We reached Sabon Gari Divisional Police Station and met a crowd of refugees. A woman was thrashing about on the ground, shouting: ‘My own don finish o! Na my only son! Na only him I get. Him papa don die for ECOMOG!’ She wore a cloth of rich lace. Her wrapper came loose on her hip, revealing two tangled strings of beads over her underwear. Sprawled beside the crying woman was a young man with a deep gash on his right shoulder. A fresh cut ran down his left thigh. The T-shirt he wore was soiled with blood. His mouth opened and closed now and then. His chest rose and fell in heavy breathing. Some of the onlookers beat their chests with their hands, weeping and cursing the police.
‘If na deir broda, dey for don bring motor carry am go hospital since. Wicked people!’ a woman in front of me said.
‘No mind dem. No be dent cause dis wahala for us? Dem know say Muslims go kill people and dey no do anything.’
‘God go punish dem!’
‘True! God go punish dem!’
‘Which God?’ The short, dark woman widened her eyes in indignation. ‘E concern God? Na so we go dey look until dat boy go die.’
‘Hei! Olodumare!’
‘Let’s stay here,’ Baba said. His uniform was drenched in sweat.
A short policeman helped carry one of Baba’s bags from the gate. He lived in the barracks. He started complaining that his apartment was flooded with refugees, that he had no space for us. I heard Baba address him as Sergeant Abu. He spoke a different dialect of our language.
We all sat on the floor, spent.
‘I’m hungry. Mama,’ Emayabo complained, as Mama untied Oyigwu from her back.
‘Wait, I’ll get you some food,’ Mama said, cuddling Oyigwu who had also begun to cry. She drew Emayabo into her embrace and patted her consolingly on the head.
I looked around for food. There was none. People’s lips were either dry or wet with drool as they wept.
‘I’m hungry, Mama.’ Emayabo had a way of turning such desperation into a song. I knew she was complaining for all of us.
The wind was gentle. I thought of its absence during the hours of killing.
‘Murtala, move around and see if you can get a loaf of bread for your sister,’ Mama said, loosening one end of her wrapper.
She gave me a ten naira note. I walked towards the gate of the barracks, which was not really a gate, but a relic of it. There I came upon a small circle of people, their hands against their chests in utmost despair. A small boy held tight to his mother’s right leg, staring up at her. A woman staring at a man spreadeagled on the floor held her baby to her breast. The nipple rested on the baby’s cheek, breast milk dripping. The baby, opening its mouth and tilting its head, tried in vain to latch on. It gave a sharp cry. The mother turned and hurriedly put the nipple in its mouth. As I approached, I saw that the man’s left foot had been chopped off. His right foot was shod in a fine shoe. Still staring at him, I moved away and hit the leg of an old woman seated on the floor, her head bowed.
She yelped. ‘Can’t you watch your steps? Watch your dangerous steps, my son.’
The words I am sorry came to mind, however I could not utter them.
People did not talk much. Some conversed quietly, their eyes darting about frequently.
I saw Adejo, my primary schoolmate, sitting on the floor, his head bent downward. I did not move towards him.
Outside the gate, across the street, at the back of a two-storey building, I saw a brood of chicks with bright feathers and amazingly neat legs. They were crying. Their mother was out of sight. Where had their mother gone? I looked around, but did not see her. I walked to the only kiosk I saw.
In front of the kiosk was a large umbrella bent eastward. The man under it sold provisions. People crowded around him, looking very sober. He was reacting fast to their demands. Because most of them were adults, some of them impatient, I had to wait. By the time I was able to tell the man what I wanted, the bread was finished. I bought biscuits and returned to where we were staying.
Oyigwu and Emayabo had fallen asleep on our threadbare mat. Imatum, Ajara and Anyaosu stood together, looking around and whispering to one another. Ukpo and Yakubu seemed to have strayed off. Baba was not around either.
Mama scowled at me, demanding, ‘Why did it take you so long?’
‘There was only one person selling and there were many people.’
I kept what I had bought and decided to wander around too.
I saw a plump man of about thirty in a pair of blue jeans and an ash-coloured T-shirt, moving around. Given the way he walked, I wondered if there were springs under the sneakers he wore. He had headphones on his ears that seemed to trigger the gaiety in his eyes. He drew closer to us, stood near me and winked at Imatum, a lecherous smile hovering on his thin lips. I missed Imatum’s reaction. The man strutted away jauntily like an excited cock. Curious, I followed him. He moved towards a young woman standing alone, her cheeks seemingly puckered in a smile. Drawing near, I realised that she was not smiling. She was weeping. The man had already spoken to her.
