Several years later, Bule considered the Hudson river, and thought of the many seasons of his life. He had become a lawyer and an important name in the business of peacebuilding around the world. He had somehow managed to put his people and his country on the world map for something positive. He thought of the process and wondered if he wanted to write a full story.
This is the ultimate weakness of violence: it multiplies evil and violence in the universe. It doesn’t solve any problems.
– Martin Luther King, Jr.
In the Beginning
“We will give you three thousand dollars for the scoop. Just tell us your story and how you came to be like this. A short story. Nothing extra, just this.”
He wondered if he should take them up on their offer. The problem was that people always said his story did not add up or that he left out the meat of his piece. It was not a new request but it was the first time he was being asked from abroad. People always wondered how he turned out the way he did, considering the obtrusive history of violence meted against him and his people, a past that included the slaughter of his father. Yet, in any gathering, he was the first to advocate the cause of vulnerable people, promote diversity, and call for peace. He was the ultimate negotiator who was renowned for his skills in conflict resolution and peacebuilding.
His years of good work was being rewarded at the United Nations headquarters in New York. Not a bad way to begin the year, he thought to himself as he made his way to Manhattan. He visited the site where the World Trade Centre once stood, the National September 11 Memorial & Museum. He explored the twin pools that stood where the north and south towers had once stood. He felt a great sadness well up inside him. This was always the ultimate direction of violence, he thought. Too many deaths and memorials to remind everyone, but were too often forgotten, as evidenced by the never-ending wars people started and the reprisal attacks that followed. After a while, he left the site and walked to the Hudson River to look at Lady Liberty. There were fireworks on display and everything brought back a million memories. As he gazed at the sun dancing on the belly of the river, he thought of his maternal village, of the river that flowed behind their compound, and what probably was the start of his journey.
- That Harmattan Night
Bule woke up with a start. Was that the sound of knock-outs? Knock-outs and bangers were rare in those parts, and he wondered if he had heard right. Was that the sound of someone’s cry too? Voices filtered through into his room. He opened the window and peered into the night but there was nothing to see. As Baba would say, darkness had eaten the night, and the shadows had pushed the moon out. He thought he heard some voices somewhere in the compound talking. Bule wondered who could be talking at that time of the night. Perhaps Baba had visitors. He shrugged.
Back on his bed, he closed his eyes, grateful that he could go back to sleep.
KPOAAAAAAAA! KPOAAAAAAAA! KPOAAAAAAAA!
He froze where he lay, but his pulse quickened to the sound of his pounding heart. The noise sounded much closer and was not a loner like the first. His bed felt safe, yet curiosity would not allow him to remain lying down. Each step towards the window made his heart pound even louder. The noise was from close by, over the low fence. A distant light outlined the silhouette of two groups of people: one set had objects in their hands, while the second group of men stood opposite the first—their hands placed on their heads.
There was that loud noise again, repeatedly, and this time anxious shouts followed. The group of men with their hands on their heads fell to the ground. Something was wrong!
Bule heard his father call his name.
“Baba!” he replied, praying everything was alright. His stomach churned and he felt cold. His father’s voice sounded urgent.
“Where are you?”
No sooner had Bule appeared than his father snatched him into his arms and ran straight out of the door into the night.
“Baba, where are we going?”
He gave no reply but sprinted on like a man whose feet had been fitted with wings while carrying his son. All that occupied his father’s mind was escape. A cloud of dust rose into the stale night air every moment Baba’s running feet pounded the earth. Looking behind, Bule noticed a noisy crowd. The crowd was running towards them. Noise coming towards them, from another direction, made him turn. It was another crowd heading their way. Bule’s eyes bulged. He began to tremble in his father’s sweaty arms. What was wrong with all the adults? Without warning, Baba increased his speed and Bule wondered if he had any destination in mind.
The crowd was getting closer. Bule could see their arms and hands, raised in a threatening manner, waving about in the air, wielding different types of long black objects and some shiny short ones. Their voices sounded angry and aggressive.
Bule’s father ran even faster. He did not know what direction to flee but his ever-quickening strides belied that confusion. He did not want the crowd coming behind to catch up with them, neither did he want to fall into the hands of the oncoming crowd. He ran towards a bushy path leading nowhere, guided by the light from the moon slowly being covered by a gathering cloud.
They arrived at a building Bule did not recognise. Baba put him down and tried the door. It would not budge.
“Shit!” he cursed and added a few more profanities. Bule gasped as he had never heard his father swear before. Baba picked him up in a hurry. They had to keep on running.
Baba barely took two steps forward before that loud noise rang out once again. Baba fell forward like a felled dogonyaro tree, almost on top of Bule. His body convulsed. To Bule, his father was doing a strange dance, lying with his face to the side, in the dirt.
There were jubilant cries from the mob. Bule looked away from them towards his father. The clouds gave way to the moon’s illumination at that moment, and his eyes fell to the increasing puddle of blood that gathered around his father’s chest.
“Baba!” Bule screamed as his hands trembled.
Baba raised his head up from the dirt.
