We Are The Leopards

A very rough draft of a short story I did for class earlier this year...

Silence is variable. Some silences are dead, dark, and void of life. While other silences are that of humanity. The drone of engines stops and the constant chatter of people is replaced with the whispers of the waterpear trees and hum of bugs hiding deep in the forest.
The first silence fell tonight. Clouds cover the moon and stars, leaving the night black, save the dim glow from nearly dead fires. The birds are silent and leopards can’t be heard slipping through the long grasses. The night is dead.
And something is coming.
I had been sitting outside our family’s hut, watching the last rays of sunlight disappear when I first felt it. That first hint that something was wrong came early in the evening before the sun sank below the horizon. My friend, Aleela, and I at first paid little attention to it, but soon, as the night drags on, it becomes undeniable that something is off. Stupidly, we still ignore it. Aleela and her mother go home, and I go to bed.
Midnight strikes and the storm hits. The winds whip against homes and rain falls in sheets. The thunder is deafening, but it still didn’t drown out the piercing scream and the rumble of engines. Our door is thrown open, and that's the last time my life is right.

“Kilinda! Kilinda!” Aleela stands over me, bright sun shining behind her, making a halo of light. The void of silence from last night is gone, replaced with white noise, which could just be in my head. I could feel right away something is off. I know now that I was right, something was wrong. So, so, terribly wrong.
“Are you okay, Aleela?” I croak out, my throat like sandpaper. She answers, but I don’t hear, the ringing in my ears taking over my head. I finally began to process what is going on around me. Half of our front wall is missing, the clay crumbling in on itself. Our door hangs by only one hinge and thumps dully against the remaining half of wall every time the wind blows. Holes still dominate our roof, and a steady drip of water is coming down and landing on my forehead, stinging slightly. I reach up to wipe the water from my brow, but my hand comes back bloody. That at least explains my headache. I tune back into reality and sit up slowly.
“-And now, I think that you’re the only one left.” Aleela's voice trails off, tears welling up in her eyes and she wraps her arms around me. “I’m so, so, so sorry Kilinda. I don’t know how to help.” I blink and wipe my eyes.
“Where's my Dad? And Mom?” I swallow, and at that moment realize what she means “only one left.” The words echo over and over in my ears, and I stand quickly, and dizzily tumble down again. “Only one left.” I’m too numb to cry but still feeling too much. Every sense comes over me at once, and I could feel nothing. I stand again and pull Aleela to her feet next to me.
“Aleela, come with me. We can’t stay here; I know what we have to do.”
“What are you talking about, Kilinda? Are you ok? Can you even see straight?”
“Remember last year when that group of people came through our town? The freedom fighters. They asked for help. Remember how many people went with them? Including your dad and my brother. We have to find them and join them. We have to fight for our home, Aleela.”
“You're crazy.”
“Maybe I’m crazy, or maybe I’m doing what's right. Maybe I’m joining the fight that no one else will, and maybe I’m going to lose. But what if I win? Do you even remember life before we lived in fear of the British coming? And now, now of all times, they come. And now we have to fight. I lost my brother to this war for freedom and now I’ve lost my parents. But I’m not going to lose myself, because I’m going to fight, and I’m going to win. No matter what the cost could be.” A small group of people who had been cleaning up the mess from the raid and the storm are gathering now. I look around me, at the people who raised me from the womb, and my friends since the day I was born, and I knew that I am right. I have to fight for their freedom.
“It’s far too dangerous, Kilinda, you can’t go.” One of my aunts marches over and grabs my arm.
“No, Aunty, Kilinda is right, and I want to go with her.” Aleela steps forward and takes my hand. Most of the people dispersed, realizing they were invading on a personal moment. I look at Aleela, and with our eyes, we make an agreement. I pull my arm free from my aunt’s grip, hike up my kanga, and Aleela clutches hers. And we run. People yell at us, but our feet pounded against the hard ground and we don’t stop.
We run for easily an hour, and walk till the sun is high above and our shadows disappear under us.
“We brought nothing.” Aleela says, breaking the quiet.
“We have nothing,” I reply blatantly. She nods, acknowledging that I’m right. The only thing we have now is the clothes on our backs. We go back to walking in silence.

Another hour passes of us trekking through the hot sun before Aleela speaks again.
“I never realized how far we live from everything till now, since we have to walk all the way to the next village.” I ignore her. We walk a few more steps, and she grabs my arm.
