A Cold Day In May 1993

It was a day of merriment for us. It was special also for our mother and so, to celebrate it, new clothes were sewn for us and special dishes cooked. We were unconcernedly roaming about the compound, singing and chanting some of the songs we learnt at the school we were recently enrolled. My younger […]

It was a day of merriment for us. It was special also for our mother and so, to celebrate it, new clothes were sewn for us and special dishes cooked. We were unconcernedly roaming about the compound, singing and chanting some of the songs we learnt at the school we were recently enrolled. My younger brother ran, hovering with his toy plane, oblivious of almost everything outside his juvenile world of fun.
But there was something uncommon with the ambience. The sun was scorching, the breeze sober and the adults around clustered in groups, gossiping about something I could not overhear. Once in a while, a woman would walk to the lengthy corridor that led to the exit of the house and peep through the door that was left ajar. She would come back with a story that did not seem to rouse the tension of the women any less.
I listened in on mother saying something about people returning from their farms and marketplace. Another woman chipped in about smoke rising from remote villages, the kind of which, ordinarily, were common sights, especially during periods preceding rainy seasons. But they seemed now to have different interpretations. Mother walked to where I momentarily halted to eavesdrop on their chats and sent me, in a tone that was more of a whisper to “go and call your brother.” I hurried out to where he was busy piloting his toy and called him. Walking back together, we went by Uncle talking to a group of men. And then the unnerving cry came.
“He was beaten to death in his farm,” Uncle said to mother and a group of other women that encircled him shortly after.
The sad news was still floating afresh when three young men entered, staggering with a wounded man who was barely conscious.
“Take him to the pharmacy!” said Uncle in a terrified voice as he led them out. Serenity was evidently broken by then and in no time, the only thing one’s ear could hear were cries and wails and chants of prayers. It was a war, I thought. Only in wars were people killed or wounded.
Thenceforwards, it was gunshots and cracks of burning woods, corrugated iron sheets, and opaque smoke with silhouette of gigantic ogres with multiple hands, roaring and pouring soot, ash and dust over us. Breathing started becoming labourious and visibility blurred.
Tear-eyed, mother grabbed my arm firmly, my brother with the other hand and strapped my little sister to her back. Suddenly, the house was raucous and people crying and wailing, some moaning and clutching onto wounded spots or severed parts, some praying, and then lethal-looking men with soot-painted faces, brandishing daggers and knives and weapons I could not name. They were shouting people out of the house, in voices more terrifying than their deathlike faces.
The long corridor leading to the exit was on fire and the rooms flanking it were all vandalised and their mouths, gushing black, impenetrable smoke which, together with specs of embers, rushed out of the tunnel and for a moment, obscured the entire exit.
“Out I say, now!” A voice said. Mother dragged us in and for a moment, I saw us walking in blazing fire, yet like the Biblical Abraham, we emerged from the other end, unscathed, except that we were dark and sooty.
Another horror, the sight of the body of a child, was awaiting us outside. Every house around was either a blazing inferno, or razed down to ashes. Hurled sparsely at different sides of the street were dead bodies, some still streaming with blood. Mother could not shield our view, so she made an abrupt turn to a narrow footpath. We walked, barefooted, thirsty and famished, going nowhere in particular.
With the dark smoke almost beclouded the sun and as if to quench the fires and calm frayed nerves, it started to rain heavily. We were barely clad and could not stand the cold for long, so we sought shelter in a partly burnt apartment where there were still some cinders to keep warm.
Shortly after we were there, a man passed by, carrying two children.
“There’s a vehicle over there, conveying people to somewhere safe. Follow me,” he said to mother and few others that had later joined us. We all filed out and trailed him.
Before we reached the vehicle, it was already dusk. Two appendages stretched out like the tentacles of a mammoth octopus. I was frightened and helpless at the same time. It was still raining, yet I could not fathom whether I was quivering for the petrifying cold or fear.
The two appendages got firm grip, like a vice over a metal rod, of my arms as mother lifted me up towards them. I let out a loud shrill of fright. They were hands, I later realized, of a man helping and lifting up people into an already overloaded trailer.
Injured, incapacitated and traumatised people all around and there were animals too.
My feet touched the steel floor of the large vehicle as the hands set me down. I blinked repeatedly to ensure that my eyes were open. Yes they were, I concluded, but I could see nothing. The thick, stagnant darkness was almost palpable. And although there were cries and groans and wails and whines and bleats and moos of people and animals from every corner, I could neither glimpse at, nor feel anyone, except for the unmistaken pungent smell of animal excreta.
The vehicle roared to life and moved. Mother did not climb up, I thought, and as I rushed blindly in the direction whence I was brought in, a tide of vertigo swept me off balance. I staggered backward and fell on the rusty wall of the trailer. A familiar voice screamed, as the vehicle moved faster. It was my brother. I did not know whether to grieve or be relieved by the realisation that I knew where my brother was. He was right there with me, but I could not see him.
Amyn is a postgraduate student of Biotechnology at Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria.