March 15, 2015
“Father, please don’t go! We hardly spend any time together, and now you’re leaving again!” I sobbed, clinging to his legs as if my entire existence depended on it. He struggled to break free, but I refused to let go. Meanwhile, my mother stood in a corner, consumed by grief. Her face was a mix of anger, pain, and regret. She seemed like an empty shell, her soul drifting away. Fresh tears streamed down her face, as if she carried the weight of her helplessness like a cross.
“Mother, do something. We can’t let him go,” I pleaded, but she remained motionless.
“My daughter, listen closely. This is my fate, and I can’t abandon it halfway. I’m not a coward. I chose this path to defend our country and protect our loved ones. Trust me,” my father whispered, gently kissing my forehead. My heart shattered into a million pieces. Reluctantly, I released my grip on his legs and teleported to my mother’s side. She enveloped me in her arms, and together, we let our emotions pour out. It felt as if an earthquake rumbled through our stomachs and our home.
August 15, 2015
I was only twelve when my father chose to protect our country, this land of pain, over my mother and me. I opened my eyes slowly, my head heavy with sorrow. It felt as if my bulging eyes might fall to the ground. In a rush, my mother hurried toward me, trembling with fear. She pulled me into a tight embrace, tears dripping onto my back. I patted her gently, trying to console her. But our moment was interrupted by a loud bang on the door, the impact shaking the building and my mother’s fragile body.
“We have to go now!” my mother shouted, panic in her voice. She moved back and forth like a pendulum, her fear palpable. I had no idea what was happening. My mother dragged me and forced me under the old, termite-infested bed. I sneezed three times. She leaned in close and whispered in my ear, “No matter what happens, my child, do not come out.” It wasn’t long before my mother’s screams filled the air. A warm liquid trickled down my thighs. I felt helpless, questioning my very existence in that moment. Fury took hold of me, and I tried to crawl out, but a deep voice stopped me in my tracks.
“Who else is in this house? Come out before I start shooting!” a voice demanded. My mother’s weak, feeble voice responded, “It’s just me.” I could see their enormous feet from under the bed. I wanted to rush out, but the door slammed shut. My mother could barely move. Anger coursed through my veins, as if it could bring a mighty building to its knees. They stripped my mother of her essence, turning her body into a battleground. I rushed to find a wrapper to cover her, wiping her body while tears streamed down my face. As I looked out into the neighborhood, I was horrified. Blood and bodies littered the streets. “This country has descended into chaos,” I thought to myself.
12:00 pm
My mother molded me to fit into her sack. Amidst the war and chaos, we escaped to a deserted building, a place teetering on the edge between life and death. It was my father’s property, a land that had become a graveyard for its people. The number of orphans, widows, and buried bodies grew every day. Smiles and happiness were replaced by pain and terror. Countless girls had been stripped of their dignity and left to wallow in darkness. Mothers wept as they searched for their children amidst piles of lifeless bodies. If there was anything keeping us going, it was hope. Deep down, my mother cherished this land, for it was her origin and identity. She believed that there were many stories buried within this land, but I saw it differently. This land had buried its people, along with their stories.
August 31, 2015
As my mother combed my hair, a single tear rolled down her cheek. She traced the scars on my shoulder, mapping a better Nigeria. We clung to each other, fighting to survive. Every day, my mother broke a little more, like the dawn breaking through the darkness. She still loved my father deeply. The window became her favorite place, a sanctuary to gaze upon a world that seemed so far away. We lived day by day, struggling to make ends meet.
At dawn, we talked to God. At dusk, bodies graced our doorstep. They were the remains of those lost to the war. My heart sank, and my mother lost all sense of purpose. The glimmer of hope that had sustained her was extinguished in an instant. My father continued to break my heart. We mourned him, our tears drying up. But I still felt his presence, as if he were a white dove perched on my window, watching over me with reassurance. My mother prayed ceaselessly, hoping that her sorrows, conflicts, and pain would finally find rest.
December 25, 2015
I blamed this country for all our misfortunes. I couldn’t count the number of times I cursed this land. My mother told me to honor our country, just as my father had. But what country? The same country that had stripped my mother of her dignity, taken away my right to have a father, and turned my mother into a widow. No, I could never honor such a country. We continued to live, clinging to the hope that life would one day be kind to us. During this time, I made a new friend, Amina. Despite our different religions and cultures, we shared the same background and dilemmas. My mother started selling vegetables in a small market, and it was on my way there that I first saw Amina roasting corn with her mother. She smiled at me, and I couldn’t help but wonder why. This encounter repeated itself until the day she approached me.
“I see you’re new here. I’m Amina,” she said, extending her hand. I took a moment to study her before shaking her hand.
“I’m Rachael,” I replied. And from that moment, our friendship blossomed.
December 31, 2015
We grew closer with each passing day, to the point where we were seen as twins by many. One hot afternoon, I mustered the courage to ask Amina about her father. As she spoke, Amina faded into her past.
“My father was once a loving man, doing everything he could to ensure our survival. But one night, he transformed into something I didn’t recognize. He became a drunk and a drug addict. I hated how he turned my mother into a punching bag. Then, one day, he came back with a smile on his face and gifts in his hands. I saw my real father again, after a long time. He gave my mother and me the gifts, looking at me with adoration as he caressed my hair.
“My dear, you have grown into a beautiful young woman. I think it’s time for you to have a husband. Go now, and get yourself ready,” he said, and I couldn’t understand what was happening. I dressed up beautifully, and two men sat with my father, discussing something intently. When they looked at me, their faces filled with awe. My father instructed me to bring them some water, and I happily skipped away with two glasses. But as I approached the second visitor, he grabbed my bum forcefully. In shock, I poured him the water. My father’s hand landed on my face with a resounding slap.
“Are you stupid? Don’t you realize he will be your husband? Get ready to go with him because your bride price has been paid!” my father shouted. I was stunned by the extent of his cruelty. I wept, pleading with my father to reconsider. But my pleas fell on deaf ears. That’s how I found myself in an unwanted marriage.
His name was Zarami. At first, he seemed kind. But good things never last. He forced himself upon me, violating my body and my spirit. In the end, I ran away from his life and his house. It took me days to find a new home. When my mother finally found me, she embraced me so tightly that I thought my breath would leave my body. We soaked each other in tears. When I asked about my father, all my mother could say was that he had been killed. Zarami never came back for me.
Amina’s tears flowed freely as she shared her story. I encouraged her to stay strong, marveling at her resilience in the face of adversity. When she asked about my father, I simply told her that he died for our country. And with that, we sealed our friendship, vowing not to let our painful pasts hinder our future development.
January 1, 2016
We took a break from the pain of our pasts and woke up to greet a new dawn, filled with renewed hope for a brighter future.
Read – Green Memories – A Short Story by Suhaibu Safiyanu, Nigeria
