Joint Task Force #4: Africa Read Free

whippings. The boy had awakened and Kabaka was gathering new skin for his belts. The army may respect and worship Ojo, but they feared Kabaka and fear builds its own form of respect. Ojo shifted his weapon and thought, Kabaka must go, if I am to live and our goal of a free Africa is to come. I must chose a day—a time and do it. It will be soon.
    The wailing of the prisoners resumed with a newer intensity, and a few more who had thus far managed to keep the soil dry beneath them now joined the others. Ojo looked at Niewu who had rejoined him.
    “It is time, my friend.”
    Niewu nodded. “General Kabaka hasn’t sent his runner yet, General Ojo. If we start and send too many back to him, he may not have the men to execute them.”
    Ojo looked down at Niewu and thought, So, fear has already captured you, my friend. The man to whom I gave the power of the staff, and now you are willing to confront me for fear of Kabaka.
    Niewu saw the look and quickly said. “They have women back there that the men are enjoying. It is the one pleasure our soldiers have as we take your plan forward, General Ojo. If we send the rejections to them too soon, it would spoil their fun before they place the pistol against their heads and pull the trigger.”
    “Let’s start, Niewu, and we will do it slowly. Those back there will be soon gone.” The screams from behind the schoolhouse grew in pitch. “You understand who is the leader of this army?”
    Niewu nodded rapidly, his head going up and down. “Yes, General.” The old man rose quickly, barely using the staff this time.
    To change Africa meant starting with the children. TheIslamic Jihadists understood that, and decades ago across the globe, they began to write on the blank chalkboards of youth the belief of killing oneself in furtherance of a religion earned great honor and immediate access to some fanatical version of heaven.
    Two soldiers brought the first boy in line forward. The boy’s legs kicked and kicked, trying to free the arms the two soldiers held. The two men jerked the boy upright, holding him so his feet couldn’t reach them nor touch the ground. The two men looked toward Ojo, saw him watching them, and immediately looked down at their feet. Respect was a good thing. Respect was best earned through hard work, fairness, and camaraderie. That took time. Another avenue to earn respect was through fear and strength of command. Kabaka had learned that well. Fear took less time, but required relentless and ruthless application.
    The soldiers continued walking up and down the line, whipping the children into place. Screams for them to “shut up” and “stand straight” had little effect, but the whips kept the line curling like a snake. The noise from their captives would never stop, but it was enough for Ojo that the wailing was more of a murmur now. Ojo knew the fear in each of these boys’ minds was like a parasite eating away at it. The screaming from behind the schoolhouse was feeding their fear to such an extent that it was stifling their own moans and wails. Ojo sighed. If they knew what Kabaka was doing, he would never harvest any future warriors from this meager line.
    The boys’ bare feet beat an uneven tattoo in the dirt of the village, drawing small puffs of red dust into the air. He may have a bath when this was over.
    The sergeant in charge of lining up the students walked to where the two held the first lad who was now kickingand screaming obscenities at them. Without a word, the huge man drew his hand back and with open palm slapped the side of the boy’s face, the sound of the slap was accompanied by a pistol shot from behind the school. The boy’s head snapped to the side, the head twisted back to the front and fell forward, the chin coming to rest on a heaving, thin chest.
    “Bring him here,” Ojo commanded, his bass voice riding over the background moans from their small captives. Small moist spots speckled beneath the feet of the boys as the line