Junta

Thump.

That was the sound Karim heard after the body was thrown into the well. It would haunt him for years to come. He staggered to the side, collapsed onto the grass, and threw up all the nyambi ak neybbeh he had eaten for dinner. Tijan and Omar laughed, their boots crunching the dry grass. Baboucarr ignored them.

“Are you okay?” he asked Karim.

Karim didn’t say anything. Of course, he wasn’t okay. They had just murdered a man. His head swirled with nausea and guilt. He had blood on his hands — someone’s husband, someone’s father, someone’s son.

“It gets better. You get used to it,” Baboucarr continued, his tone devoid of judgment. After a beat, he added, “The nausea will stop; it’ll become easier.”

Karim stared at him, horrified. Easier? My God, who have I become? he thought, then retched some more. The cassava and beans lingered, a grim reminder of his last meal. Baboucarr took a bottle of water from the car and gave it to him to rinse his mouth and wash his face.

On the ride back to town, while the others chatted about their day, argued about which English football club would win the Premier League, and joked as though they had just come from a casual night out, Karim remained hunched in the backseat near the window, his eyes fixed on the darkness. Baboucarr, in the front passenger seat, stole worried glances at him.

At home, Karim scrubbed himself until parts of his body turned raw. He could still smell the blood on him, that coppery hardened smell. He was barely able to sleep, he kept seeing the man’s cream-colored shirt each time he closed his eyes. When sleep finally came, his dreams were a collage of screams, thuds, and the dull thump of the well.

The next morning, he made discreet calls to find out who they’d killed, piecing together fragments of the man’s identity. Karamba Jaiteh. Journalist. Married. Two children. He was born and raised in Kanifing. He had started at Foroyaa Newspaper before moving to The Daily Newspaper, where he rose to the rank of editor-in-chief. Karim wanted to go see the family, pay his respects, and ask for their forgiveness. He couldn’t do any of those things, however, no matter how much he wanted to. He knew Karamba’s family weren’t even certain he was dead, they were probably clinging to a hope that he and his comrades had stolen from them. What would he say to them? How could he apologize? What would he even be going to apologize for? He pushed these thoughts down and went into the office.

Baboucarr was on the phone when Karim knocked once and barged in without waiting for a response. Baboucarr could see the despair, anger, and guilt all over Karim’s face.

Karim searched for his words, pacing from one corner of the office to the other. “How…how are you able to live with this?”

Baboucarr hung up the phone, leaned back in his seat, and replied, “Live with what?”

“You know what I am saying…this…what we did…” Karim said, his voice cracking.

Baboucarr nodded and asked him to take a seat. “I have been where you are right now. Questioning everything I thought I knew about myself. About this country. About everything.” He paused. “But I knew what was at stake. I knew there was no way out of this, otherwise I’d be the one you’d leave in the well next time.”

Karim sighed and leaned back in his seat. He knew deep down this was true. Everyone knew what happened to dissenters. It wasn’t just rumors anymore. If he wanted to keep his job — and more importantly stay alive — he had to keep his head down and continue as if nothing had happened. He exhaled, slumped his shoulders, and put his face between his calloused hands.

Baboucarr had lied. The nausea never stopped. It didn’t become easier, even after the fourth time. On the contrary, it became heavier. The burden of taking a life is never an easy affair. It weighs on your conscience—you go to bed with it, you wake up with it, and you go to work with it. It follows you everywhere.

Even after several executions, he still threw up, lost sleep, and wished for a way out. The only thing that brought him some semblance of relief was Baboucarr. Those days, they were growing closer. They went home together in Baboucarr’s car, and Baboucarr would drop him off at Farato before he took another van to Brikama. They were usually the ones left in the car, as the others all got off at Lamin or before. They talked about everything. Karim increasingly enjoyed their conversations and even started looking forward to when it was just the two of them. He learned that Baboucarr was from a family of five, and his parents were from Jarra Soma, in the north of The Gambia, moving to Farato when he was born. He learned that Baboucarr loved football and had wanted to be part of the Gambian national team growing up, but an injury had stopped him. He also learned that Baboucarr was more open-minded than he let on when the others were around.

On a hot Wednesday evening on their way home, with Karim in the front seat, the topic of homosexuality came up because the arrest of two men had just made the headlines.

“Nyi nyu haram lanj.” Tijan was the meanest in the group and known for his cruel ways of torturing dissenters.

“How can you let your fellow man fuck you?” said Omar, a tiny, light-skinned man with a bald head and a patchy beard. “Bilaye, mann lolu la dut understand.”

“Motah, we’ll kill all of them. It is against our culture,” added Tijan.

“But they are not harming anyone, they are just living their lives,” Karim blurted out matter-of-factly. He was never one to keep his opinions to himself, regardless of how much trouble they caused him.

The silence could have swallowed them all. Then Baboucarr laughed to break the silence. “Hamnga yow morm, you are always on the opposite end when everyone else agrees.”

“He’s always like this, defending women or homosexuality. He has such a white person mentality,” Tijan jeered.

After the car had emptied and it was just the two of them left, Baboucarr asked Karim why he says things that provoke the rest of the group. Karim said he did not say it to provoke them. He just did not think gay people should be killed for merely existing.