‘Get out of my sight!’ she barked. ‘You must be a madman!’
He winced, bouncing backward, almost bumping into another man who threw him a wicked look.
I followed him as he pranced about until I was tired.
When I returned to our place, I met Baba. He had opened his mouth to say something when our attention was drawn to a police van that had driven into the premises. Three policemen were struggling with somebody inside the van. The way they held him against the tailgate of the van, twisting his arms behind him, was so conspicuous that it made people stare. I walked behind Baba to the scene.
What I saw shocked me. Tall and wiry, but looking suddenly old, Helen’s father was being hauled from the truck. He kicked weakly. They kept him on the veranda of the office block. I pushed my way forward and stood nearby.
He lay on his side, his face towards the onlookers, breathing heavily. His Afro, usually combed, was dishevelled. His eyes were bloodshot and blinked rapidly, the eyeballs rolling sideways. There were bruises all over his face. Spittle dripped from a corner of his mouth, yet his lips, half-opened, were dry and cracked. Also dry and cracked were his palms and feet. The safari suit he wore was filthy, smeared with blood and sand.
A pot-bellied policeman, wearing a uniform jacket, walked out of the office. Somebody shouted and all the policemen saluted him. He stood over Helen’s father, bent down and turned the enervated man so that he lay supine.
A policeman moved respectfully closer to the pot-bellied officer and said, ‘Oga, the man dey fight us since.’
‘Did he use any weapon?’
‘No, Oga. But he carry stones.’
I pictured Helen’s remains. I became weak and left. How could Helen have gone that way, after so much laughter and hope? Her voice rang in my ears: ‘When next you go hawking bread, I’ll go with you. When you’re tired of carrying the tray. I’ll relieve you.’ She giggled. ‘No. You can’t stop hawking bread for your mother. She’s helping the family. I know how my mama is helping us, but she won’t let me hawk. Our mothers are different.’
I met Madam Well-Well, Mama’s neighbour in Yarkura Market, talking to Mama in our language about Helen’s father, all my younger ones attentive. ‘…That he saw his six children, piled one on top of another, all slaughtered. And by their side was his wife, also slaughtered, her womb torn open.’
Mama winced. ‘Oh Jehovah, my Lord.’
‘And there beside her was the foetus, a mangled baby boy.’
‘Chaakokoo! Violence even to the unborn?’
‘They said he went berserk. He pulled an iron bar from a pile of rubble and attacked everybody in sight.’
‘Oh poor man, poor man!’
‘He struck a small girl dead. He was chasing an old man when the police got him.’
‘God Almighty!’
*
In the evening, people became busier. A tall, slim policeman spoke through a megaphone consoling people. ‘Contry people, my brodas and sistas, I bring you message from our military president. De situation dey under control now. Na religious fanatics and vagabonds cause de wahala. Dey don bring more soldiers to Kano. So abeg make una relax. Na dis be de message from His Excellency, our military president.’
People stared at him morosely.
Out in the open space, people used their kerosene stoves to cook, although the harmattan disturbed them. Some gathered firewood from the surroundings to light fire. At the left end of the grounds, there was a clump of dogonyaro trees. To the right, just before a large gutter widened by erosion, stood a thicket of ferns.
Baba disappeared and returned with two food flasks filled with beans, watery and over-peppered. There were also two loaves of bread. We ate up the food in no time. It amused me that my sisters, who hated beans, ate up everything and even licked their fingers. After eating, Baba left us again.
Darkness stole upon us. The whistling movement of the wind was steady. I looked up, searching for the moon. It was not there. It occurred to me that for some days now, the moon had gone on its usual journey. Why, then, had it missed such a day as today?
Baba appeared briskly, carrying two damp blankets, dusty and smelly.
‘We’ll spread these blankets on the floor and sleep,’ he told Mama.
Mama collected die blankets, without a word, and placed them on the ground beside her.
‘They said they would bring relief materials tomorrow,’ Baba informed us.
‘What are they bringing?’ Mama asked.
‘Blankets, rice, beans, sugar, bread and other things.’
The darkness thickened. Flames of candles were dancing in the wind all over. I did not hear laughter or music. Many people had lain down. I thought of what the time might be. Beside us, a man and a woman, lying very close to each other, were whispering. I strained my ears in vain to grasp their words.
I noticed a tall man slinking around us. He edged towards Ukpo and me.
‘What does he want?’ I asked Ukpo.
