When Mother found out that the pastor had been taken by armed militia, she was at her friend Marie’s house, watching as Marie braised bushmeat over a fire. Mother’s house was on the other side of the dirt road but a few kilometres by walking. Mother and Marie were chatting idly when an armed vehicle sped by, kicking dust all over the huts. A crowd of men and women were following it. A woman shouted out. « Don’t take our pastor, s'il vous plaît! »
And then Mother realised what was happening. Kidnappings were common in the Central African Republic, and Mother had grown somewhat used to them. But Mother and the pastor was close. Her full emotional response took some moments to coalesce. It went from confusion to denial to shock within seconds, and then she was filled with so much anxiety that she rushed out of Marie’s hut without saying a single word. By the time she could find a space for herself in the crowd, it was too late. The car had driven off far into the distance, a dot in the horizon as big as a mosquito would be in front of her. The car was heading towards the border of Cameroon, a country Mother had never visited.
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