“I don’t think you should let the rest of the group know all of your thoughts. And don’t take it the wrong way, because I agree with you, I think gay people should be allowed to live their lives, but you know the country we live in and the government we have.”

“You agree with me?” Karim asked, incredulity in his voice. “You barely say anything when these topics come up.”

“Yes, because I don’t want to get myself in trouble. I think you should do the same.” Their eyes met and Baboucarr smiled.

February 2010

The first time they kissed, Karim melted into Baboucarr. They had both kissed other men before, but this felt different. It consumed them both, taking them to another dimension.

“You are almost as good a kisser as I imagined,” Baboucarr said, smiling against his lips.

“You imagined kissing me, huh?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.” They both laughed. They felt the giddiness of two high schoolers falling in love for the first time.

The following week, Baboucarr tried to spend as much time at the Banjul office as possible so he could see Karim. Whenever they found themselves alone, Baboucarr cornered him and they would kiss. They were playing dangerous games, knowing that if they were ever caught, their families would never see them again. Even though their love was forbidden, it was all-encompassing. Baboucarr couldn’t think straight without seeing Karim’s face; he couldn’t get a good night’s sleep without having spoken to Karim the night before.

Karim never thought he would have the chance to fall in love with a man, especially being in the military, living in The Gambia, and being Muslim. He had given up hope of ever finding love. Finding Baboucarr, even in the way he did, felt like coming up for air after being submerged for too long.

Karim would spend days at Baboucarr’s home, and they would go to work together. Baboucarr’s family knew them as friends and would often ask about Karim. The longest they went without seeing each other was after their biggest fight. They were coming home from work with Tijan and Omar. President Jammeh had ordered the execution of seven men suspected of homosexuality — one of them had been caught and tortured into naming others, who were tortured in turn until there were seven in total. This was all over the news.

Tijan launched into one of his tirades about how all homosexuals should be killed. “I am so glad we have a president like Jammeh who does not compromise on these barbarians. Homosexuals should never be allowed here.”

“But they are still here, as we can see,” Karim replied.

“This is why we’ll kill all of them.”

There was an uncomfortable silence in the car. When it was just Karim and Baboucarr left, Baboucarr stared daggers at Karim.

“What?” Karim said tersely.

“Why do you keep doing that?” Baboucarr asked angrily.

“Doing what?”

“Provoking them! Knowing it will only lead to an argument.”

“Because I tell them not to be bigots, I am the one provoking them? You just sit there acting as though what they say doesn’t bother you, or as if they wouldn’t be the first to throw a stone at you if they found out who you really are,” Karim said. At this point, he was shouting over the music.

“You act like you are better than them, as if it wasn’t just two weeks ago that you killed someone on orders from the President!” Baboucarr snapped back.

Karim looked at him, wounded. Baboucarr knew how these executions affected him. He still had nightmares, and on days he slept over at Baboucarr’s, he would wake up in the middle of the night to Baboucarr holding him close to his chest, softly whispering his name, telling him he was safe. They’d fall back asleep like this with the sound of their hearts beating.

Karim went home to Brikama. Although they had agreed he would spend the night at Baboucarr’s, he took his packed overnight bag and left.

Three days of silence ended when Baboucarr showed up at Karim’s door in Brikama, the engine of his car still ticking in the heat. They didn’t apologize. They did not have the words for it. Because Karim lived with a roommate, they instead drove to a secluded stretch of Sanyang beach, the tension breaking in a desperate, frantic embrace against the cool metal of the car door.

They didn’t see the headlights.

Omar had been suspicious for weeks. He had followed them. When the flashlight beam hit them, it felt like a gunshot.

“Bilaye, I knew it,” Omar whispered, standing ten feet away, his face twisted in a mask of pure disgust. “I knew you were soft, Karim. But you, Baboucarr? Both of you?”

“Omar, wait.” Baboucarr stepped forward, hands raised, his voice cracking. “The President will love this,” Omar sneered, backing toward the car he had borrowed for this mission. He wasn’t afraid; he was holding the ultimate power. “They won’t just kill you. They’ll make an example of you at Mile 2 prison. I’ll make sure I’m the one who pulls the —”

He never finished. Baboucarr moved with the practiced speed of a soldier who had long ago traded his soul for survival. He tackled Omar into the white sand. Karim stood frozen. He watched the two silhouettes thrashing in the dark. He heard the wet, choked sounds of a struggle. “Karim! Help me!”

Karim’s boots felt like lead, but the fear of the well, the memory of the journalist’s cream-colored shirt surged through him. If Omar lived, they were dead. It was that simple. Karim threw himself into the fray. He grabbed a heavy stone, he didn’t think about Karamba Jaiteh or the eight other people whose murders he had been part of. He only thought about the way Baboucarr’s breath felt against his neck.

The first blow silenced Omar’s threats. The second silenced his breathing. The silence that followed was louder than the struggle. They stood over the body, now just a heap of limbs in the dust.

“The well,” Baboucarr panted, his shirt torn. “The old one near the cashew grove. Move.”