‘How do I know?’
When he was very close to us he switched on a torch. We were startled. I sprang up. Ukpo stood up and grabbed my hand. We said nothing. He raised the torch in such a way that our faces were in its glare.
Baba shouted, ‘Who be dat?’
‘Oga sorry abeg. I dey look for my son. ’
‘Okay o. Dese ones na my sons,’ Baba said curtly.
We watched him move away slowly, his head bowed. He wandered amidst the people lying down, shining his torch now and then. I was still watching him when Ukpo whispered into my ear: ‘Imagine that were me looking for you.’
‘I can’t.’
My sisters lay on one blanket, my brothers and I on the other. We covered ourselves with a large cloth Mama gave us. Mama and Baba lay down on the mat, her back against his stomach.
Suddenly a harsh scream tore the delicate calm of the night. The voice kept rising. We scrambled to our feet. There was no electricity. Most of the small flames had gone out. The three big flames made by the police and placed at strategic intervals still glowed. We could barely see ourselves in the dim light. Screaming voices rent the air.
‘Iya mi o!’
‘God of Israel!’
‘Wetin dey happen?’
‘Denis! Denis!’
‘Make una no run! Make una no run!’
‘Murtala, Ukpo, don’t go anywhere!’ Baba shouted at the top of his voice.
I heard Mama’s voice. ‘Imatum, hold your sisters.’
They held one another in a tight embrace: Imatum, Ajara and Anyaosu. Baba held Yakubu by the hand. Mama carried Oyigwu. Emayabo began to cry. ‘Hold me, Emayabo. Hold me, don’t cry.’
My palm gripping Ukpo’s, I saw people rushing here and there in confusion. They surged towards the police office block, crashing into one another.
‘My bele o! My bele o! My bele o! Ahhh mama me o! Mama! Mama!’ The voice rose and fell. It rose and fell. It rose and fell again. My stomach tightened. Tears stung my eyes.
‘It’s a girl,’ Ukpo whispered into my ears.
‘Yes.’ I could barely hear myself. My saliva was salty.
The voice with its terror grew weaker until it died away.
I turned to the left where I had earlier heard the whispering voices. A mat and a large cloth lay rumpled on the floor. Dust rose around them.
The voice of the man with a megaphone seized the air. ‘Contry people, brodas and sistas, make una calm down. Nothing dey happen. Nobody dey come after anybody. Na one woman shout for im sleep because of bad dream. No be anoda fight o. Abeg…’
Silence returned, as suddenly as it had been broken. Then wails broke out as people crowded around the body of the girl. A policeman knelt and put his ear on her chest. He sprang up and lifted her up. ‘We must to take her to hospital now!’ he shouted.
‘Wetin happen wey we dey run?’ a woman asked Baba.
‘I no know, Madam.’
Armed policemen moved around us as we lay, unable to sleep. I noticed that the whispering voices had returned. The night deepened.
‘I can’t sleep, Murtala,’ Ukpo said, his mouth almost touching my ear.
‘Nobody can.’ I thought I was whispering, but my voice sounded loud.
Ukpo continued. ‘If I close my eyes, I see many dead people.’
‘My English teacher said that kind of thing was an imagination.’
‘Interesting. Then I have an imagination. So how do you define imagination?’
‘It’s defined as something we create in our minds which does not really happen.’
‘But the deaths happened and I’m seeing them when I close my eyes. ’
‘You can’t see when your eyes are closed. It’s an imagination.’
‘I wish the killing were an imagination, Murtala.’
‘Me too.’
A man, lying close to us, was shifting restlessly, moaning, ‘Oh my God, it’s hurting me so bad; it’s my waist…’
‘Sorry, darling. Please, bear it. I pray we’ll get out of here first thing tomorrow. Sorry…’ A woman was consoling him.
When Ukpo’s voice finally dissolved into sleep, he produced throaty, meaningless utterances, a sleeper’s version of our conversation. I heard the harmattan soughing through the clump of dogonyaro trees. Then I heard the footfall of the policemen patrolling.
I noticed that the whispering voices from our left had stopped. I was curious and raised my head to look towards them. In the faint light, I saw the two figures entwined, but not still. My eyes strained. The steady rhythm under the large cloth was unmistakable; buttocks rose and fell.
I fell asleep.
*
It was cold and misty. Emayabo and Oyigwu had woken up. Mama covered them with cloths to protect them from the cold. She sat between them, her hands resting on their shoulders. My sisters sat on their blanket. They were talking and Imatum was pointing her index finger to her left. I did not bother to look what was there. Ukpo, his face unusually taut, was staring towards the cluster of dogonyaro trees. Yakubu sat close to Baba, his brow puckered in a frown.
