to the apartments. That evening, as the Zambakaris ate dinner, Grandma knocked on their door. She had a question. 

“My nephew asked, ‘Do you have a brother in Uganda by the same name like your name?’”

            

“No,” Arketa said. 

 

She explained that her father and brothers had been killed in Sudan as the family was fleeing the bombs. But for her two sisters and small children, no one carried the name Zambakari now.

            

“Ah,” Grandma said, carrying the conversation further. “Because the son of my brother say you have someone of the same name in Hoima, where the church school is—an orphan child—with the Catholic priest who was taking care of him. This boy was brought to Kmabale refugee camp from Kakuma camp in Kenya. 

            

“What?!” Arketa tried to think reasonably but reason didn’t work. She thought, ‘Impossible’ but didn’t find comfort in that. The name, Elario, slammed into her mind but she quickly stepped on it. Her skin felt clammy. Her hands locked on her cheeks. Her body believed something, but her mind fought against it. She wanted to know, she needed to know more. 

 

“Can we call your nephew to come here now?” Arketa asked. 

            

Grandma, who had a phone, called her nephew who lived a few blocks away. The young man came, bearing his story. Honoring Grandma, the conversation was held in Arabic.  Nathalia and Sarai couldn’t follow it, didn’t catch the excitement, and turned back to homework. The women and the two young men sat close together on the carpeted floor. 

 

In Arabic, Christopher asked, “Can you tell us what you told Grandma?” 

 

°  °  °

 

The Uganda boy said to Christopher, “Yes! Today at IRC, when they called your mom? Ah! Your last name! We have a boy with the Catholic Church in Hoima. He’s the orphan child. One day, that boy arrived from Kakuma in Kenya, and was now settled near the school in Kmabale refugee camp under the care of a Roman Catholic pastor. After four years of running but now settled, he wanted to play soccer with the older boys.’”

            

“’No,’ they told him. ’Go away.’ The footballers like the little kids to get lost.”  

 

But he didn’t go away. He wanted to play. He loved soccer. The older children resorted to taunting. “Go away, orphan child. Go away!” 

 

But that child stood strong, his calloused bare feet spread, his knees locked, and said, “I am not an orphan. My name is Zambakari. Elario Zambakari.” 

 

The young Ugandan man spoke quickly, urgently but unaware of the treasure he was handing Arketa Zambakari.

            

Arketa heard it. Arketa felt it. Feeling faint, she ran it through her numbed mind: “I am not an orphan. My name is Zambakari. Elario Zambakari.” 

            

 

Then, the Ugandan boy said to Arketa, “I know him good. We go to church together. But, at the school of Saint John’s, they call him ‘Bazia.”

            

Arketa jumped to her feet, saying, “WHAT! Bazia! Dah name of my fadder’s fadder. Dah family name.” Falling to the carpeted floor, Arketa bent like a praying penitent.  Hold your heart,she thought. Learn. Learn more.Learn for sure—can this be my son?

 

° °  °

             

This had to be her child, this Elario Bazia Zambakari. He was seventeen years old, a student in Uganda. Uganda! How did this happen? For the first time in years, she spoke freely of Elario. Christopher was five when Yambio was bombed, when he lost his big brother, his best friend. Now, he and his mom talked through the night. They planned. They needed African phone cards. 

 

“Do we have money, Mom?” asked Christopher.

 

“Forty cents,” Arketa said. 

 

But—they had food stamps. Many grocery items, like toilet paper and soft drinks, required cash. Sudanese Lost Boys sometimes carried cash with them to Food City. She knew that. So, the next morning Arketa called her boss and arranged to have the day off. She was useless for work. She might put a skirt on an elderly man or put sugar in someone’s soup, so singularly focused on Elario was she. She moved with determination as she had when she searched for Christopher in Kinshasa. Now, in her frenzied mind, she searched for her eldest—a sixteen-year-old if he was alive—a six-year-old in her racing thoughts. 

 

After Arketa saw her girls safely onto school buses, she and Christopher footed itin a hurry to Food City grocery store. No school for Christopher—Arketa needed him. They waited, watching for the right shoppers to appear.

 

“We are going to deal with African people,” she explained to her son. “When we see dah Sudanese, I go and talk with them. 

 

“Please,” she began, speaking to her chosen target. “We have dah food-y stamps. I want to buy dah phone cards to call back home but we don't have cash. Can I do dah stamps for your food and you give me cash?’ 

 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” came the answer. It’s okay.” 

 

Arketa and the cooperative African walked to the cashier together where she would pay for the man’s purchase with her food stamps in exchange for ten dollars.

