Writing Assignment 2- Final Draft

The air was particularly bitter for a summer night in the rural outskirts of Khartoum. Not only was it cold, but piercing-- abrasive. On this night, 9-year-old Kotu slept with all three blankets, his mother and father selflessly giving theirs up. Kotu, as always, started his slumber in the crescent of his mothers soft body, which gave with the crevices of his own bony one. Asking with the warmth of reassurance, like every evening: “Nitaona wewe katika asubuhi?” She replied: “Naam mwanangu. Katika asubuhi.” I’ll see you in the morning? Yes my son. In the morning.

In the middle of the night, Kotu woke breathing heavily. The moon floating directly above the tent shined light through the canvas, casting dancing shadows on the walls whenever his mothers bosom would rise and fall with her steady breathing, or as his father rolled in his dreams. But Kotu then realized the shadows on the walls did not correspond with his mother’s breathing. They did not correspond with his father’s dreams, or with his own wildest imagination.
Two men whispered outside. They would face the tent, turn profile to speak to each other, and face the tent again. Two satanic silhouettes through the rough canvas. They were muttering in Arabic, a language Kotu only understood through prayer. His family was one of the rare families to speak Swahili in Sudan, having migrated from Tanzania. The shadows started to circumvent the tent, taking steps towards the entrance-- the chains and buckles jingling, like his mothers beaded necklaces, but quickening Kotu’s breath, not settling it as she did. His little hands gathered a film of white salt, what replaced sweat when he did not drink enough water the previous day. Kotu's heart began drumming. He focused on counting the beats of his heart, and was brought back to a warm day in Tanzania. A day filled with joy. The day his uncles played drums in a circle around him, later celebrating with the warm rice that his friends' mothers had prepared. Before his father was beckoned as a medicinal instructor for the Sudanese Liberation Army. Before Kotu discovered his family would be leaving Tanzania because of it. Before Kotu realized there would be days with no more warm rice.

Few children can say that they saw Janjaweed militiamen march into their home and pull knives from their belt in unison. Two dark, malicious ballerinas sweep silver steel across the throats of one’s parents during the depths of night. Two dark, malicious ballerinas pleyate into prayer (“Hamd Allah”) having the nerve to thank God after murder. Two dark, malicious ballerinas pirouette over the heap blankets concealing the “little dirty black” their commander will later inform them that they forgot (before smiting them for their stupidity.) The little dirty black who saw his little dirty black parents murdered before his eyes and-- who would watch for hours as the blood dripped from their throats as nonchalantly as their entire slaughter had been. Few children can say, or should have to say, that they stood idly by in complete shock as their life was taken from them in the form of their only loves. “Nitaona wewe katika asubuhi?” Kotu asked as his voice began to tremble. “Nitaona wewe katika asubuhi?” he asked a little louder, a little more impatiently, before falling back into the cold, wet with blood crevice of his mother-- hot tears beginning a relationship with his dark cheeks that would last his entire life.

