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Reap the Harvest

Bill Tope

Emptiness. Unfilled shelves and barren
cupboards stared back at me. The win-
dows had been smashed in when they
couldn’t get through the door. Shards of
glass littered the muddy carpet. Not a
trace of food was left and every precious
bottle of water taken; the tap hadn’t work-
ed for months so we were left with literally
nothing. They even took my mother’s
insulin.

The baby was crying, eager for the milk
that they had stolen. At least they hadn’t
harmed the small children, or the elders.
My husband’s arm was broken when he
resisted, but all in all our injuries were light.
They could have killed us all. And then
burned the house to the ground. It’s hap-
pend before. However, they knew we would
get more provisions and that they could re-
turn at their own convenience.

Of course they raped me and my teenage
daughters, but they didn’t kidnap one of
them. Probably they were unwilling to share
their loot with captives. Very prudent on their
part, I thought emptily. They were a roving
gang of mostly young men and women, mar-
auding from town to town, one household to
the next, as if they were reaping a harvest: of
food, money, medicine, anything they needed,
anything they wanted. Then they left.

Next, I prayed aloud. I asked God that none
of the women would become pregnant from the
assaults. And that the children would overcome
the shock that the bewildering attack had caus-
ed them. Had caused all of us. And finally, I
prayed that for a change, the crops would grow
this year; that John could find work; that the
drought and the plague would be over and that
the wildfires and the war would end. I prayed till
I was hoarse and had run out of breath.

It was a lot to ask for, a tall order, but after
all, what other recourse did we have? The
government had been dysfunctional for
years and now distributed food and medicine
only twice a month. Yes, I decided, if I were
a gambler, I’d have to bet not on politicians or
police or the warm heart of a stranger, but on
a higher power, so-called.

We had to wait three days before a doctor could
set John’s arm. We got more milk for the baby
but once again all our clothes hung a little looser
on us. The new year is just four days away. It’ll
soon be 2028 and I truly believe that it will be a
better year all around. It must be. After all, it is
an election year.

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