By Oche Ngbede
It all started in the dead of the night, I was awaken by a mixture of wailing, shouts, gun shots and explosions, while I was still trying to figure out what was going on, my father rushed to the room where I and my siblings where sleeping, he was followed by my mother, he lifted me up to my feet, scooped 4 year old Ene while my mother carried 2 year old Ochanya, my father then reached for his machete behind the door and led us out of the house.
Outside the house people were running in different directions, their cries being accompanied by distant gunshots, these gunshots were rapid and sounded very different from the sounds we hear when the village hunters go hunting, these gunshots shook the very ground upon which we stood.
My father led us towards the yam farm behind the house, we were followed by other villagers, as we hurried through the farm my mother tripped over a dead body and fell, Mr Oguche who was right behind her stopped and helped her back to her feet, as he did he asked “A m’onya kum mla ayi kum?” Have you seen my family? My mum replied “um um.. unmuwa no” no I haven’t.
As we continued down the path my 6years old pair of legs began to feel weak from running, jumping and tripping over dead bodies, at this point the gunfire was becoming louder, I couldn’t tell if we were running away from or towards our attackers, my father must have thought the same as he stopped and gestured for us to do same. I peeked into the darkness, strained my eyes and just ahead I could make out a large number of women and children running towards our direction, coming from our supposed escape route, their numbers dwindling as they approached, behind them were gun wielding herdsmen who cowardly shot them in their backs, those who were not fortunate to die from the gunshots where butchered like animals.
As if on cue we all turned around and ran back to the direction we came from, only this time there were more dead bodies to trip on and more cries to deafen an already deaf ear. The house which we just left was now proudly wearing a crown of yellow flames, so too was every other house in the village, each threatening to out-burn the others like they were competing in an ‘inferno olympics’.
We turned and headed towards the stream but just as we did, four men appeared in front of us clutching military grade riffles, my father’s machete was no match to these weapons, he was not even given the option of surrender as it is done in civilized warfare, the machine guns roared in unison, my father fell on his back, his gaze fixated at me, it seem to be saying “I am sorry I couldn’t protect you and the rest of the family”. Beside my father’s lifeless body lay his guts and 4 year old Ene who was also not breathing.
My mother who was expecting another child in a few months lay faced down, her body drowning in a pool of family blood, her hand still holding unto 2 year old Ochanya who was crying. One of the assailants stepped forward, lifted his military styled boots and stamped it on Ochanya’s little head scattering her infant thoughts; she stopped crying.
He bent down, picked my father’s machete stepped up to me and with a single stroke he slit my throat.
I don’t have the pride of owning a grave, not one of my family member is worthy of that ‘luxury’, I have been left in the open for the vultures to feed on and for cattle who are worth more than humans to trample on.
The dead do not have a voice, we cannot argue. How then do I prove to you that I am dead? Yes you, you who said I am not dead just because I DON’T HAVE A GRAVE.
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