38 THE RED LINE www.overtheredline.com
Stripped Judy Birkbeck Under the thorn tree we stood in a semicircle, still as snakes feigning death while the kneeling woman hacked at the baked ground with a trowel, whimpering, one eye swollen and black. Kapomba, a gaunt boy with puny fists stood in the sweltering sun and averted his eyes. His chest heaved and the machete in his hand trembled. “Look at her,” barked Comrade Bingwa, “or you get the same.” Kapomba flinched. I had a stone in my throat. It was Chiko who spoke up. “He is only thirteen.” Bingwa swung his gun round. “You want to join him?” “He could shoot her instead.” “The witch is a sell-out,” shrieked Bingwa. “Two comrades lost because of her.” The whites of his eyes were red. The woman mewled, head bent over, and beads of sweat on her neck flashed in the sun. The trowel sang, clank clank. Kapomba wiped his forehead. The grave was barely deep enough. The machete fluttered. “Do it now,” ordered Bingwa. The first swipe was feeble, he was spattered with blood, sinking at the knees, trying not to look. With each blow he lifted his arm and slammed it down