A short story by Daniel Omale
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| photo credit: Africanquarters.com |
“Move away from the wall!”
Amina screamed in a suppressed voice like a desperate, mad woman.
“Those devils might see you,” she cried.
We have been hobbled here for three days, three dark days. Every passing dead day thickens the terror that gripped our hearts. Such morbid fear that makes the streaming rays of the noon day sun that drips through the holes on the roof stab our hearts with terror, such great terror that drives us to cringe ourselves into the darkest corner of this single room. This room that somehow has become our refuge, our prison and may be our grave. Death’s been everywhere in this village for three days and four nights, but Amina and I have managed to elude it only for this long.
As I heard rasping footsteps approaching the door, I moved toward the window to get a peek through the eye-sized hole on the wall created by a raging stray bullet below the wooden window that we have tightly shut since we took refuge here that night. As I peeked with my good right eye, I could see nothing but dust, death and decaying corpse left bare in the open street. Although the rasping sound of steps was only a bold confused rat running around the abandoned school seeking for a hole to hide. But now every single approaching sound violent or stealthy drowns us anew in fire of fear. This was such a brutal baptism to feel death lurking around, daring you, mocking you, letting you know. ‘I’ve got you, you are mine.’
Such silent sound that echoes within the silence of your racing heart; such vicious voice that whispers in your ear every moment; ‘ I’ve got you.’
But four nights ago, life was normal. I had come to school as always bare-footed but desperate for knowledge. I was filled with a heavy hunger to learn. A passionate desire to live high and above the ignorance and illiteracy that is eating up my village and its inhabitants. It was mid-May. As I galloped through the dusty path that lead to my classroom, it felt like running toward the light hanging lamp-like in the horizon, like approaching the last point on a treasure map where the gold, diamonds and all kinds of precious stones are stowed up. I dashed into the classroom and Miss Amina was there the earliest as usual waiting patiently and calmly for her students. As I crashed in through the door and prostrated in greeting, she nodded her head in response, and beckoned to me to take my seat. I was always the first student to arrive school every day. Yet no matter how early I get to school, Miss Amina would always be there waiting. She is a young but a fountain of knowledge, she teaches Math, science and English Language in my school; the only school that serviced nine villages yet most of the classrooms are empty. Owing to the threat the dreaded terrorist group placed on our village if parents dared to send their wards to acquire a formal education.
Amina told us once; “Don’t ever be afraid to come to school and learn, knowledge is power and you need that power,"she told us. "Gaining knowledge will make us powerful enough to put an end to all forms of confusion and problems we have around us".
And when she spoke, we all sat still and drank. We drank of her voice, we drank of her knowledge, we drank of her wisdom, and she had wisdom in abundance. She told us to call her Amina, and not Miss Amina, that she was our friend. Amina broke down the walls terror and ignorance had built around our hearts and mind and set us free. She gave us the key to become conquerors of evil and terror. Like when I was able to read my first word: ‘Balarabe’ it is my name. I have never seen it written before. ‘It means a son born on the first day before Friday,’ Amina said.
Miss Amina taught me the magic of letter sounds, and she held my hands and showed me how to build words on paper with a pencil. I felt the joy of conquering the darkness of illiteracy. I felt the light of stepping into the world of western wisdom that the terrorist group threatening my village antagonize so brutally.
Just before the close of school; there was pandemonium, a chaotic confusion coming from the outskirts of the village heralded by the loud blast of machine guns, and the killing cry of terror.
My school has three classroom building, and one administrative building; all constructed in a rectangular form without walls to separate it from the rest of the village. The Bushigas arrived the school on an open-air van shooting sporadically. I counted forty armed men shooting with direct aim at students and teachers they moved between class rooms, killing everyone in sight. I asked Miss Amina to follow me, and we entered a room where broken desks tables and chairs were parked. We shut the window and laid face-down on the ground. The attack lasted for five hours. The Bushigas killed all the male students and male teachers in sight and they took the girls hostage. The gory stories of their adventures with the female teachers and students cannot be relieved on these pages.
