Broken Memories

Falmata takes a sigh and looks away from Faruk, who is sitting on a wooden chair beside her. It is a Wednesday evening, the second month of a rainy season in Maiduguri. The once ferocious sun has mellowed down and is now racing towards its abode in the Western sphere. It rained yesterday and Falmata, […]

Falmata takes a sigh and looks away from Faruk, who is sitting on a wooden chair beside her. It is a Wednesday evening, the second month of a rainy season in Maiduguri. The once ferocious sun has mellowed down and is now racing towards its abode in the Western sphere. It rained yesterday and Falmata, as she does everyday, hopes it will rain today. Mysteriously as it seems, rain waves away the tide of sadness that envelopes her everyday. The breeze was thick with the earthy smell of the previous day’s rain.

“Thank you for coming.” She hears Faruk say, her eyes studying her feet decked in the tattered yellow-colored slippers she wears. She wants to say more but the only thing her she  could say is “Thank you” 

She keeps her head down to avoid his eyes.

Faruk shrugs and tries to let out a comforting smile. This is his tenth visit to the Mazango internally displaced person in two weeks. The first time he came, along with some colleagues, he saw Falmata sitting under the mango tree alone, buried in the heap of her thoughts. That was the beginning.

Two weeks now and Faruk still doesn’t know anything about her. He had come here, purposely for her but Falmata has not said anything worthy of publication. She would sit and look at the blank rays of life as they dance to the tune of time.

“I was raped twice on that fateful night of darkness,” Falmata says, still not looking at him. “First, the Boko Haram Insurgents came and insisted that my father must have sex with me. He refused and they shot him dead. Then the soldiers came.” She pauses for a moment and even without looking at her, Faruk knows she is shedding tears. “Faruk, the soldiers also raped me. They raped and left me alone, amidst dead bodies.”

He isn’t really shocked, for he has heard a lot of similar stories, but he is glad she is finally opening up to him, this with the anger gradually building up in him.

Faruk does not say anything when she finishes and Falmata imagines that he doesn’t agree with everything she said. She knows how hard it is for anyone to believe her, but it is the truth and that is what makes her sad. No one cares to sit and talk to her in a manner that will relieve her. Everyone seems to be in a hurry to nowhere and the world seems to be in tango with the insurgents.

Falmata knows Faruk will never believe that the soldiers raped her, and now she wonders whether he belongs to the government side. She believes there are three sides to this war; the victims, the government and the insurgents, and sometimes Falmata feels like asking Faruk which side he belongs to. 

Sometimes when they sit alone under the only mango tree in the camp, she toys with the idea of telling him how hard life is in the camp. Falmata wonders whether Faruk knows that they wait for days for the tanker from Ramat Polytechnic to bring water to the camp. If you are lucky and strong enough, you get one bucket, half of which goes to bath and the other half is reserved. And now that the tanker no more brings water to them, she, like every other person on camp, has no option than to stop bathing on a daily basis. Sometimes, she goes four days without a bath. They wait and pray for an important visitor to the camp because it is only when visitors come that they eat rice. 

She wants to tell him that she has only three sets of tattered and faded wrappers and a pair of slippers.

But she does not and when she opens her mouth to talk, she says, “Thank you for this…” her hand resting on the black nylon bag he gave her.

“At least I will not have to endure the queue or fight anyone to get food today and maybe tomorrow.”

He nods in acknowledgement. “Can you tell me how it happened?” He prompts gently. “What happened on that fateful day and how did you end up here?”

Falmata doesn’t say a word. The tears gathering in her big-milky eyes refuse to stay put and are now on emergency safari down her cheeks. She sniffs and shakes her head. Her world seems to gyrate. She does not say anything to him and for a moment, the silence stretches into something else. 

“Falmata,” he says reassuringly, “I know it is not easy for you to say this, but we must document things for the future generation. I am a journalist and my work is to help the downtrodden get a voice. We can’t let these things go unwritten.” 

“I know.” 

“Okay, what really happened?”

A moment of silence ensues. From where they sit under the tree, they can hear the voices of the children playing football in the only spacious field of the primary school that serves as the IDP camp. Falmata visited the field once and promised never to go there again. She wonders why people will be in such situation and yet have time to play football. She hates them for being so childish and oblivious of the trouble ahead. She knows the children are innocents and oblivious of the bleak world they live in. She knows that the women who always gather in large groups to chat and let out occasional laughter do so just to mask the tragedies that had befallen them.  No matter how hard they try to sound and look cheerful, their faces and shallow voices always betray them. 

“You know,” her voice slashes through the silence that takes over the ambiance for a moment. Faruk looks up. “Sometimes, I feel as if you are just interested in knowing my story to make me feel dirty and useless. I know that journalists come here every day to ask us questions. They act smart and pretend as if they do care for us, but I know they only come here to get stories for their employers. Once they get what they want, our stories fizzle out of their minds the way breeze sweeps dust from a surface.”

Faruk takes a deep sigh. He knows Falmata has gone through a lot in her life. He has heard stories of several victims of the insurgency, victims with more heartbreaking stories than hers. But he finds it weird that he insists on telling her story to the world. 

