The other thing that made me sad, I mean very very sad, was the day the big Amir, the Sheikh, was killed. He was tricked by the other small Amir who left us. The small Amir said they were coming for a sale but instead they surrounded the big Amir with guns and opened fire on him.
The day the sheikh was killed, there was so much confusion in all the camps from Waroba to Chad. We were confused and didn’t know who to take orders from, until Bamala said he was now a commander who was not answerable to any grand commander until he received further instructions from the ulama in Sudan and Misra.
My rifle rested on a thin branch, as I hid in the thick foliage of the baobab tree near Waroba on the road to Bama. My green kaftan that had seen better days and numerous patches helped with the camouflage. I sighted the vehicle, a Nigerian Army Toyota Hilux. I looked far into a shrub that was breathing and saw Bamala’s crooked thumb give the go ahead. From the top of the baobab tree, my bullets ricocheted through the approaching sunset and shattered the windscreen of the Hilux. I kept shooting and the soldiers were taken unawares, their guns engaged in a staccato bust of gunfire, confused as to where the gunner was. Bamala also aimed at the soldiers and cut them down, one after the other. Five minutes later, it was all over. I threw my gun down. Modu caught it and I started climbing down slowly. “Be wary of snakes and thorns,” he shouted at me with his lisp. Bamala was standing above the driver I had shot. One of my bullets had entered through the base of his left eye, creating a deep gorge.
“You are getting better at these shots. Not like when we first brought you, a lily-livered boy, only good enough to be a hewer and fetcher of wood. Well done on the path of Allah Subhanahu Wa Ta’ala,” he muttered. This was the nearest to praise Bamala ever came. A whimper emerged from the rear of the Hilux. “Ku bani ruwa. Dan Allah, ruwa, ruwa,” a light-skinned soldier in the throes of death begged for water. His khakis had soaked so much blood that the green had turned to a brownish-black colour. Modu turned towards the voice and with a single volley snuffed life out of the young soldier, the shots creating a wide crevice where his mouth used to be. As the soldier’s head tilted to the right in death, I was astonished at the amount of blood oozing from his mouth, creating a delta in the sand. How does one human being have so much blood? A resounding slap to the head brought me out of my reverie. “You must never ever pity the khawarij! Do you hear me? Infidels must never be pitied! Kill them all! Kill them anywhere you find them!” Bamala bellowed in anger.
“Ansitu lillahi, ansitu lillahi,” the big man appealed for quiet. The uproar started after I finished describing what happened after Modu killed the young soldier. I wondered why they were upset. This was the least of the many gory stories I had. Modu and Bamala were long gone while I was captured and brought to this place where I was taught the alphabets and how to pray salat. Unlike Bamala, the people here are nice to me. But what I like the most is the big drumsticks of chicken they serve us. It was unlike anything I had ever eaten in the bush.
“Ansitu, Ansitu, na wa ka ce shekarun ka. Am 13 yaz ol’,” I muttered proudly as they taught us in the ABCD Class. “Toh ka ciga ba da labarin ka.”
The baobab tree was my home, my comfort zone. Whenever I was up there with my gun, I felt powerful and invincible. I could do anything I wanted: I was in charge. With each passing day I became better at bringing down targets. I could shoot a driver in an oncoming convoy, I could shoot the operator of an anti-aircraft gun, I could shoot into the vehicle and disorient the soldiers. Because I was so small they would never see me. The baobab was my refuge. It gave me power. Then one day we heard on the BBC that the government had bought “caterpillar”. We had never seen a caterpillar before. When we were little we used to sing: “Katapila Go-Go Go-go. Ya ka she matan soja an bishi da bindiga”. It turned out the “caterpillar” that we knew was very different from the one that the government brought. Bamala said the one the government brought was called a bulldozer. It was huge, its teeth were big and sharp. It was ravenous.
“What day affected you the most in the bush,” the big man asked, a bit fidgety. I wondered what was wrong. He took a sip of water, his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose like the birds that rested on branches near their nests on my baobab tree. I folded the arms of my blue kaftan and adjusted myself on the seat. And I began to answer his question.
The day Modu died was one of the saddest days of my life. He kept saying, “Amini na kar kaba ri zan mutu, zan mutu, zan mutu”. He was beseeching that I should not allow him die. But the bullet wound was so deep, it went deep. His kneecap was totally shattered. The shooter targeted us when we were fleeing. I kept dragging his upper body, but I had to be careful so as not to be shot too. The government had brought many bulldozers all the way from Konduga to fell the trees that lined the road to Bama. One by one, they cleared the roadsides of shrubs and trees that had been planted long before the war. That is how they got to Waroba and brought down my beloved baobab tree. I was very bitter and sad that I had lost my abode. I had lost the refuge where I fought the battle for Allah’s Cause. The bulldozers were escorted by several hundreds of soldiers. The soldiers were also escorted by airplanes, the one we called Mai Tashin Angulu but Bamala called it Helekopta. For once I really wanted us to attack the soldiers because we could hear them from our trenches but Bamala said that restraint was a little sacrifice that we had to make. Modu joked that perhaps without the baobab I would not be able to fight. Perhaps he was right because since I became a soldier of Allah, I had always gone up the baobab to shoot and look far into the horizon to tell if the enemies of Allah were approaching and by God not for once had I failed in my duty. There were many nights that I slept on top of the baobab to ensure that we were safe from the infidels, and now the villagers had conspired with the enemies of Islam to fell my baobab tree. I felt really sad that between Konduga and Bama they brought down all the trees. Most of the trees had been there since the beginning of time. They brought them down, including my own baobab at Waroba.