“Run away! Always remember…” he struggled to speak but fell silent. Baba looked at his son and smiled, forgetting his pain for a second. There was hope as long as the young ones were left. He started again, “Always remember…”
That loud noise struck again:
KPOAAAAA!!
Baba’s struggling voice ceased in horror as he saw his son fall limp.
“Baba!” Bule’s face contorted in pain. His tiny frame did the same dance as his father’s. He did not need anyone to explain what had happened. The encroaching darkness said it all. He felt firm hands pick him up and rush. There was no sound. From within the darkness, he felt the deepest peace. But it wasn’t his time yet.
- The Meeting and the Chief
The winds whispered rough notes that echoed the sorrow and anger predominant in the land. The faces in the meeting hall were a mixture of anger and grief. Red eyes, sniffling noses and hoarse voices competed in short bursts to put ideas forward: it was a struggle to find any resolution. There were serious debates on the next course of action: whether to stage a reprisal attack or seek alternative dispute resolution. Most of the youth wanted retaliation, while most elders wanted peace. Ultimately the decision whether there would be retaliation rested on the shoulders of Baba’s family and the chief.
“This was a deliberate attack by the Bakun marauders on our land, and they killed Baba!” Tombo, one of the youth, shouted.
“You are not sure it was Bakun marauders. They could have come from anywhere else,” Agba said and paused. He was Baba’s only surviving brother and the youths were surprised at his stance. Several of them thought him a disgrace to the memory of his brother. “This is not the first time our family is being affected, but you need to know, maybe these ones are not even from our country. You know how porous our borders are. I am honestly furious at this and believe me, I want to kill some people too. I have cried. But taking life does not bring back life. Don’t you remember Zaki Biam and Odi? Don’t you love our village? Listen, there are too many issues in our land to destroy our peace with more killings…”
“Leave those other killings in Biam and Odi out of this! Our people are known for their strength and burning temper. Ku!” Tombo retorted and the youths nodded, grunting their agreement. “If you could only be a man and true descendant of Takuruku, the river behind your house should have been flowing with their blood! That is all I know. Leave everything else!”
The heated debates went on till finally, the chief raised his hand and there was silence. He cleared his throat and told them the story of Tarudoon in Zaki Biam, a place not too far from theirs that they were all familiar with. A story they were familiar with. Tarudoon had been in conflict with another neighbouring town, Kumbu. The youths of Kumbu had dressed in army fatigues and attacked Tarudoon. In addition to a reprisal attack, the youths of Tarudoon had also killed some soldiers who had come to the area in the period. Shortly after, the army had sent some soldiers to the village on a peacekeeping mission.
“In case you have forgotten,” the chief said, “I will bring back that memory, as was told us by the only person who by miracle, escaped the carnage.”
- A Memory of the Past
By 10:00 a.m., the garage square was filled to capacity. The garage was, in reality, a commercial motor park. At least, that was its primary function. It also served as a meeting point of sorts and several village disputes had seen their end there. Time had raced past fast, and a lot of people shifted restlessly as they waited. They might have left, but there was an important matter whose horns had to be cut. The elders who had supported a resolution through dialogue had done an excellent job of convincing people to attend. It seemed the whole town was in attendance.
“Violence is not the answer,” an elder had preached to the impromptu gathering of youth the day before. “The soldiers have called all of us to a meeting to resolve all the issues. As you all know, the people that caused destruction to our parts came in military uniforms. They killed some people too. We asked the soldiers who have said they knew nothing of it. We, the elders, cautioned patience and forgiveness. With the hot blood of aggression we are known for, you children decided to avenge the pride of our village. The rapes and ravages had gone too far. The Kumbu people indeed went too far.” At this, he paused for effect, and nodding heads urged him on.
“Still, our grey hair has taught us that this isn’t the answer. We have seen the Biafran war, the Liberian war and know that though both are holes, the mouth is a far better talker than the muzzle. You thought with your hands instead of brains, as youth is wont to. Six men in military uniform were seen in a part of the village. Whether they were our previous visitors, we cannot say. You caught them and brought them to our headquarters, Gbaagol. You stripped them and humiliated them publicly. In a ‘feat’ not known to our parts, you cut them apart, organ by organ before burning them. The smoke went to the skies and spread all the way to the barracks, where their absence was noted. They say there were nineteen but what do we say? How do we deny? Do we say to the father of the impregnated girl that we had sex with the girl but are innocent because we used a condom?”
A resounding ‘No!’ and chuckles had greeted this. The talking elder, Igba, continued:
“The soldiers came and picked the offenders. They wanted to crush us but we, the elders, intervened and reached a truce. They said they will meet with us at the garage by 10:00 a.m. for a meeting of the two sides. We suggested the town hall for its symbolism but they insisted they wanted a bigger place. They insisted. Let us thank Aôndo that this is a democratic country now. Only God knows what would have happened if they had the right to instant might as before. Still, they are the holders of our guns, and we have to cooperate with them. Remember ‘mistaken fire’?”
