The Iron Bridge: Short Stories of 20th Century Dictators as Teenagers Read Online Free PDF

quite partial to the butterflies in this part of the world. Especially the extraordinary variety of the
Charaxes
genus. Splendid creatures. I’m a bit of the amateur lepidopterist, I would say.”
    “Yes,” says Idi, still smiling.
    “That means a man who studies butterflies.”
    “Yes,” agrees Idi.
    “Do you like butterflies, Amin?”
    “I will eat anything, Bwana.”
    The major, roaring with laughter, slaps his thigh and steps back. “Then I will have to be sure to command the new
dupi
to cook you some, Private Amin.”
    “Private?” asks Idi, his eyes widening like a child’s.
    “Correct. But listen, man, you do not have permission to eat the butterflies on my wall, understand?”
    “Don’t worry, Bwana,” says Idi, as he reaches out and grabs the major’s shoulder with his mammoth hand, another act of pure audacity that he somehow gets away with. “I already had my dinner.”
    “If you so much as try to eat my butterflies, I’ll have you court-martialled!” laughs the major. “Even if you break my nose!”
    “I would not do that, Bwana,” says Idi, wisely removing his hand. “I love the King’s African Rifles.”
    “Yes, I can see that you do. All right. Come on, then.”
    The major turns too sharply, trips over his foot, and nearly tumbles to the ground. He catches himself and stands tall, smoothing his shirt, pretending his slip never happened andthat he’s had nothing to drink all night. He waves Idi on. The excited young
dupi
breaks his attentive stance and moves beside the major. The silent
askaris
remain at attention, since the company’s lesser officers continue to linger in the field, but they watch in astonishment as Major Mitchell and the brazen
dupi
march back to the commander’s office, side by side, as if they were equals, as if there weren’t an entire military hierarchy and colonial history separating one from the other.
    Idi has never walked taller, never felt stronger or braver or more worthwhile than he does right now. He’s approaching the timber frame of the major’s office—that oak desk, the butterflies. Idi’s fingerprint will stain the KAR’s official enlistment paper and he will be one of them. In five minutes, he’ll be an
askari
, a soldier, a comrade.
Mama
, he thinks,
where are you?
The
kamiojo
herb from the Yakan water is pulsing through his veins—his Kakwa veins, his Lugbara veins, his distinctly Ugandan veins—strengthening him and making him feel invincible. Or maybe it’s just the adrenalin and the thrill of his unprecedented success.
Mother, look at me
, he thinks as he moves swiftly through the
murram
dust next to the grinning major—an actual commander of an entire KAR battalion.
I am a big man now
. Yes, a genuine big man, a
’ba wara
of more value and worth than that one who called him a
thing
back in his mother’s miserable West Nile village. He is a big man who can break the nose of a real
askari
with a single punch, who can reduce an Acholi brute to a whimpering woman by grasping his balls and spitting a sharp phrase in his face. Has there ever been a more innatesoldier in the history of the entire world? Idi knows that not only can he join these men in their barrack, sit with them at company mess, drink their tea with his legs crossed like a European while they tell their tales of Burma, but he can also participate in their next conflict, wherever it might be, and with a little luck could someday pace before them in the field as they stand at attention as their superior, their
Effendi
. Someday he will lecture these
askaris
on what it means to be a soldier, on how they’re supposed to do it, on how to punch, how to shoot, and how to kill. Why not? Doesn’t he know the facts as well as anyone? Is he not walking beside the major like the Englishman’s equal? Can’t he lead inspection and parades and tell them what’s right and wrong and good? They will call him Bwana Amin. Yes, he will be an
Effendi
. Dreams do not lie. His mother