My name is Benjamin. 

I was the lone dark-skinned spy flanking the troopers. We climbed onto the four-wheeled steel wagon as the dark-brown bulls pulled the fortified wagon against the sharp-rising hills. 

“Let’s disfigure the natives,” said the poker-faced commander. In response, we raised our right hands, and tipped the palms against our olive-green hats. 

“We’ll capture open tracts of terrain,” said the commander, chuckling. 

The heavy-duty jacket officer sported a bulletproof vest, and a peaked cap that masked his blue eyes. We skidded along the solid rocks. Soon, the alloy-wheels of the wagon got jammed between the shell-like rocks. We burrowed the wheels and carted out the wagon. 

Afterwards, a troop of human hand-like beasts stormed our weaponry convoy, sparking the nervous horned-bulls to trip and dislocate their quadruped hocks. Suddenly, the cloudbursts blurred our view, and the waterlogged terrain sopped up the animal-drawn wagons. 

In retort, the bad-tempered commander took a yellow firelighter and blazed up the wagons. 

We lugged the shoulder-guns and climbed the slippery edged-pointed grey rocks. That sunup, we footed into the secluded village of the pig-headed native army. Instantly, my skin felt hot, and turned reddish from the regular sunbursts.

A sizeable number of troopers whined of chilliness and severe headaches. Then, I reaped brown leaves, and spooned the troopers against the Yellow Fever. By now, most soldiers’ faces had turned purple-red. 

The second-in-command and the chief commander had a heated think over about the ill-judged tactics.

“We’re cut off from our supply,” said the deputy, disfiguring a two-winged buzzing insect on his face. 

Soon after, the temperamental supremo gunned down his deputy. We hid the deputy’s body underneath a heap of reddish rocks. 

After a week, we encircled a pool of water. We dropped our grenades and splashed the icy water on our faces. Instantaneously, the animated soldiers squared off their headfirst skills in the clear water. 

When we returned to the unguarded guns, a herd of ear-flapping grey mammals had trampled on the guns. Later, a commando of amateurish natives whipped us with billy sticks, and shot us with needlepointed arrows. 

Then, the half-naked natives used handcrafted-knives, and slashed open the soldiers’ stomachs. 

Finally, the ribbon-like river, which flows into the pool, trickled in dark-reddish water. 

So, I surrendered after chalking the beheaded faces of the firing squad on the grey rocks.   

* Ruben Kapimbi hails from Okangeama in Otjituuo. He is a fifth-generation offspring of the genocide. This story is historical fiction.