All the sizes and shapes.

First, a disclaimer. I've heard people talk about how it's important
to refer to people with disabilities as 'people with disabilities' not
'disabled people.' The same conversation can (and perhaps should) be
had about the term 'amputee.' The main point is to emphasize that
amputees are first people, then amputees. They didn't lose that
personhood when the machete fell. However, it's a useful shorthand,
and I think it's okay, as long as we all carefully consider and remind
ourselves that an amputee is a PERSON with an amputation. I'm going to
write a bit about the amputations that I have seen, and I wish that I
could do so while better preserving the individuality of these
amputees. However, I think it's important to understand the
physicality of this, so I'm going to describe it. Please read it while
keeping the individuality and personhood of the amputees firmly in
mind.

After you've placed your hand awkwardly around a few smooth forearms,
or slipped your thumb in between a couple of thumbs and knuckles, you
begin to notice the different ways that the human body heals these
wounds. To be honest, there is much more that is constant about the
guarded but warm greeting of the amputees then there is about the
shape and size of their stumps.
The forearm stumps, for instance, are usually a bit wider than the
forearm bone, as if while healing, a substantial amount of new bone
developed. One of my favourite women that I have met here is a double
hand amputee in the Wardu camp named Kumba. She gave us a basket of
green oranges, and when we returned to do education in Wardu she still
had that same friendly spark about her. When I shook hands with her,
she stepped closer than most people do and then extended her right
arm. I clasped it gently. Even the third time we met, I was surprised
by the tininess of her forearm. Her skin was also very smooth, but at
the heel of my hand I felt that the tissue around the stump at the end
of her arm was stiffer. As soon as I clasped her forearm, all three
times, she brought her other forearm around to lightly brush the back
of my hand. I'm not sure if it was my imagination, but I felt like I
could feel the healed bone through the scar tissue surrounding the end
of her arm.
Some of the forearm stumps look more like someone twisted the skin
into a cone-shape at the end of the arm, and those don't seem to have
any extra bone. Instead the arm seems to narrow to a point. I've also
noticed forearms with deep scars and irregular bone structure,
probably from unsuccessful amputation attempts. It makes me wonder
what I would do without hands, or arms.
The patriarch of the Wardu amputee camp has two thumbs and eight
knuckles. He also has very dark brown skin, drawn taut with age
instead of wrinkly, but the deep crow's feet around his eyes are
friendly. Shaking hands with him was almost normal, except that the
palm of my hand, just above the heel, closed around his knuckles a
bit. They felt very smooth and rounded, and they moved independently,
like fingers. It was a bit disconcerting. But I soon learned that he
is a determined patriarch – despite the fact he speaks only Kono, he
stayed for the entire health education program. Most of it was
translated from Krio into Kono, but not all. Apparently he has 20
children.
Out of the corner of my eye, finger amputations like his look like a
normal hand that is half clenched in a fist. Try it – clench your hand
in a fist, and then straighten only the knuckle where the finger meets
the hand. That's more or less what it looks like, except a bit
shorter.
When I first met the chair of the Dorma amputee camp, I didn't notice
that he was an amputee. He was seated, and shook my hand with vigor.
But soon he pointed out that he was a double leg amputee. The moment
he mentioned it, I could see the mechanical knees pressing identical
patterns into his thin cloth pants. He can even walk, with crutches,
but it wasn't until a couple of days ago that I saw how he covers long
distances – with a bike contraption. It's a small three-wheeled bike
with a chair instead of a seat. The chain is attached to the front
wheel and it goes up to a hand crank in front of his eyes, so that he
can pedal with his hands. When I first saw it, an eight year old boy
was helping him up the gentle incline outside the clinic by pushing
the bike-chair from behind. He stopped to say hi to Bailor, and then
continued on up the hill, under the blazing sun.
Many of the leg amputees, however, don't have fake limbs. While
walking home from the clinic one day, there was a game of soccer going
on just to the right of the path as we walked through Sinnah Town.
There were three boys playing, each somewhere between 9 and 14 years
old. The eldest was on one crutch, and he had only one leg. I saw the
boy on the other side kick the ball over towards the boy on crutches.
It rolled past him.
Without hesitating, the boy on crutches took three big strides towards
the ball. He tapped it into place with his foot, stepped forward onto
his crutch and then unleashed a kick. It was better than any kick I've
ever done.