‘What are you looking at?’ I asked Ukpo.
He did not answer me.
I stood up and walked around. People moved about quietly, with light steps. Their eyes were swollen with grief. I looked carefully at the shape of their eyes, the colour of their eyes, how their eyelids moved, how the eyelashes protected the eyes. Some people’s eyes dilated at the slightest noise. Others’ narrowed in steady, cold stares, unmoved by sound. Most people stared without blinking. The eyeballs did not seem present for seeing alone. I stood at the gate for a minute before I returned, conscious that it was too early for me to be far from my family.
‘Murtala,’ Mama called.
‘Yes, Mama,’ I answered, moving closer to her.
‘Go and look for food. I’m sure you know Sabon Gari well?’
I nodded. I saw men and women bringing food in polythene bags. Ukpo offered to go with me when Mama gave me some money.
People were milling around at the gate. There were also glaring, armed policemen. We avoided the gate, passing instead through the three blocks of the barracks. Because the fence had broken down in places, there were four outlets apart from the gate. The outlet we went through was busy, with many people walking in and out.
Just before we crossed the gutter to the tarred street, I saw a mother hen clucking loudly, wings half open in rage as she moved first in a circle, then towards the east. She seemed to be searching frantically.
With sunken eyes people walked past us, their feet dirty, their steps raising dust.
‘I dreamt Mama was axed to death,’ Ukpo said suddenly.
I froze. ‘You dreamt Mama died?’
‘Yes. And we were crying.’ He was looking into my eyes, a wan smile on his lips.
‘A bad dream, Ukpo.’
‘Thought it was only you who had nightmares.’
‘Wish I would not have nightmares anymore.’
Ukpo smiled. ‘Overheard Mama and Baba saying dreams were a precious gift from our ancestors.’
‘But how could you dream of Mama being killed?’
‘I did. I was scared.’
I imagined Mama in a pool of blood, being hacked to death. I was terrified. How could she die? Who would be our mother if Mama died? Would we remain normal if she died? I did not think children without mothers were normal.
‘They killed many people yesterday, Murtala.’
‘Yes, many people including Helen.’
‘I’m so sorry they killed her.’
‘Maybe I’ll find her someday.’
‘But why are people killing people?’
‘Don’t know, Ukpo. Will ask my English mistress.’
‘Never seen a goat killing a goat.’
‘Me neither.’
Would you kill somebody, Murtala?’
‘I wouldn’t. I don’t know how to kill. Why?’
I cast my mind on the utterly wicked verb: kill. What did it actually mean? Why did it exist? Ukpo was not even afraid of using it.
‘I think killing is not so bad, Murtala.’
‘Why?’
‘People who kill are happy. They sing and rejoice.’
I tried not to understand what Ukpo was saying. ‘Let’s stop talking about killing, I’m scared.’
Ukpo giggled. He always felt braver than I did, even though I was older. Mama said he had actually been braver when we were younger. He was born just a year and three months after me and enjoyed better health in childhood. I did not care about that. Now he respected my views and made me proud with his bravery.
As we walked and talked, I looked to the sides of the street. Almost everywhere around us there were burnt tyres, long iron bars, huge sticks and heavy stones on the ground. Sabon Gari remained the same except for the ashes of the burnt tyres everywhere. I did not see any burnt houses, vehicles or any corpses on the ground. I noticed that people stood in groups outside their houses, talking in low voices or simply watching things going on in the streets.
‘A woman is selling food over there,’ Ukpo said, pointing.
‘Yes, I can see her.’
We bought the food: rice, beans and tomato stew.
On our way back, we had just crossed Enugu Road when an uproar erupted. The abrupt screeches of speeding motorcycles deafened us. Three motorcycles carrying two people each appeared beside us. The passengers, giddy with excitement, were shouting: ‘They’re coming! They’re coming!’
‘The killers are here!’
‘Everybody bring your weapons out!’
They raced past us. People were dashing into their houses upon hearing the message.
‘Ukpo, what do we do?’
‘We run.’
I looked back and saw a bewildered crowd rushing towards us. ‘Ukpo, let’s run.’
He flung away the food we had bought and grabbed me by the hand. He was ahead. I was slowing him down. I wrenched my hand free from his grip. ‘Just go, Ukpo. Just go!’