“Ow, Aleela, watch it, what the-” Her other hand slaps over my mouth and she drops to the ground, pulling me down with her. Unfamiliar words float across the plain, a thick, strange accent covering them. My eyes widen as footsteps approach us. Closer, closer and closer, then they stop. I bury my face in my hands, and I can only assume we’ve been found by the British officers, and that this is it for us. There's a shout to my far left and the man closer to us takes off in that direction. I peer out, and scoot over a bit and press myself against a tree, pulling Aleela over next to me. The thick leaves of the water pear shoot up around us, and I quickly stand to pull a nearly dead stick from the tree.
“Aleela,” I hiss, pulling her to her feet. “Get ready to run.” I untie my kanga, and redo it so it functions more like a pair of short, loose-fitting pants than a skirt. Aleela’s eyes widen, and I roll mine. The men’s voices are distant now, but steadily growing closer again. I run.
Thankfully I can hear that Aleela is not far behind me, but I know for sure the men had seen us now, if they hadn’t already They start after us, shouting. We keep running, and I know that no matter how far we go we won’t be able to lose them. But I still keep running. I pump my arms, staring at the horizon, and turn around briefly, a scream escaping my lips when I see them not ten feet behind Aleela.
“Aleela!” I scream, coming quickly to a halt, and start running straight back to her, brandishing the waterpear stick. The two men change their interests to me as Aleela runs past, and I blindly stab with my new-found weapon.
I had been on one hunting party in my life, and I could only vaguely remember any of it, except the primal fear you could sense in the air as soon as a chase began. But the big difference between a leopard and its claws, and me, is a leopard has the chance to win. A scream erupts behind me, and Aleela comes running back at us, arms flailing, letting out a horrible battle cry.
The officers are left unaffected by her screams, but it's the sound of a distant engine that pulls their focus from us. The taller of the two shoves Aleela and I down, and says something to the other. He replies nervously, and they both start backing off. Aleela and I make confused eye contact, then turn back to watch the officers just in time to see them break into a quick sprint away from us. The engine grows louder, and distant yells come closer.
“If the men with guns run from these people,” Aleela's voice trails off, and I jump in, finishing her sentence.
“Then why are we still sitting here, with only a stick?” We stay sitting, nonetheless.
The engines and calls grow ever closer, but we still didn’t move, too hurt from our lost fight and day long run through the sun to move. I wipe the sweat off my forehead, and my hand comes back bloody again. We don’t move still. A Jeep pulls up past us and stops directly to our right. Aleela stands but stumbles back down. I stare at my reflection in the hubcap.
Sweat beads on my face, and my hair is a frizzy mess, only half still pinned up. What hair had fallen in my face had stuck there with dry blood and mud. My face is a whole two tones lighter from the fine dust that had settled after last night's storm. Aleela is in just as bad condition, but seeing myself like this set in a whole new reality to how much trouble we were really in.
“Get up,” a man barks from in the Jeep. I look up at them but have to squint against the sun. I can see five distinct figures and one that could be either a human or a pile of something. Aleela scrambles up and pulls me to my feet with her. I can feel her shaking through the death grip she has on my arm. A cloud drifts over the sun and I can finally look at them clearly. Six men total stand over us. The driver is definitely in charge. He is easily over 50, his hair starting to grow white and his skin has wrinkles and a tan as though he had spent his life working in the sun. He looks similar to my father in the face, but doesn’t have the same laugh lines around his eyes. This is a man who has spent his life at work, and who fights against it.
A younger man speaks out, hopping out from the back of the Jeep.
“Who is that running from us? Friends of yours?” Aleela opens her mouth to speak, but stops, uncertain of what to say. The younger man towers over both of us, grabbing our arms. “I asked,” he hisses, “Who is it?”
“They’re British officers!” Aleela blurts out, immediately covering her mouth and shooting me a nervous glance. The men made eye contact, the oldest one nods, and the younger drops our arms. We both immediately grab each other's hands and avoid the gaze of the older men.
“Get in,” says the oldest abruptly. We look up at him, and he looks down at us. “I mean it, get in the Jeep.” We both scramble up and into the vehicle. The youngest, a lanky boy who looked almost afraid as we did, grabs us and pulls us to the floor in the back of the Jeep, not a second before it lurches into motion, bumping along across the savannah. The old man speaks again, his voice barely audible over the sound of the Jeep.
