Musings of an Internally Displaced Child II (Abubakar's Story)

It sounds very funny, you calling me a child when I have much more life experience than you could ever imagine. You spoke with my brother earlier. I believe he told you how we witnessed the massacre of our parents, grandmother, brothers, sister and the burnt offering of our entire village. I am too experienced to be called a child.

My name is Abu-Bakr. I am 13 years old and I have a son.  We came into the Internally Displaced Persons Camp to hide, sort of hide in the open. The insurgents had murdered my entire family but we were targets because according to word on the street, there was a bounty on our heads. We came to the IDP camp and changed our surname. In less than 24 hours we lost our entire family and heritage and we lost even our name.

My brother, my surviving grandma and I carried our blankets and buckets. There were no mattresses. We had to either wait for someone to die or for the Emergency Team to get new supplies. What did we care for mattresses when our father, the renowned Doctor was probably resting his last in an unmarked mass grave? We had our numbers, which were our official new identities and moved to the corner of the classroom where we were issued spaces. The people that were not killed in these raids and attacks are called survivors? No.

A great percentage of the people I met in that camp that day did not survive the onslaught on their communities. I saw young men, moping into space, lost to this world, not quite yet in the next. I saw women with no strength to chatter, just staring, rock solid. The only proof of life would be the tears that freely flowed from their eyes. Hope was gone. Alas, there was none that had any to give, no matter how small.

I saw a man and a boy who had struck a strange relationship. They spoke entirely different languages but were inseparable. He was wheelchair bound as a result of the bomb blast that devoured his legs. What was left was the stub, the little boy dressed the wounds the best he could and pushed the wheelchair everywhere. They collected alms and used the proceeds to augment the food from the camp kitchen.

One night I heard him cry out happily in his sleep, he was talking to some people, he was racing and his limbs were strong, he outran them. He laughed happily in his sleep. In the morning, his limp body greeted the world. He had gone to a place where he would no more be restricted or be a victim. The young boy died the next morning.

At night, ghosts from different places and times roamed free in the camp. People screamed and laughed and cried and sang and fought in their sleep. I hear my grandma scold her daughter and grandchildren in her sleep, commanding them to return to Maiduguri immediately, I did not wake her. If her dreams is where she has them alive and well then let her have that time to hold them.

I wish I could dream, I wish I could see my folks for one minute, to tell my dad that the world he fought to establish for us his children does not exist anymore, to tell my mother that beauty and graceful smells have been removed from my world, to tell my perfect elder brother that everything is gone, even freedom to be a child, but I cannot. I do not sleep. It’s been a year and every night I have listened with open eyes to every discussion people have had with the spirit world. I don’t know what that makes me.

I have a son, his name is Amina. His mother was killed by the same knife that gave him a deep gash on his head. He was picked by a mother who lost her daughter in the onslaught on the community. She called him her daughter’s name, Amina. She has loved and cared for him since he was a month old, breastfeeding and tending him. I carry him at night while his ‘mother’ sleeps. He loves me more than he does her. My name was the first thing he ever said. I thought he was going to die at first but he is promising to be a strong lad. For his sake, I will fight my way out of this place and make something out of my life.

I joined the local vigilante group to revenge, take back my pound of flesh. We rescued communities from raids from insurgents, I was a warrior. One fateful day, we had succeeded in driving out and rounding up all the terrorists when I saw a little boy with a gun almost bigger than he. He was at most 10 years old and he looked just like my little brother Nasir. Had I not seen Nasir with his head 2 meters away from his body, I would have hugged him. I couldn’t bring myself to attack him. I watched with borrowed eyes as he raised his gun to shoot me right in the heart. I closed my eyes and waited for death to carry me away.

A fellow vigilante hacked the little boy. That was the end of my revenge cause. I am more interested in helping the victims hold on to hope, no matter how far it seems. For a life without hope is no life at all.

But I am just one person. Remember us.

Credits; Ojonugwa Sapphire Abu

Culled from Ravaged