People were shouting and yelling at the top of their voices. Going as fast as he could, Ukpo kept turning back to look at me. I understood but could not run any faster. The tortoise, Grandbaba once told me, cannot suddenly acquire the speed of the hare. We were lost in the pandemonium. Car horns blared furiously. I tried to keep my eyes on Ukpo. Go, brother, go! You’re the hare, son of the Wind. He was at the last turn before the police station. Then in a split second a car emerging from the turn at top speed braked with a terrible screech. Ukpo disappeared from sight. I tried to slow down, to see properly. The saloon, its tyres grating the tarred road, swerved towards me. I must have leapt. I was on the bonnet of the car as it jerked and jerked and jerked to a halt. As I rolled off the bonnet, my eyes caught spattered blood and a mutilated figure on the ground. I saw the oncoming runners freeze. People crowded around me, their voices a din in my ears. A hulking man held me down as I struggled to stand up. ‘Sit on the ground. Don’t stand up!’
*
‘Chaakokoo!’ Mama collapsed, rolling sideways in the throes of sorrow when Baba finally confirmed Ukpo’s death. All my younger ones burst into tears, kneeling around Mama. Imatum tried to hold her, to make sure that the hidden parts of her body were not exposed.
‘Why now, when I thought God had taken sorrow away from me?’ Baba wailed. ‘Where are you, sons of the Wind, my ancestors?’
‘Hold her well. She’ll injure herself,’ Madam Well-Well said, helping Imatum.
‘Oga, sorry, take am easy. Na so God say make e happen,’ a scrawny man told Baba, draping his hand on Baba’s shoulder.
A woman walked to me slowly, staring at me. Her eyes were wet. ‘Na God say make you live. Do, sorry.’
The plump man with the headphones brought drugs for me to swallow. I shook my head. He barked at me, ‘Come on, take! Y’know, what do you think you are? A monster? Y’know, these are just painkillers.’
I did not want anybody shouting at me, so I took the tablets.
A moment later, the loud voice of the policeman with a megaphone interrupted our mourning. I did not care to grasp his meaning. Those who stood watching us with blurry eyes began to move towards the voice. As they moved away, I got what the policeman was repeatedly saying. ‘Contry people, make una join de line witout fighting. De relief material go do for everybody…’
I did not know what emboldened my legs, but I stood up and walked slowly, unsteadily, following the people.
‘Murtala!’
I looked back and answered feebly, ‘Baba.’
‘Get back. You have no strength.’
I turned as if to go back, but dodged out of Baba’s sight.
A small girl was carrying a big basin clumsily. She started running, but collided with a man. She fell, rolling to one side while the basin rolled to the other. The man hurried away without even looking at her. Whimpering, she jumped up and made straight for her basin with grim determination. She hurried towards the lines. I saw a woman with a large cup, trotting towards them. A man pulled off his shirt and stretched it flat as his container.
Two intimidatingly long lines snaked away. I joined the shorter one. A tall, dark policeman, his gun held horizontally, was pushing, shouting, ‘Go join the line! You must join the line. Foolish people!’
Other policemen were shouting orders, wielding their truncheons.
‘Aah my wound, my wound! Dis stupid man don brush my wound,’ a slim woman howled. She supported her hurting left arm with her right hand, her face wrinkled in pain.
‘Sorry abeg.’
Her eyes were full of tears as she blurted, ‘Why you no go front go struggle with men like you. Na me you see to push. God punish you!’
‘Make you no insult me o. I don tell yon sorry.’ He turned his back to her, pushing his way.
The woman coughed, cleared her throat and spat at him angrily. The mucous saliva settled on the man’s left ear. His left palm rose slowly to the ear, the substance dripping onto his fingers. Boiling with contempt, the man started towards her.
‘Stop dere!’ a policeman bellowed. ‘If you touch am I go put you for guardroom now now. ’
The man glared at the woman, glared at the policeman and walked towards the end of the line, cleaning his palm on his trousers.
It was an awful din: the cries, the shouts and the curses that filled the atmosphere.
After a long time, during which I had grown weaker but refused to give up, I had in my possession a packet of sugar, a small sachet of Peak milk, a tinful of garri, a blanket thicker than ours and a bowlful ration of beans. Abruptly, I realised I was alone. ‘Ukpo!’ I called. It seemed he answered the call from behind me. I turned sharply. He was not there. ‘Ukpo,’ I called and turned again, dropping the things I carried. Then I saw his face. It was gory, but calm. The face multiplied into many faces. I started screaming, ‘Ukpo! Ukpo! Ukpo!’ My head was spinning.