 

It worked! Off she and Christopher rushed to a nearby 24-hour convenience store where liquor, cigarettes, and phone cards could be purchased. Five dollars. Twenty-one minutes. 

 

“Two cards, please.”

 

 They rushed home and waited. They met the afternoon school bus, got the girls settled with snacks and homework, then knocked on Grandma’s door asking, “Please, can we use dah phone?”

 

 Arketa fumbled with the card, fumbled with reading and dialing the many numbers required for reaching Uganda. Christopher took over, dialed, heard the ring, and handed the phone to his mother.

 

“Hallo?” English. Arketa responded, “Hallo.” She meant to launch directly into her request when in a strong British accent the man said, “Woman, it is middle of the night. Everyone is sleeping. Please, call back in the morning.” 

            

“Eeeiii.”Arketa bent, head to knees. Spent. Useless. Frantic. Close, so close to her son. Tomorrow was a hundred years away. 

 

“Mom, hold your heart,” Christopher said. “In a few hours we can call again.” 

 

° °  °

 

 Saint John Bosco Minor Seminary, Homia, Uganda – 9:30pm Phoenix time

 “Kik, kik, kik, kik,” Arketa voiced the dialing sound for me as she unleashed her exciting story of finding Elario.  She punched numbers into the air with her slender index finger. The Ugandan phone rang, she said. It rang and rang. 

 

“Nobody pick up the phone,” she said.

 

I moaned with her, hearing her fear and impatience.

            

“What happened?” Arketa asked. “Dah boy from Uganda was dehr now with us and he knows. He say, ‘Dah priest may be in dah shower. He’s brushing his teeth. This is the right time to call. Let us wait ten minutes.’”

 

Ten minutes. Ten years. Was there a difference? Arketa paced. She fretted. So much can happen in ten minutes. Her misery was great. Grandma patted Arketa’s hand. After a brief spell of time, the young Ugandan man punched in the required card code, the required country number, the required area number and the number of the school.

 

“We ring,” Arketa said. “Dah pastor was dehr, dah director of dah school. He knows dah Ugandan boy good and say to him, ‘How are you in America now?’            

“Dah boy say, ‘I am fine but I have a lady here, she wants to talk to you because she wants to talk to Elario, dah orphan boy. It looks like she is dah mother of Elario.’” He handed the phone to Arketa. The minutes on the phone card were ticking away.

            

“Hallo,” Arketa began.  When the priest greeted her she explained as nearly as she could, who she was and what she wanted. Christopher leaned near the phone’s receiver, listening. The priest asked question after question. 

            

“Where was she from?

            

“What town in South Sudan? 

            

“When was your son born?”

            

“My son was lost in 1990, during the war in Yambio. We took refuge in Central African Republic, in M’boki. I am now in America, in settlement.”

            

“What is your full name?”

 

“Arketa Bazia Zambakari.”

 

“And Elario was born where?”

 

“Elario was born in Yambio but we live in N’zara.”

 

“When?”

 

She gave him the date. Exactly. 

 

“And how many children do you have besides Elario?”

“I told him, beside Elario I have Christopher, I have Nathalia, I have Timothy who is now with my mom in M’boki. I have Sarai, who is the small one born in the refugees camp. Elario never seen her; he never heard about her since that day until today.”

 

“How did you get to America?”

            

“ Oh, dah card is going out. I tell him everything.”

 

“What is your mother’s name?”

 

“I gave him my mother’s name—Lucia Taban”

 

“Your father’s name?

 

“Your father has been doing what in Yambio?”

 

“I explain everything. My father was director of Agriculture in West Equatoria. When I explain everything he say, ‘Okay, call me back in ten minutes.’ He is going to ask questions of Elario. Aaaiiii!Ten minutes more!”

 

°  °  °

 

Homia – May 2001

“Elario,” the director said, “What happened when you lost your family. Tell me all you remember.” He didn’t tell Elario why he was asking.

            

“I was playing on the Catholic Church in Yambio because it was close to our house. Every evening, every morning, children play there. When the bombs start, I was there. I couldn’t make it back to the house. I last saw my mother, brothers, and sister when I was six years old. I just take off with different people. Even the pastor who brought me here was not the one who took care of me there or after Ethiopia. First we ran to the border of Sudan and Zaire at a place called Nabiapai. We roamed the border for a month before going to the refugee camp in Dungu in Zaire. I was there for three years. I did my primary one, two, and three there in French. Then came a disturbance between Congolese and refugees. 

