It was on one of those cold mornings, during the harmattan when we could clearly hear blasts and ceaseless gunshots in the distance. Mama woke me up earlier than usual, she said she wanted to use the toilet and there was no water so I should go and fetch water.
The streets were clearly deserted and I was still sleepy. The sleepiness became my undoing as I didn't see the vehicle coming; the feared and notorious army pick up vehicle.
We had been told stories about how little boys were picked up by the vehicle and taken straight to the war front. How they were sometimes shot in the leg for attempting to run but we were told not to give up running whenever we sighted the vehicle as being thrown into the disorganized army of the opposition was worst than being dead.
I didn't see the vehicle until it was right beside me, the next thing my sleepy head was alerted to was a bulky dirty looking man screaming at me to drop the keg I was holding and enter the vehicle. It was too late to run.
I saw boys my age with reddened eyes and some with mucous running down their nostrils and some struggling not to cry. I couldn't believe what was happening but it was right in front of me. My horror began that day.
Soon enough, we got to the army camp, something that looked like the semblance of a living quarters. The buildings have obviously felt the brunt of the war. We were taken to a senior officer who kept on emphasising that we were no longer boys but men. He said we had to fight so our mothers and sisters can see the war end, he kept going on about if we died we died for a noble cause.
No one seemed to say anything about food or rest, we had to join the war immediately.
We were directed to another room that had been shabbily converted for our training but still looked like what it was; a room in ruins. A gun was placed in my trembling hands and I was told it was my best friend and my god. I understood nothing but something became clear to me that night; nothing was going to be the same.
The next three days consisted of rigorous trainings I could not imagine existed. The gun became my partner as they said it was the most important part of the training. We hardly rested and everyone seemed to be in a rush to take us to the war front.
Some boys tried to run on the second day and they were captured and shot dead before our eyes. I can still hear their cries and screams, I can still hear "I won't run away again". I can still see blood and death clearly. Sleep lost meaning for me that night. It was the beginning of my initiation into a meaningless life.
The D-day finally arrived and despite the lashings and humiliations I had suffered and despite being told it was all caused by the President's men I could not imagine killing another person with the gun. It felt like a taboo, just the way I was taught.
No one spoke to me before I started shooting from my position when I saw my friend's brains in splatters beside me and on my clothes. His name was Xandu, we were picked on the same day and soon became friends in sorrow. Now, he was dead and its all the fault of the men at the other side.
That night, there was a sense of pride I felt, after all, enemies had died at my hand. My mother will see the end of the war.
I failed to see that it was also the end of my childhood and innocence.
©Onashile Peace (tolarnee)
The part one of this story is here
War has never been pretty and use of children in war is simply inhumane.
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Reading through the lines reminds me of the Chibok girl in Nigeria and the series of sorrows those girls past through.
You have made good reference of a great friction "GORES OF WAR"
it really shows what Nigerians had past through during the military regime in the 90's.
I give you kudos to weldone and i hope to read more from you.
You have great insight and thank you very much... The danger and pains of war is quite similar in all wars... The degree is whats different
I like this post @tolarnee
Classic! The message is clear, crystal! Nice read indeed