every circumstance, and some things can never be fixed with song. In fact, some situations are so unthinkably horrific they kill the music in your soul.
That’s what it felt like as I watched Ezekiel and his younger brother, Jerimiah, devouring food in the kitchen of Dunbrae Cottage. The minute I set out a loaf of bread and steaming bowls of Mrs. Fairshaw’s savory lamb stew, the boys attacked as if they hadn’t eaten a real meal in months. Perhaps they hadn’t. The plaid blankets that I’d bundled them in on the way from the foyer to the kitchen now pooled on the floor, forgotten as the two traded warm bodies for full bellies. What kind of world had they come from where a kid had to choose one over the other?
Ezekiel broke the last chunk of bread in half and handed the larger piece to little Jerimiah. I waited for them to scrape the stew dregs from their bowls before pestering them with questions. I’d made the decision to keep their discovery a secret for now. Although I had yet to learn the specifics of where they’d come from or what they’d gone through, I didn’t want to add to their trauma by turning them into a spectacle. After I heard their story, I would decide what to do next.
Easing into an open chair, I poured tall glasses of milk for my guests before starting my interview with a simple question. “How old are you guys?”
“I’m thirteen,” Ezekiel answered before indicating his brother, who hadn’t said a word since I found them. “Jerimiah is eleven.”
The younger boy nodded, head tilted downward toward the table, fixated on his empty bowl. I briefly thought about offering them seconds—we had plenty—but if they were truly starving then they needed to pace themselves. At least that is what I thought I remembered from history class. Instead of giving them more, I asked another question.
“Are you able to tell me what happened?”
“Yes, mum.” Ezekiel’s unflinching gaze met mine. Despite the fact that his eyes were bloodshot and the whites tinged with yellow, they radiated intelligence and determination. “My brother and I are from a village near Chibok. Do you know where that is?”
“No.” Geography hadn’t been one of my best subjects.
“It is in northeastern Nigeria, in Africa.” I nodded to let him know I was following. “My parents were schoolteachers. They were educated in London. After earning their degrees, they returned home to teach.”
The boy paused to scratch the side of his nose. As he did so, his eyes refocused on the tablecloth. “They were killed by rebels in an attack on their school. After that, it was just me and my brothers.
“Isaiah—our older brother—took care of us. Together, we continued to teach the others for a time . . . until the rebels came again. They said, ‘Join our army or die.’ My brother made a deal with them. He would join, if they spared Jerimiah and me. That was the last time we saw him—nearly a year ago—as he rode away with the militia.”
Tragic. I couldn’t imagine being orphaned and raising my brother amidst such violence and uncertainly. In that moment, I felt ashamed that I had paid more attention to Playbill than to CNN. “Wasn’t there any safe place you could go?”
“We heard about a UNICEF camp in Cameroon. Some of the people in our village decided to go there. We were to join them, but the night before we were to leave, my brother had a dream that we should stay put. So we did not go . . .” The younger boy bobbed his head in corroboration.
“Days later, we found out the group was slaughtered before they reached the camp. That is when we decided to establish a system to protect our people. The women of the village, the mothers and daughters, volunteered as sentries. When the rebels would come, they would wail in prayer and the warning would pass from group to group until it reached the village. When we heard the signal, the young men and boys would scatter to hidden bunkers in the fields.
“It worked for a time. But then the rebels caught on. They always came in daylight, but this time they returned in the middle of the night when there were no sentries to watch out for them. They took the boys and girls and shot the rest of my people. Then they burnt our village to the ground.”