*
Mama woke up the next day retching and wheezing. She began to vomit, though she had not eaten any food since the news of Ukpo’s death. Her temperature ran high. She grew weaker by the minute. Baba was restless. My sisters and brothers jostled around her, staring and guarding her with unuttered prayers.
Baba left us and returned with some medicine.
‘Ijaguwa, take these drugs.’
Mama muttered, ‘Let me die and leave the problems of this world. Leave me alone, I want to die…’
‘Your children are staring at you.’
Mama looked at Emayabo and Oyigwu. ‘I’m tired of this life.’
‘Take the drugs, please.’
‘Leave me alone. Let me die…’ Mama narrowed her eyes, staring vacantly.
Baba became exasperated. ‘That’s nonsense. And you’ll leave these children for whom? Before you die, just make sure that all of them are dead, then you follow them.’
Mama started weeping, accusing God of bringing such sorrow upon her. Baba was frustrated, threw a look at me and stomped away, muttering.
At that instant, we heard the blaring of a lorry’s horn. I turned my eyes. Outside the gate, two lorries, each half loaded, slowed to a halt. I heard a man who had just jumped down from the lorry shouting, ‘Ojoma! Ojoma!’
A woman was also shouting as she strode briskly towards the gate. ‘Michael! Michael! Bring our things!’
People began to rush towards the lorries, carrying their luggage. They were climbing into the lorries, whose tailgates were already flung open. Two men in dirty clothes were shouting: ‘East, South and Central Nigeria!’
‘Na south we dey go o. Come enter and save your life from killers!’
‘Na one way. Cheap transport, one way!’
There were frantic movements as people rushed to get spaces.
Mama stood up slowly, her gaze intently on the scene. She walked slowly towards the gate, murmuring to herself. Then stopping halfway, she turned back to us. ‘Imatum, Ajara, Yakubu, pack our things. We’ll leave now!’
Where were we going? I could not ask Mama because of her countenance. She looked like an enraged mother hen. I turned, helpless, and saw Baba coming towards us with more relief materials.
Imatum folded the blanket they had slept on and unzipped one of the bags to put it in.
‘Why are you folding…?’
Mama interrupted Baba. ‘We’re leaving here.’
‘For where?’ Baba was perplexed.
I collected the relief materials and put them on the ground.
‘My children and I have a home.’
‘You want to go to the village now?’
Mama looked him straight in the eyes, her voice became low and each word came in emphatic cadence. ‘I should keep my children here and allow the hawks to snatch them from me? All of them? My children shall not die. Go and look for a lorry to pack our belongings now!’
Baba was trying to contain his rising anger. ‘I don’t understand you. What about my work?’
Her voice rose, ‘What kind of work, ehn, what kind of work?’ She mimicked him. ‘What about my work? You’re not ashamed working in a place where death stalks our lives? Where is Ukpo, tell me, where is that young, strong, courageous son of mine? Tell me!’ She stamped her foot and burst into tears.
My younger ones stared at Mama. People were watching us.
After a moment, as Mama was wiping her face with the edge of her wrapper, Baba answered, ‘I don’t have the money to get a lorry.’
With a swift movement, Mama untied her wrapper, pulled out a cloth pouch from her waist, unzipped it, withdrew some bank notes and threw them at Baba. ‘Get us a lorry!’ Mama screamed. Then she lowered her voice again. ‘My children shall not die.’
Mama and Baba glared at each other. It appeared Mama might let out a harsher scream. Baba took a look at us and walked off.
He returned some minutes later and found us, belongings packed, set to travel. We were eating soaked garri while Mama sat on one of the loads, her hand cradling her chin, her look surly. She carried Oyigwu asleep on her back.
Baba spoke calmly. ‘They’ve given me a police truck to pack my load here until we get a house in a safer area.’
Mama did not answer him.
‘Did you hear me?’ Baba stepped close to her.
She burst out, ‘The whole world is not safe, Father-of- my-children. The whole world! But we’ll be comfortable in our village. That’s where we want to go. Now!’
‘You can’t go now. Don’t…’
‘We must go now, my commander.’ Mama stood up, invigorated, a weather-beaten woman in her last fight. ‘Not on your cost, but on mine. I will use my money to save my children. Look around: people are leaving. We cannot stay an hour longer. I shall not watch while the hawks descend on my children again.’
Mama looked frail, as if she would be lifted from the ground by the harmattan.
Baba drew quiet, his head low and his arms across his chest. We watched him expectantly.