“My name is Jata. I work for Jomo Kenyatta, the leader of the Kenyan Independence Movement.”
“Against the British?” I ask, paying close attention to how the other men react to my words.
“Yes, against the occupation of the British. I’m in the Mau Mau Rebellion, we are more, say, determined with our methods to reaching freedom.” The tone in his voice is almost chilling, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
“Jata,” says a man with braids, “Do you see the other Jeep? Coming over the horizon?” Jata looks up and nods.
“I see it, Hali. Get ready for whoever it could be, everyone.” A murmur of agreement goes through the six men, and I found myself nodding as well, and grabbing onto the edge of the Jeep.
The men all grab onto a gun or other choice weapon, some choosing a knife, one what could’ve passed for a spear had it been a little longer and held together by more than lashings made from grass and strips of old fabric. Aleela pulls her legs close to her body and starts weeping, rather fitting to her personality as a whole. The youngest reaches down to the bottom of the Jeep and pulls back the metal of the floor to reveal a rack of hidden weapons fastened under the Jeep, successfully away from the eyes of anyone looking in. A gun is planted in my hands, and I flash back to the hunting party once again.
Dust surrounds us in the air, reducing our vision to nearly nothing. The only thing leading us are the footsteps of whoever is walking in front of us. We trek on, listening to the wind, and for the telltale sound of a leopard's paws against the dry ground. Still no sign of our prey, we move on. A loud noise causes us to turn, and we see it. A huge wild boar is not ten feet back and gaining on us. Shouts echoed around me, and the true primal fear of a chase took over. Somehow, in the mess a gun had been put in my hands. I found myself alone, but still surrounded by men, grass, and the boar.
A shout pulls me back into reality and I realize what is happening in front of me. A number of men and two Jeeps were quickly approaching from the horizon. Through the dust thrown up by our car, we were barely able to see the British flag waving proudly from the back of theirs. I normally resort to flight in a fight or flight situation, but now some deep anger and untouched instinct took over. I knew I had to fight.
I can’t bring myself to remember exactly what happened, but I can’t forget the angry screams, the smell of gunpowder, and the bittersweet taste of victory. These men are right in saying they have more determined methods to reach their goals.
Our Jeep rolls on.
We keep moving until long after the sun had gone down. Even as the night grows darker, we continue until a dim light could be seen in the distance.The general air in the Jeep lightened, two of the men started speaking in hushed tones, and Hali smiles grimly, though just for a second.
Suddenly, Jata spoke again. His words were so quiet, barely heard over the droning of the engine, but still strong enough to make every man stop to listen.
“The British are harsh. Far too harsh. They take our children, they hurt our wives. If it weren't for them, we would be a free nation, where no man has to worry for his wife, home, and for his children being taken away from him without hesitation by a military officer. I can still remember what life was like before going outside became feared, and you worried for the sake of your family, and your dignity. Now, even when you leave your house for food or drink, you take the risk of a British officer coming and hurting you, or your family while you aren’t there to protect them.” The men around us nod in solemn agreement. I, too, nod and speak up, carefully phrasing each sentence before I continued, watching for any ill reaction.
“I came to fight for the memory of my mom and dad, who were lost in a raid. I came to fight for my brother, who joined the movement and hasn't been seen since.” As I talk, I grow more confident in my words, and speak a little louder. “I came to fight for what is right, for Kenya, and the Kikuyu people.” The men nod, and Jata whispers something. The Jeep rolls to a jerky halt, and the men spill out of it, as I sorely drop to the ground behind them, wincing as my tight muscles are forced to move again.
The camp is well put together by some standards, but definitely doesn’t have any extra details for comfort. Aleela is pressed against me as we’re funneled through a barricade, and shot down by the stares of the people who now stand around us. One woman sneers at us, and the man she stood with obviously stares as we walk past. Jata walks in behind us, and the tension evaporates. People smile, though grimmly, and pat him on the back or offer welcoming words as he walks past. A man, who had been cleaning his gun, stands and speaks.
“Jata, some British troops were spotted while you were gone. They were just over the hill, they didn’t see us, but were still too close for comfort.” Jata nods thoughtfully.
“We will increase the guard tonight. But now, these two were attacked by two British officers, and would wish to join our movement. Their initiation will be in the morning,” Jata says, showing no sign of worry about the British troops. The people nod and go back to their business, cleaning guns and speaking in hushed tones.