Writing Assignment 2 Draft 2

The air was particularly bitter for a summer night in the rural outskirts of Khartoum. Not only was it cold, but piercing-- abrasive. On this night, 9-year-old Kotu slept with all three blankets, his mother and father selflessly giving theirs up. Kotu, as always, started his slumber in the crescent of his mothers soft body, which gave with the crevices of his own bony one. Asking with the warmth of reassurance like every evening: “Nitaona wewe katika asubuhi?” She replied: “Naam mwanangu. Katika asubuhi.” I’ll see you in the morning? Yes my son. In the morning.
In the middle of the night, Kotu woke breathing heavily. The moon floating directly above the tent shone light through the canvas, casting dancing shadows on the walls whenever his mothers bosom would rise and fall with her steady breathing, or as his father rolled in his dreams. But Kotu then realized the shadows on the wall did not correspond with his mother’s breathing. They did not correspond with his father’s dreams, or with his own wildest imagination.
Two men whispered outside. Facing the tent, turning profile to speak to each other, facing the tent. Two satanic silhouettes through the rough canvas. They were muttering in Arabic, a language Kotu only understood through prayer. His family was one of the rare families to speak Swahili in Sudan, having migrated from Tanzania. The shadows started to circumvent the tent, taking steps towards the entrance-- the chains and buckles jingling, like his mothers beaded necklaces, but quickening Kotu’s breath, not settling it as she did. His little hands gathered a film of white salt, what replaced sweat when he did not drink enough water the previous day. Kotu's heart began drumming. He focused on counting the beats of his heart, and was brought back to a warm day in Tanzania. A day filled with joy. The day his uncles played drums in a circle around him, later celebrating with warm rice that his friends' mothers had made. Before Kotu discovered his family would be leaving Tanzania. Before his father was beckoned as a medicinal instructor for the Sudanese Liberation Army. Before Kotu realized there would be days with no more warm rice.
Few children can say that they saw Janjaweed militiamen march into their home and pull knives from their belt in unison. Two dark, malicious ballerinas sweep silver steel across the throats of one’s parents during the depths of night. Two dark, malicious ballerinas pleyate into prayer (“Hamd Allah”) having the nerve to thank God after murder. Two dark, malicious ballerinas pirouette over the heap blankets concealing the “little dirty black” their commander will later inform them that they forgot before smiting them for their stupidity. The little, dirty black who saw his little, dirty black parents murdered before his eyes and-- who would watch for hours as the blood dripped from their throats as nonchalantly as their entire slaughter had been. Few children can say, or should have to say, that they stood idly by in complete shock as their life was taken from them in the form of their only loves. “Nitaona wewe katika asubuhi?” Kotu asked as his voice began to tremble. “Nitaona wewe katika asubuhi?” he asked a little louder, a little more impatiently, before falling back into the cold, wet with blood crevice of his mother-- hot tears beginning a relationship with his dark cheeks that would last his entire life

Writing Assingment 2 Draft 1

The air was particularly bitter for a summer night in the rural outskirts of Khartoum. Not only was it cold, but piercing-- abrasive. On this night, Kotu slept with all three blankets, his mother and father selflessly giving theirs to their 9-year-old son. Kotu, as always, started his slumber in the crescent of his mothers soft body, which gave with the crevices of his own bony one. Asking with the warmth of reassurance like every evening: “Nitaona wewe katika asubuhi?” She replied: “Naam mwanangu. Katika asubuhi.” I’ll see you in the morning? Yes my son. In the morning.
In the middle of the night, Kotu woke breathing heavily. The moon floating directly above the tent shone light through the canvas, casting dancing shadows on the walls whenever his mothers bosom would rise and fall with her steady breathing, or as his father rolled in his dreams. But Kotu then realized the shadows on the wall did not correspond with his mother’s breathing. They did not correspond with his father’s dreams, or with his own wildest imagination.
Two men whispered outside. Facing the tent, turning profile to speak to each other, facing the tent. Two satanic silhouettes through the rough canvas. Muttering in Arabic, a language Kotu only understood through prayer, his family being one of the rare families to speak Swahili in Sudan, having migrated from Tanzania. The shadows started to circumvent the tent, taking steps towards the entrance-- their boots jingling like his mothers beaded necklaces, but quickening Kotu’s breath, not settling it as she did. His little hands gathered a film of white salt, what replaced sweat when he did not drink enough water the previous day.
Few children can say that they saw Janjaweed militiamen march into their home and pull knives from their belt in unison. Two dark, malicious ballerinas sweep silver steel across the throats of one’s parents during the depths of night. Two dark, malicious ballerinas pleyate into prayer (“Hamd Allah”) having the nerve to thank God after murder. Two dark, malicious ballerinas pirouette over the heap blankets concealing the “little dirty black” their commander will later inform them that they forgot before smiting them for their stupidity. The little, dirty black who saw his little, dirty black parents murdered before his eyes and-- who would watch for hours as the blood dripped from their throats as nonchalantly as their entire slaughter had been. Few children can say, or should have to say, that they stood idly by in complete shock as their life was taken from them in the form of their only loves. “Nitaona wewe katika asubuhi?” Kotu asked as his voice began to tremble. “Nitaona wewe katika asubuhi?” he asked a little louder, a little more impatiently, before falling back into the cold, wet with blood crevice of his mother-- hot tears beginning a relationship with his dark cheeks that would last his entire life.