Petrified. That should have been the feeling. I woke up to the sound of the neighbors screaming, again, the village was under attack. Armed bandits in their hundreds were raiding the town, killing and maiming everyone in their path. It wasn’t the first time, neither was it the second, nor was it going to be the last. It had become the norm. Home was no longer safe, nowhere was. I groped silently in the dark for my little sister Anna, I took hold of her hand and guided her towards the basement bunker, half awake and half asleep she followed me in. We strained to listen amidst the gunshots, screams and cries of infants and women. It had become the norm.
The first time they came, my sister Anna, was playing in the sand with her friends Ken and Jamal. Anna was five, I, sixteen. Mother was drawing water from the well outside the house. We heard a loud noise, followed by a gunshot, mother was hit, I saw her fall. I ran towards her, screamed her name, the look in her eyes broke my heart, she looked scared, defeated as she breathed her last. I saw men, armed with guns, machete and knives killing and maiming eveyone in their path. In a twinkle of an eye the village was thrown into chaos, mother losing child and husband, wife. Anna was crying, Ken and Jamal looked scared.
Petrified, that was the word, that was what we all felt. I took my sister, Ken and Jamal and we made a run for the house. We hid ourselves in the only place I could think of, inside the basement bunker. I could hear the villagers screaming, the cries and the gunshots. Anna was breathing heavily; Ken and Jamal were sniffing back their tears. A momentary thought of what was supposed to be the last memory of my mother flashed through my mind. The door was suddenly flung open, I heard loud footsteps on the wooden floor, Anna, Ken and Jamal were whimpering, I struggled to control my heartbeat fearing that the one with the footstep in the room would hear it and come for us.
Drawers and doors were being flung open, and I could hear glasses breaking as they fell to the ground. I heard the footsteps, they were coming towards the basement bunker, coming towards us. I could feel my heart in my throat. Suddenly I heard another footsteps and a deep growl. There was another at the door.
“Someone has alerted the police. Come on we have to leave now” the newcomer said. They both growled and walked out of the room hurriedly.
I strained to listen, nothing. Everywhere was suddenly quiet. No screams, cries, or gunshots. There was no bird sound, neither did I hear the neighbor’s goats bleat. I crawled out from under the bed and made my way slowly towards the door which was flung open. There was a disemboweled body in front of the door, and the headless body of a child, maybe a year or two years younger than Anna a few feet away. Sick to my stomach, I puked.
Checking to see if it was safe enough for Anna and her friends to come out, I advanced further, slowly making my way through the corpse. The bandits were gone, and they took with them the lives of several good people, my mother inclusive. I heard the sound of the sirens, the police were coming. The villagers were slowly coming out of their hiding places. Children, mothers and wives and husbands and fathers identifying maimed bodies of their children, mothers and wives and husband and fathers. Grief, anger, sadness and fear was what we all felt. No. Petrified, that was the feeling.
There was so many bodies, some maimed beyond recognition. The rest of the villagers gathered together and decided that the bodies should be buried together, no separate graves for anybody. The bodies were so many. The police came with their big guns and bullet proof jackets. I wished we had had guns and bullet proof jackets; we would have protected ourselves. They spoke to several villagers. Some were either too traumatized or not educated enough to relay any meaningful details about the attack.
One of them noticed me and signaled for me to come forward. I ran back into the house to get my sister Anna and her friends Ken and Jamal and took them to meet the officer. He took one look at us and shook his head in pity. “Animals” He hissed under his breath. And then he smiled sadly at me, as if to say ‘everything was going to be okay’ and ‘we will take care of it.’ I felt saved. still petrified, but saved. As more villagers came out of hiding, Jamal and Ken found their parents. But, Anna and I were all alone.
Now, I listened to the sound of the villagers screaming and crying. Petrified. That should have been the feeling. Hell! It was the feeling the first, second and the third time. Now it feels like a regular wake up call. I barely remember how I felt the first time. It’s familiar, but I barely remember. Or maybe I got so used to it. Every time I see people killed, and every time I wonder when it would be my turn. Everyone in the country heard our stories, saw the bodies and sympathized with us. But nothing changed, no help came, we were still being slaughtered like sheep in our homes. I heard some villagers say the attacks up north were not just religious, sectoral, or ethnic, but that there was a political touch to it. I sigh and close my eyes, waiting for what was inevitable, my death, the end.
Written by Oseluoname Iyobhebhe
2 Comments
This is incredible….
May Almighty Allah see Us through, nd save us from those devil politicians. Ameen