 

“We walked to Ethiopia. Many of the children walking died for lack of water and food. Entering Ethiopia many refugees died crossing the river without knowing how to swim, or because of the crocodiles. This was where the priest tied me to his back for the crossing of the river. 

 

“In Ethiopia we were arrested and put in a prison because we had no documents. Two of the men with us were killed. Now, life lost its meaning for me because I knew I would never see my mother and my brothers again. I think they are dead. 

            

“Now we are told there is no refugee camp in Ethiopia. Go to Kenya, to Kakuma. Kakuma was hell, Father. Forgive me. This was early, before the Red Cross was helping. Getting food, finding water even to drink, was difficult. Here, I knew I would be an orphan forever.

            

“This is when the Catechist with whom I traveled saw I would not live much more because I always sit without talking, and sometimes crying for my mother. He said ‘now we will leave.’ He sold what we had and bought tickets for a bus to Kampala. This was in 1994, when we came from Kampala to Hoima. Someone said in Hoima the church will take care of the boy. Here, I was taken under the care of the priests and enrolled in school. This is the true story of my movement between Yambio and here.”

            

“Do you know your mother’s name?” asked Father Richard.       

“My mom is Arketa Zambakari.”

            

“How many children does she have?”

            

Elario named the three siblings he knew.

            

“What about the other child your mom has?”

            

“I don’t know. Since that time in Yambio, I don’t know where they are. The pastor I was with tried to find them through the Red Cross but no way. We never got information.”

            

“Okay. Come with me.” Father Richard said.

            

Elario followed the priest to his office, watched him pick up a ringing cell phone. The priest talked, listened, talked, then handed the unfamiliar thing to Elario. 

 

“Put this to your ear,” he said. “Say hello to your mother.” 

 

° °  °

 

Phoenix, Arizona

Ten long minutes passed. The Ugandan punched in the multiple numbers to reach the school. He handed the ringing phone to Arketa.

 

“Hallo. Yeah,” said the director. “You are the mother of Elario.” He explained to Arketa “how dah guy brought Elario to Homia. How Elario is sixteen. He’s a very tall boy and he’s studying good. He has a good record.” Phone card minutes were ticking away. 

 

“I was just listening to him,” Arketa said. “Dah priest say, ‘Are you there?’ 

            

“I’m there,” Arketa said, unusually subdued, shockingly still as the barrier at her heart broke and sorrows rushed in.

            

“He say, ‘Elairo is here, standing beside me. You are going to talk to him.’ Arketa was crying so much she could not talk. Christopher held the phone for her but he couldn’t talk either.

 

Elario could hear the crying. He was shaking. The priest comforted him. “This is your own mom! You have been separated from her since 1990. Now, talk to your mother.”

            

“I hear dah pastor give me Elario, and finally, I call his name.

            

“Elario.”

            

“He say, ‘Mum.”

            

“I say, ‘Elario,’ again.”

            

“Mum.”

            

“I was calling that name, five times, more than five times.”

            

“Mum, Mum, Mummyyyyy!,”Elario started to cry. “I am alive. Is it really you? 

 

“You are alive?” he asked.

 

“Where is Christopher?

 

“Where are you? 

 

“Mum? Where is my Grandpa, my Grandma? Everybody. 

 

“How is everything there? I want to know about my family.”

            

“He was asking for my daddy. Oh, Barbara, I could not handle it. Christopher took dah phone. He say, ‘Mom, if you start like that, how will you speak to Elario. Don't cry. Talk to him.’ But I can only cry.” 

Christopher took the phone and talked to his best friend in life, to his brother, Elario. They talk and talked. 

            

Elario assured Christopher that he was in very good care. He was getting a good education. Christopher shouldered the task of breaking sorrowful news, the killings, the camp, the movement to Kinshasa. In short, how things had been very, very bad.

            

Finally, Elario said to his brother whom he loved, “Say to my mom, ‘Be strong, my mom.’ I want to listen to her. I want to listen to my mom’s voice.”

             

Coming up: CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Uganda—No Farther

In the summer of 2009 when Arketa and I first met, the contents of this book, her story, lay pressed down in her heart. She was a woman filled with knowledge and memory of Africa. I was an American familiar with a documentary or two about Sudan’s Lost Boys but little else about Africa. The location of Sudan within that huge continent was as unidentifiable to me as the capital cities of most New England states. “Nothing” is what I knew about her country or her suffering.

I had asked, “Do you have children?”

“I have five. Two is in Uganda, three with me in Arizona.”

“Why are the two not with you?” I asked.

 “Ah,” she said, recognizing bafflement in my voice. “’Why dos boys are not with me? Dis is because of when my mom died in Uganda.” 

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