The Punishment

An Example Must Be Made

The General’s blood was on fire after speaking with his estranged daughter. He was, by nature, an emotionally distant man, but his children—Solange most of all—were the apple of his eye. For a man who had spent his life providing for them with the only tools he understood—discipline, protection, and fear—hearing his daughter cry in desperation tore something open inside him.

He was furious.

The men stood in a tight semi-circle in the dim depot, like lambs in the abattoir awaiting the final blow. Nobody sat. Nobody spoke. The dread of punishment was already a punishment.

Then the septuagenarian stepped in. He said nothing at first, but his presence alone carried the kind of gravity that shrank the room and made grown men sweat. Even the dust in the air seemed to hesitate around him.

The Confrontation

“Dieufort.”

He called the name in a low register, his voice thick with foreboding authority. Dieufort stepped forward, head bowed, eyes on the floor.

“Kouman ou fè kite yon gwoup jenn timoun pase ou nan kaka konsa?” (How do you let a bunch of young kids put you in such deep shit?)

“Ou pa wont?” (Aren’t you ashamed?)

Dieufort swallowed hard but said nothing.

“Jal la... se pa t fot nou, non!” (General... it wasn’t our fault!) Dieufort pleaded, his voice cracking. “Yo pran yon lòt wout, epi yo demake nou byen vit.” (They took another route and lost us quickly.)

The explanation only fed the General’s rage.

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The Verdict

“M pa fout mande w eskiz!” (I didn’t ask you for excuses!) he roared. “M ba w yon misyon senp, epi ou echwe l. Kounye a fòk ou wè konsekans enbésilite w.” (I gave you a simple mission, and you failed. Now you must face the consequences of your stupidity.)

A cold terror ran through Dieufort’s limbs. He could suddenly imagine every way his life might end today, and each possibility felt worse than the last.

“A jenou.” (On your knees.)

The General’s voice was quiet this time, and that was somehow worse. Dieufort dropped to his knees as Jal la walked to the wall where tools and machetes hung in a neat, terrifying line. The old man’s hand hovered for a moment before selecting a machete folded inside an oiled cloth.

He drew it out. Even in the dim depot light, its silver-gray sheen cut through the darkness. Dieufort bowed his head and whispered, barely audible: “Je vous salue, Marie, pleine de grâce...”

He didn’t make it to the next line.

The Strike

The strike landed across his back—the flat side of the blade—but swung with the full strength of a soldier who had spent fifty years mastering violence. The sound was wet and explosive.

Dieufort squealed a twisted, high-pitched, animal sound, like a hog stabbed straight through the heart. His body spasmed violently on the floor, contorting like a man seized by an unexpected epileptic fit.

The General stood over him.

“Bay Bondye mèsi pou doulè a.” (Thank God for the pain.)

“Paske se doulè ki fè ou konnen ou poko mouri.” (Because pain is how you know you’re not dead yet.)

He turned and walked out of the depot without another word. No more orders were needed. Every man in that room understood their mandate:

Find the girl.