“They were like fifty in number, all carrying guns,” Falmata says slowly. “They came into the house, shouting. I was in my room and my father was on the balcony with my twin brothers. I heard them shouting at my siblings, then I heard gunshots. I ran out and…lying on the floor were my dead brothers. They then asked my father to…” Her voice breaks up and she pauses.

Faruk says nothing. His heart is heavy, his anger simmering.

“They shot him…they killed my parents in my presence and later raped me. It was horrendous, Faruk. No amount of words can describe such barbarism.”

“It is okay,” Faruk says when he notices the cracks in her voice. 

He knows he will go back to his hotel room in the city and write a story about this. It does not matter whether Tunde Michael, his editor at SUNDAY PARROT, will publish the story, but Faruk will write. And he will make a copy for his memoir. 

Ever since the editorial board of the Media Parrot assigned him the responsibility of writing a special report on the insurgency every week, Faruk has never been the same again. He had gone round over a hundred IDP camps in Adamawa, Yobe and Borno states, sending dozens of stories, interviews and photographs of victims. He writes a special report every Sunday, taking in fresh perspective most especially now that it seems the odds favour the soldiers.

“Do you think that the insurgency will end?” her voice slashes through his thoughts. He knows she is trying to dodge the story of her rape.

“Yes. It certainly will end, Falmata. Nothing lasts forever.”

“Do you think I can go back to school and continue my studies? I want to go back to school.” She is looking into his eyeballs. “I am tired of doing nothing”

“Yes. You may only need to change your school, Falmata.”

“But I don’t think the insurgency will end, Faruk.”

Faruk takes a deep breath and says, “You need to stop thinking negatively. The government is doing its best. Happiness will be here again. Borno used to be the safest place in the whole county, and you know it. This can not continue forever”

“It is not easy, Faruk. The bombing and killings may stop but the emotional insurgency will last forever. Our lives have been shattered and I wonder what government can do to bring back our happiness and lost memories. Our dreams have been shattered, plans destroyed,” she pauses, “Faruk, happiness to us is like a mirage on asphalt, once here now and never here again.”

Falmata doesn’t tell him that she would have been in her second year in the university now. She doesn’t tell him that one of the Chibok girls is her sister, her own blood sister. She does not tell him how the insurgents once invaded their secondary school, kidnapped some teachers and asked all the students to leave the school. That was before the Chibok incident, before Kalthume was taken away, before the insurgents trudged in and destroyed everything. Even in her mind, Falmata knows there are things she will never tell Faruk because they do not matter anymore.

Faruk looks up and their eyes meet. She is no longer shedding tears but there are tear stains on her cheeks. They look at each other for a moment before she reluctantly lowers her gaze.

“So tell me, how is the food here?”

“Nothing special, but I am grateful. I would have been somewhere else, maybe dead by now. We are living. It is just that we wake up every day to hear that this or that person has contributed hundred bags of rice, clothes and other things. But what we eat here is Garri and sometimes tuwon dawa. It is only when we are lucky or when some important people come that we eat rice here.”

Again, Falmata does not tell Faruk that some camp officials sell food stuffs or drugs meant for IDPs. She does not tell him how they take advantage of female IDP’s vulnerability to demand for sex before they give them food stuff or sign their exit cards. She doesn’t tell him how Musa, a NEMA official, once carried her on his motorcycle to a motel in the city and had sex with her. He was the person that gave her the three set of clothes she has, and occasionally gives her extra meals when she can’t endure the queue or the fights.

“The bombings are becoming less frequent now. The new President is serious about fighting insurgency.” 

“I know,” she says, quickly. “But it is not only about the bombing. It is more than what we see and hear. People are yearning for revenge from an unknown devil. Boko Haram will end but something deadly will take its place, because enough youths have been brainwashed. There are now guns and bullets and bombs everywhere. People are becoming daring.”

Faruk says nothing. He will not send her opinion on arms proliferation. He knows it is true, but his editors in Abuja will not publish it. They will waste his time by asking for details. Maybe when a columnist writes, they may accept it as a personal opinion. Faruk promises himself that he must write a whole chapter about Falmata when he finally sets to write down his experiences on the insurgency.

When the silence drags on, Falmata takes the black nylon from the ground and stands slowly. She looks at Faruk, who now standing, looking back at her. “Thank you for everything, most especially this…” she holds up the nylon. “When you call your wife, please, greet her for me. And your daughter, may she never see what I have seen.”

“It will be okay, Falmata.”

Faruk’s phone rings. The screen shows Tahir, his colleague and guide in Maiduguri. He looks up at Falmata, who is looking at him. He lets it ring for some moments before pressing the green button, his eyes still on Falmata. 

He speaks for a moment over the phone and when he finishes, he shakes his head and says, “I have to go. There has been a blast in the city.”

Falmata says nothing. She tries out a faded smile to reassure him that she will be okay. She quickly turns away from where they stand and walks slowly towards a block of classrooms that now serves as their bedrooms. She does not look back, even when the urge to do so grows with every passing second.

 Faruk stands and watches as she walks away. He takes a sigh, shakes his head and begins to walk toward the exit gate, his mind weaving thoughts.

Mohammed Babangida is a Talata Mafara born Radio Personality and an addicted Facebooker.