They laughed at this. Mistaken fire was another name for ‘accidental discharge’, a situation where people of the armed forces shot someone and claimed it was a mistake, an accident.
“Everyone is meant to be there. The focus is men but still, bring your wives and children so they can learn. The women are the teachers: when they watch such things, they usually learn how to instruct the little ones in ways that they should grow.”
That was yesterday. Today, Igba would have been delighted at the impact of his words that had brought so many. It helped that it was not planting season and that the garage was in the market which enabled people to leave their wares for a few minutes. It did not matter that a lot of people were just plain bored and needed some entertainment which they believed the public redress would bring. It also did not matter that a few people were afraid of what could befall their village if the soldiers met an empty garage. What mattered was that an elder had spoken and people had decided to harken to his words. The old order of the wisdom of the elders was coming back. Technology and civilisation had not taken everything after all. These were people who loved peace.
They all came, noting the soldiers at the gates, sentries. The soldiers advised that the women and children leave but the elders insisted that they stay so as to learn. They noted the full combat gear of the soldiers too. Well, who knew what they wanted to demonstrate to the people? The women did their best to control the children who kept running about. Time dragged as everyone waited for the Army Chief – the Big Oga – who had promised to come. The elders seated regally in the centre of the garage, began to fan themselves furiously, ceremony lost. Of all days, the sun had decided to up its heat by notches today. The elders began to question the wisdom in wearing their traditional uniforms of thick materials of black and white stripes. On cold days, it was a pleasure as it kept them warm. On this day though, the attires served as punishment. The others whom custom didn’t force to dress as such, smiled. They were happy not to be that old, for once.
At 12:30 p.m., it was getting obvious that the Big Oga was not coming. The people, who were highly uncomfortable as it was, began to disperse. Some attempted to leave the garage and noticed only then that the main gates were barred. This was puzzling. Then,
Peeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!!!
A shrill whistle rang, freezing all civilian movement in shock. Not so for the military personnel whose lightning precision made everyone more shocked. Every exit had been blocked. The ring around the gathered people was noticed in that instant. Ghost feet might have been heard in the descended hush; then, the cry of a baby tore it. It seemed to be the agreed sign, for the numerous muzzles began to spit fire. A commotion broke as legs found strides. Bullets pursued, cutting runs to falls.
The old tried to muster energy lost in youth to pull tables or whatever else to take cover. It was useless for the space was open, the shooters experts. The choice of venue was not a mistake. Slowly, the pile of the felled rose, until not a single villager was left standing.
The khaki wearers jumped down from their various vantage points as their leader led the way. He kicked bodies over to be sure they were lifeless. The babies lay with bullets designing their cherubic but torn features. There were women with red all over, reminiscent of pregnancies and menstruation. Pregnant women lay dead with bullet-riddled stomachs. Thus lay unborn babies tasting the realities of a harsh existence before being born into a world they would never see. Able-bodied men were left useless by metals smaller than the finger of babes. On the ground also were big-bellied elders whose wisdom the bluntness of bullets had wiped out in brains splattered all over.
Soldiers pushed bodies aside to be sure of annihilation. A soldier saw a man breathing heavily, groaning. The heavy black and white striped cloth didn’t help much.
“Wh– wh- wh – wh…” he struggled to say something, a question perhaps. A bullet to the forehead completed it for Chief Igba.
“Anuofia!” the sergeant shouted as he spat a ball of spittle at Chief Igba’s remains as if to end his sentence. The word, translated, meant ‘wild animal’.
“Next time, they would know who not to mess with. Boys! Let’s go!”
4. Resolutions
Baba was buried in the compound and there was not a single dry eye on the day. The decision of the village was to stand. There would be no reprisal attacks, or any attacks at all. However, a calculated effort was going to be made at fortifying the land on the physical and intellectual front.
“It might not seem perfect, but we will gather the ashes and create monuments of greatness from this,” the chief had said. If only he knew.
In the End
Several years later, Bule considered the Hudson river, and thought of the many seasons of his life. He had become a lawyer and an important name in the business of peacebuilding around the world. He had somehow managed to put his people and his country on the world map for something positive. He thought of the process and wondered if he wanted to write a full story. The money was tempting and he knew his wife would chide him if he did not take the offer. What would he add to it? The years of healing from the trauma? The years in various schools? The years of the court processes and how his community had come to win loads of money against the government who had been negligent of their land? The development that had come? Would he rather talk about his wife whom he had met in the course of his peace development work or of his fine children?
“I will figure it out later. I will definitely share that tale and make the bucks! I will write the tale and include only certain parts of it. If anyone has any issues, let them write theirs!” he said out loud and chuckled. He took out his phone and imagined some scenarios, and then allowed everything come together. He knew he would need to call his uncle, Agba, to get details to make the work solid but that would be easy. Uncle Agba was always only a phone call away.
Bule looked at the Hudson river and thought of the river in his mother’s village again. Sometimes, it is better just to let water flow instead of blood, he said out loud, smiled, and headed back to central New York City.
THE END
- Four Shots || S. Su’eddie Vershima Agema - February 12, 2022