They hauled him to the edge. There was no thump this time. The well was deeper, older. There was only a long, terrifying whistle of air, and then a distant, hollow splash. Karim doubled over, his lungs burning. He waited for the nausea, for the nyambi ak neybbeh to come up, but his stomach was empty.

“You okay?” Baboucarr asked, reaching out a blood-stained hand.

Karim looked at the hand, then at the dark mouth of the well. He realized then that Baboucarr hadn’t lied, that it had become easier. That was the most terrifying part. He took Baboucarr’s hand, his grip tight and frantic. They were bound now, not just by love, but by the blood under their fingernails.

February 2017

Karim had packed the night before, his movements frantic and quiet. He was on his way to board the ferry to Barra, the gateway to the border of The Gambia and Senegal. He had already spoken to his cousin in Dakar, who had agreed to house him until he could navigate the process of an asylum request with the UN Refugee Agency (UNHCR).

The plan was simple: Karim would go first to test the waters. Baboucarr would join him two days later. They figured two soldiers disappearing at once would trigger alarms, but one leaving for a family emergency might buy them the time they needed.

President Jammeh had been ousted, flown into the exile of Equatorial Guinea. The air in Banjul had changed overnight, the fear that once sat on everyone’s chest turned into a hunger for justice. The new regime was moving fast, arresting the “Junglers”—the men who had been the President’s shadow. Both Baboucarr and Karim had been named by a former colleague. Rumors were everywhere: a Truth, Reconciliation and Reparations Commission (TRRC) was being formed. For the public, it was a promise of healing. For Karim and Baboucarr, it was a death warrant.

Karim successfully reached Dakar. The city was a sprawling, frantic contrast to the quiet tension of Banjul. His cousin picked him up from the bus stop, and as they drove through the crowded streets, Karim felt the first breath of safety he’d had in a decade.

That night, he called Baboucarr.

“I’m here,” Karim whispered into the phone, huddled in the corner of his cousin’s guest room.

“Good,” Baboucarr’s voice was tight, muffled. “I’m at a friend’s place in Banjul. I have a boat lined up for 2:00 AM. A fisherman I know. He’ll take me across the water to the border. I’ll be with you by Monday morning.”

“Be careful, Babs. The checkpoints—”

“I know the men at the checkpoints, Karim. Most of them are just as scared as we are. I’ll see you soon. I love you.”

Karim hung up, his heart light for the first time since 2009. They had made plans to go to the asylum office together on Monday. They had talked about a small apartment in Almadies, about a life abroad where no one knew their names or the things they had done.

But Monday morning came, and the bus station in Dakar remained empty. Karim waited until the last passenger disembarked, scanning every face for Baboucarr’s deep, worried eyes. He called the number again and again, but it was dead. With a sinking feeling, he knew.

For the next three years, Karim replayed that final call in his head over and over. He wished he had kept Baboucarr on the line just five minutes longer. He wondered if he said I love you. He hoped it was enough to carry Baboucarr through the iron gates of Mile 2 prison.

June 2020

Karim is getting ready to leave the office. He has turned off his computer, cleared away his coffee mug, and put his notepad in the drawer. He is adjusting his work bag when his phone starts ringing—an unknown number from the Messenger app.

He picks up. “Hello?”

“Karim.”

His knees give way. “Is this… is it really you?”

“I miss you,” Baboucarr says.

“Where are you?” Karim asks, finally catching his breath.

“I am at the TRRC today. Haven’t you heard?”

“Oh no...” For a second, he had hoped that Baboucarr was calling from outside of The Gambia, that in some miraculous way, he had escaped. “I try not to watch. It’s too painful. All those people we killed…I just can’t…”

“Do you think about me sometimes? Do you regret your time in the military?” Baboucarr asks.

“I think about you every day. All the time. Every waking minute. I regret killing those people, but I will never regret being in the military, because it gave me you.”

And he does think about Baboucarr, as soon as he wakes up, before bed, and sometimes at the supermarket when he sees a dark-skinned man with deep eyes. He occasionally dreams of Baboucarr holding him, and it is so real and vivid he can hear Baboucarr’s heart beating, the memory so physically painful he cannot leave his bed in the morning.

Karim hears someone in the background say, “Baboucarr, we are about to start.”

“I have to go now,” Baboucarr says, and Karim can hear in his voice that he is about to cry.

“I love you. Always have.”

“I know. Me too.”

Karim sets his things down on his desk, his eyes misty and his heart pounding in his ears. He powers up his computer and goes straight to YouTube. He types “TRRC” into the search bar and clicks the live channel. He watches as the camera follows Baboucarr. He sits down, turns on the mic, and places his hand on the Qur’an.

“I, Baboucarr Mensah Kah, do swear that I will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God.”

Ansa Jagne, the head commissioner, turns on his mic and says, “Okay, let’s begin.”

Grace Borcherding is a third year PhD student at the University of Southern Mississippi specializing in 20th century American literature. She holds a bachelor's in creative writing and a master's in literature from Southeastern Louisiana University. Her creative work emphasizes human connection and finding the meaning in the mundane, and her critical interests include mobility, conformity, and community.