Day comes and Aleela and I find ourselves sitting alone in a tent, people walking around outside doing the morning chores. Without speaking, we still both completely understand what the other is thinking. We’re both afraid, obviously, but I’m masking it a little better. Aleela still has dirt and tears streaking down her face, and she shakes like reeds in a rough stream.
I feel shut down, my senses dead. Still all too aware though, I can hear the harsh whispers outside of our tent, and the hiss that follows ‘the girls.’
“Kilinda?” Aleela whispers, reaching over and touching my hand. I yank it back, and shoot a glance at her.
“What? I’m listening.”
“They said something about initiation. What do you think they meant?”
“I don’t know, we never talked about the rebellion in my house. Why don’t you just hop on out there and ask?” I ask sharply. She shrinks up, and I can tell my words hurt but I don’t care enough to apologize. The front flap of the tent flies open, and three backlit figures stand there, the morning light blinding us.
“Get up.” The first one says, voice void of emotion to hint at what is to come. We both stand carefully, and follow the three men to a dying fire in the center of the camp. Juma follows closely to my left, and leans in to whisper something before breaking off into the small crowd, disappearing among their bodies.
“The British do terrible things to girls. This is no place for you, or your friend.” I roll my eyes and walk on.
People crowd around the embers. People of all ages, men and women, adults and children. We stand, some with fear in our eyes and others with vengeance. All of us stand tall, but still appear small in the huge presence of Jata and the men he leads.
“You’re all here because you know what is right. You are willing to fight for what you believe in, and you are willing to die for it. The oath to Mau Mau is a serious one. One that pledges your allegiance to the rebellion, and to a free Kenya. It is not to be taken lightly.” Jata stood tall, his figure glowing from the sunrise and his shadow dancing at our feet.
“The oath to Mau Mau is as follows: if I ever reveal the secrets of this organisation, may this oath kill me.” Our voices echo back what he says strongly. “If I ever sell or dispose of any Kikuyu land to a foreigner, may this oath kill me.” The threat of being killed still doesn’t seem to have set in with everyone, but Aleela and I make nervous eye contact. “If I ever fail to follow our great leader, Kenyatta, may this oath kill me.” Voiced repeat back, some still strong but most shaking slightly by this point. “If I ever inform against any member of this organisation, or against any member who steals from a European, may this oath kill me.” Our voices continue to repeat back perfectly what Jata says, until we reached the last oath.
“If I am sent to bring in the head of anyone, and I fail to do so, may this oath kill me” The fire is barely alive now, and we’re all dead silent save our shallow breathing. The quiet is broken by a yell from one of the guards men.
“Stop! They’re coming! They’re here!” The sound of gunfire starts and I scream. Men bathed in light run into the camp, quickly followed by Jeeps and other cars, holding heavily armed men. Heart pounding, I grab the nearest weapon, a gun, but no sooner than I aim it an officer yanks it out of my hands, shoves me to the ground and stands over me.
The fire had started again, but is spreading to tents and other structures in camp. I hear a scream. Juma’s voice echoes in my ears, they do terrible things to girls, this is no place for you. The extent of what he meant hit me like an elephant. My vision blurs out a bit, but I continue to thrash blindly, trying to hit the officer over me. Juma is suddenly standing over me, knife in hand. The officer falls, and Juma grabs my wrist.
“What did I tell you?” He hisses in my ear, then runs off, leaving me weaponless and alone in the battlefield.
Another piercing scream yanks me back into reality. Aleela. I whip around and scream her name, watching as a British official wraps his arms around her and pulled her out of my sight. I know what’s coming next for Aleela, yet I’m too numb to move to help her, but all too alive at the same time.
The hunt is always bloody, the end most especially. Twelve men stood, surrounding the beast, spears and guns pointed in. The leopard hissed, scratched and fought proudly, but to no avail. She jumped at one man, only to have another shoot her in the leg. She turned and lunged to another, but a spear found its way into her side. A hunting call echoed up into the night sky, it’s dreadful sound echoed off the trees and distant mountains.
The leopard fell, and men leaped onto her body, celebrating their kill. She let out one last dreadful hiss, then didn’t move again. I remember them backing away and congratulating each other, but my eyes were glued to the leopard. Her majestic form lay crippled, all dignity and life stolen away from her. Eyes staring blankly ahead, the once strong beast was defeated. Defeated by these hunters and their longing for power over her.

