Monday, 13 July 2015

Musings of an Internally Displaced Child.



 








My name is Shehu, I am 11 years old. My father and mother  and our forebears are Muslims. I had four brothers and a sister, ours was a happy family. Father was a Medical Doctor, he was a Specialist.  You need to have put in many years of study and practice to be a Specialist. He was the best in his field, everyone said so.

Mother was a merchant. Her clients used to call her ‘Hajiya-sights-and-smells’. She used to import fragrances and decorative ornaments from all over the world for business. Our house was some sort of beauty haven. We had some solid gold ornamental pieces, Abu my elder brother told me that we could readily sell them in the local market for good money. I was looking forward to it.

My younger sister was the baby of the house. Her hair was jet black and her voice more melodious than a thousand angels bursting into song. She is the most beautiful girl I have ever set my eyes upon. People used to say she was the miniature version of my mother, I believed she was much more beautiful and enchanting.

My eldest brother was studying to be a Lawyer. He was in the first year of his studies in the University. He was a devoted young man. He was devoted to Allah, he was devoted to his family and he was devoted to his studies. He was Father’s right hand man. They discussed as peers. It was commonplace to see them huddled in the room, discussing for hours.
The family decided that with the growing level of insecurity around us, we should go to the village and bring our remaining grandparents back home with us. Both my grandmothers were almost neighbors, they were best of friends.

There were clear skies and almost free roads on the day of our journey, we arrived Konduga 20 minutes early. While the family was greeting and exchanging pleasantries, Abu and I escaped to go play with our village buddies. We managed to gather all our friends and were making a hell of noise in glee. We were brought down to earth by loud gunshots.

Abu and I naturally gravitate towards our hero, our Father but the most unforgettable scenes met us. I can never forget the sight of my younger sister, my angel in a pool of her own blood beside her mother’s severed corpse. I saw a dirty looking man uproot my father’s head. I felt the blood, hot and fiery flow to my eyes and I thank God for my next reaction; I ran.

We met our other grandma running towards the forest. She was quite startled to see us running but she caught us in stride. We didn’t miss a step. We ran through trees and shrubs and reeds, we ran through the hot sands of the sub-Saharan region. We ran till the sun gave way to deep darkness, we ran till we could not run anymore. Then we stopped by a flowing stream and wept. We wept till we felt our heart faint and we collapsed out of sheer exhaustion.

We remained in these back-lands for three days, we ate leaves and whatever fruits we found and uprooted some tubers to eat raw. Life had lost its meaning. We wandered into a motor park, the vehicle was full, we had to squeeze into the boot of the car and pay twice the fare. Grandma had some money in her pouch.

We did not have the strength to tell her that her best friend, her daughter and three grand-children were slaughtered, sent to the afterlife like mere animals. We did not bother to tell her, but her eyes told me she knew even much more than we could tell her.

We came back into Maiduguri and we alighted from the boot. It was quite close to our house so we walked the short distance. Our house had been burnt and raided! Alas, there was a bounty on my family’s head from the dreaded sect. Our lives were in danger.

We slept on the streets that night. It was risky business but we figured we had nothing to lose. In the morning, we went to the Internally Displaced People’s Camp and registered. My eyes saw unbelievable things. There were people in various stages of life and death, bodies with all manner of stages of burns, babies without mothers, and mothers without babies.
At night, it was the scene of a horror movie, people cried in their dreams and screamed. My grandmother was screaming too, I moved to wake her up but Abu stopped me.

It has been a year now, I have learnt to go many days without food, I have learnt that love for God may be challenging and draining but He doesn’t stop being God. I have lost father, mother, sister, brother. I have lost houses, land, love, faith. I have lost dignity and self -respect.  I have lived life from the pampered and affluent pedestal that your kids have and I have lived from the most harrowing and unbelievable circumstances.

We are just a statistic to many people but we are actually people. We have histories and we have ambitions just like you. We are casualties of terrorism today even though we are still alive. We live day in day out as though dead.
Remember us. 




credits: Ojonugwa Sapphire Abu
             







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