SMOKE AND FIRE

Shekaranku nawa?

How old are you?

daga ina kake?

Where are you from?

Her eyes blink with tear drops as she looked from the white interrogator to his Fulani female translator. They had to conduct the interview outside the camp for both theirs and the girl's safety.

fada mana me ya faru? yaya aka yi ka zo nan?

tell us what happened? How did you come here?

The question felt like a hot iron pressed into her tender skin. It is a probe into a haunting, painful memory. 

That early evening two years ago in the market. It was a babel of human voices and bodies moving to and fro. The nerve centre of the city, Gondawa. The popular name in the scores of local music in the North. Gondawa that the musicians sing about:

Gondawa, gidana na gari

idan na sami kudi 

zan auri kyakkyawar amarya  

kuma in sami iyali tare da ita

Gondawa, my city home

if I get  some money

I will marry a beautiful bride

and raise a family with her.

Her older siblings and herself join their mother  to sell second hand clothing beside the motor park. Their shop is a makeshift shed supported by  branches cut to size in a curious manner because they could not afford renting a shop. Whenever it rains, they remain at home, feeding from the proceeds of the previous sale. Their father is late and so the burden of feeding and clothing solely rests on their aging, tired mother.

'Amina...Amina,' her mother's voice sought  her among her pairs where she is engrossed, playing with sand.

She has nothing to say to her daughter about her dusty hijab and the dusty skirt that has seen the best of days. The summary of her mother's displeasure is evident in her wrinkled face but that is not what she  needs her for.

The skirts she left in the house is now needed by the customer who had come for them. She frowned, realizing she will have to trek home a total of about one hour to and fro. She grudgingly left because none of her friends would accompany her. She however comforted herself because none of them could beat her to the sand castle game. They will  be awaiting her return or so she thought.

It took her a while to locate the skirts her mother wanted her to bring. As soon as she found it, she wound it inside a wrapper and proceeded out of the house. Halfway from their hut to the main road,  two loud rumble of thunder that shock the ground echoed from the horizon then a thick cloud of smoke bellowed beneath a faint appearance of fire. 

The gravity of what has happened didn't occur to her  until she saw people screaming and running blindly  past her, away from the thick cloud of smoke and fire. Some distance away, pools of blood with humans parts torn into chunks of meat stained the tarred road. Headless bodies with whole intestines emptied on the floor, cars blackened with smoke and still burning with the smell of  roasting flesh, welcomed her. The whole market is a horror scene; a contrasting picture to the one she last saw. She looked toward their shed but it no longer exist. It is replaced instead by  blood and bodies torn beyond recognition.

The tears blurred her vision again and deep sobs choked her throat like the ferment of hot oil. She wiped her face with one end of her wrapper.

Ta yaya kuka isa sansanin?

How did you get to the camp?

She looked from the translator to the  journalist who is busy scribbling on his jotter.

'After the bomb blast, the soldiers came to the market to secure the area. Then...then...', the rest of the words hung in the roof of her mouth unspoken and replaced with painful sobs. The translator reached out and rubbed her back as though the pain was coming from there. When the tears subsided, she continued her story. For the first time, the translator looked more intently at the girl before her. This could be anybody's daughter, she thought to herself. The look on her face is that of a wizened child forced to experience an adult life. 

'We couldn't get food but had to bribe the soldiers with money or...', she hesitated wishing her story could  be different from what it is now.

'What did she say', the white man said pausing in his scribbling. His counterpart explained with a pained voice and a conspicuous anger on the soldiers who she perceived were taking advantage of the girls.

'We had to trade our bodies for food', she said at last wiping the tears that just made their appearance in her eyes. 

'The food they gave you, was it provided by the government or other people?' The interrogator asked. When Amina answered the question, the interrogator shock his head in disdain. Who wouldn't be angry at the callousness of the people who are meant to protect you? People who are meant to ease your pain but are actually the ones taking advantage of you and adding to your pain.

'We never see what the government brought because no vehicle come into the camp. But the soldiers always have food. If you want food, you have to bribe them with the money they pay you for sleeping with you.'

'You have been surviving by sleeping with the soldiers', asked the translator.

She went silent with shame and disgust. Every detail of the story is like knife cutting deep into fresh wounds.

'We are many who do it. Young girls my age and older women including those who are still nursing their babies'. When she saw the look on the translator's face, she added:

'Many of the women lost their husbands at different times when Boko Haram attacked their villages and so the camp became their new home'.

'Are there medical people at the camp?' She imagined the slim chances they have of contacting sexual diseases.

'We don't see any of them except private organizations who come to help us once in a while.' There was a momentary smile on her face but the weight of her sorrows soon drowned them.

'Do you pay any money to them,? she asked.

'No, they are good people. They give us free medicine.' 

They were almost rounding up when the rain began. It was a rare kind of rain after a long drought. They took her with them in their vehicle parked beside the main road, opposite a deserted village that bore the scourge of the insurgents. A sharp contrast to a once peaceful village.

 

 Glossary

Gondawa- it is not an actual place but a fictional word.

Boko Haram-  It means book (Boko) is evil (Haram). They are an Islamic terrorists group in Nigeria that have reduced the Northeast of the country to a death zone.

A sad story, this one. Thank you for stopping by. I still remain Yours Truly,

Julius Topohozin