And yet, despite it all, the sun continues to rise and the earth spins on. The sunrise is far too beautiful, streaks of color lighting up the sky, reflecting off the dew and giving the plain an otherworldly feel. I’m sitting in the back of a British Jeep, my hands tied to those of the person in front of me, and my feet tied to keep me from running. The Jeep bumps along, and every time one of us moves an officer delivers a kick sending them tumbling back into the rest of us. Harsh tones can be heard from the men in front of us, but I don’t know what they were saying.
The Jeep bumped on.

It starts raining by the time we reach our destination. I’m barely awake, more dead than alive after the miserable trip. We’re unloaded like cattle, and shoved into small cells. It’s cold, the roof leaking and we rub against each other.
I once heard my Dad say people handle fear in two different ways. Some wake up and some shut down. The distant memory of the hunt is pulling me back in, and I’m shutting down.
A large group of leopards had been funneled into a cage. They lashed out at each other, claws out and teeth bared. Hunters surround the cage, prodding at the terrified creatures with guns every time they moved. The once proud, powerful animals were covered in dirt, blood and shaking with fear. Outside of the cage, one man boasted to another about how he had taken down hundreds of leopards in his lifetime. The other man laughed, calling them stupid animals, easy to catch.
We are the leopards. All of us, once majestic, proud and strong people who are beaten down by the British and forced into chains for trying to earn ourselves a better future. A better world for ourselves and our children.
An officer laughs about something, and prods at me with his gun. I try to cover myself, but he just wraps his hand around my arm and pulls me up. A woman gently touches my arm as I go past her, almost in a motherly way, but the door slams shut between us, the fighters of the Mau Mau Rebellion locked inside.
Walking down the hall, we pass at least a dozen doors, each one imprisoning people, their moans quiet through the heavy, locked wooden doors. The sound of the officer's boots is a rhythmic click, keeping me breathing, despite how much I want to stop.
Click click click, breath in, click click click, breath out.
I’m thrown into another room, where I just lay, broken, on the ground. It’s silent. The first silence, a dead one. I look up and my eyes meet the brown ones of a Kikuyu man. He doesn’t smile, he doesn’t even blink, just stares into my eyes, and into my soul.
“Who are your people? What do you represent?” His voice is brisk, and has a distinct sound to it, similar to that of the British. “Answer me, girl. Why did you fight the Brits?” I can still remember the threats of what would happen to me if I ever spill the secrets of the organisation. Death. It doesn’t take the mind of a genius to know my fate. If I tell this man what he wants to know, Mau Mau fighters will kill me. If I refuse to speak, the British will. I have no way out.
“Speak. Tell me what you represent, and why you fight. Every question you don’t answer, you just condemn one of your friends. What good does it do to hurt the officers who help you?”
“Help us?” I spit at him. “You see this scar on my head? Your precious Brits gave me this. You see my tattered clothes? Your Brits have done this to me. You can’t see my broken heart, but know that your officers have done that to me too. Go ahead, threaten my friends, you can break our bodies, you can break our hearts, but you can’t break our spirit.” I spit again, glaring up at him through my dirty hair. Somewhat pleased with my small speech, I smile mockingly.
His foot meets my abdomen, and he pulls me to my feet by my throat.
“You’re only hurting yourself, girl, no one can help you now.” He throws me back down, then walks out of the room, barking a command in the language of the British. Two men walk in, and pull me to my feet. A canvas bag is thrown over my head, and they drag me down the hall. Despite trying to stay strong, I can feel myself shutting down. My brain shuts off, and I flash back to the hunt yet again.
I’m the leopard now. I’m running across the cracked ground, but no matter how fast I run, every time I look back a hunter is still at my tail. He is laughing, running at inhuman speeds and gaining on me. I push to run faster, but it feels like I’m moving in slow motion.
I’m thrown against the ground and I can hear the sound of a dozen guns being loaded, I smile and laugh, calling out insults at the men I can’t see.
I fall, tumbling to a halt, my legs a tangled mess around me. The hunter stands over me now, laughing. I hiss and scratch, but to no avail.
“Shut up!” Someone yells at me. My ankles are untied, but the raw skin underneath the ropes pulses with my heartbeat. My arms are pulled up over my head and I can feel a stake shoved into the ground behind my back. A dozen guns are cocked.
“Mau Mau lives on!” I scream.
I struggle to stand, but my legs collapse under me. The hunter presses the barrel of a gun against my head, and I single hiss escapes my lips, before the familiar click of a trigger being pulled is heard. And then nothing.