As the sun burns through the veil of mist rising from the Gongola River, the tall woman from the village turns back to her hut.
She comes every evening at dusk and stands until dawn, unmoving, like the petrified trunk of a dead palm tree. She looks to the hills where her kidnapped sons were marched, at gunpoint, to be conscripted into terrorist ranks that congregate there.
Ibrahim is ten years old, Abdul Masih is nine. She fears they’ll be given guns, taught to torture and kill.
More importantly, she prays they’ll escape before the rebels discover they are Christian.
(Written for Friday Fictioneers, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. January 17, 2014.)