The big aeroplane was flying in circles. It had been dropping bombs on us with such ferocity, as if we had killed the child of the man flying the plane. Some time ago, we heard on the BBC that the army was going to buy planes from America but Bamala said it was a lie. He said the fight in God’s name had depleted the resources of the unholy government in Abuja and they couldn’t afford it. We were shocked when our spies in Abuja told Bamala that the planes had come and were heading our way.
With the arrival of the planes came sleepless nights and an inability to move around on our bicycles, motorcycles or lorries. We were reduced to crawling on our bellies at night when the moon was full. “Wata abokin tafiya,” we called it. There was something calming in calling the moon a co-traveller. The moon was one of the mercies and gifts of God.
The army was gaining grounds. Our trees, our cover was gone. Cut down by bulldozers. The army was also asking people to lay down their weapons and surrender. That it would be better for us if we surrendered. Many in our ranks believed the army and this created tension in our camps. Some people ran away with their wives and children and threw away their guns. Bamala said those who ran away were nothing but cowards, and Allah was frowning at them and would visit them with His wrath. For not striving on the path of Allah, paradise will be pulled from under their feet on the day of Qiyama. Food also became difficult to come by. We started raiding the small hamlets around us to steal food, but they also had very little because it was not harvest time yet. We made a pact with them that we would let them live and would not touch them or their wives and daughters if they allowed us take from their harvest. Nothing scared an infidel like the thought of having his daughter or wife taken away from him.
“Continue please. How did Modu die, dan yaro?” the big man from Abuja asked.
“Let me drink some water. Then I will continue,” I replied him, taking a sip from my bottle of water. I like the bottled water because it is always cold and quenches my thirst quickly. In the bush we took water from anywhere: streams, ponds, drying lakes and wells.
Modu’s mouth was twitching and foaming. Funny things happen to people when they are dying. When Azra’ilu comes, he comes with so many gifts to take one’s life. When he came for Modu, he brought with him the gifts of foaming in the mouth, a stream of blood flowing from his kneecap and a foul stool. He let out what sounded like a prolonged fart and stool came in bursts that sounded like gun fire. He then let out a short guttural scream, and that was it. My friend in the bush, my brother in the fight for establishing Allah’s sovereignty, died in my arms. I let out a scream that reverberated across the entire base of the mountain where we were hiding from the big plane. Two commanders rushed towards me. One slapped me and the other gave me a kick in my belly.
“What kind of kafir behaviour is this? Screaming because someone has died? Inna lillahi wa ina ilahi rajiun. God gives and takes, and takes at the time he likes, when he likes, where he likes, and how he likes, so stop shouting like an infidel! Or if you refuse to keep quiet like a man of faith, I can also shoot you here and now so that you can join Modu, you hear! Now get a grip of yourself and let’s do his janazah!”
I never felt so much pain, so much anger, so much loss. There was a constricting pain around my heart. Was this how it felt to lose someone? Later that afternoon, we said prayers for Modu and buried him. I was still inconsolable. The commander kept saying that no man can live past his appointed time but that did little to assuage my grief. The commander then warned me that if I didn’t stop making a fuss, he would tell Bamala when he came back from his operation. This quietened me because I was not ready for Bamala’s violent preaching.
I could not eat or drink because of pain. Modu was the one that understood me, provided me with some comfort, looked after me if I was ill and ensured that I was always protected. He was my big brother in the bush and now he was dead.
I had never felt such pain in my life, nor did I know that such pain existed. Even as I speak it is with a lot of pain. May Allah be pleased with my friend Modu and forgive him for everything that we did in the bush.
The day the sheikh was killed, there was so much confusion in all the camps from Waroba to Chad. We were confused and didn’t know who to take orders from, until Bamala said he was now a commander and would not be answerable to any grand commander until he received further instructions from the ulama in Sudan and Misra.
We became suspicious of each other, without knowing who to trust anymore. In the days that followed we lost more men because they were executed by Bamala. Anyone he thought had anything to do with the killing of the big sheikh was killed. We all had to repledge our loyalty to Bamala to assure him that we were with him in the cause of Allah. A little later, things became quiet and for some time it seemed things were back to normal but something became very clear: the Nigerian Army was no longer the greater enemy. Since the killing of the big sheikh, our friends and brothers had become our enemies. This caused a lot of in-fighting and we started attacking each other’s camps. The war became quite confusing to me. I did not know who to kill, I did not know who to trust, I did not know who wanted to kill me. I did not know who to be afraid of, or who I should run away from: I was afraid of my own shadow. Those were dark and scary times. This fight for Allah had become a fight many of us no longer understood. A lot of people were deserting too. On the radio the government continued preaching that we should lay down our arms and come out of the bush and our sins would be forgiven. It was aired over and over again, countless times on the radio. Then one day we heard the voice of Abu Mahir.
Abu Mahir was a top commander, a fearless warrior who did not fear any army commander or their armoured tanks. The legend was that Abu Mahir came up against three trucks filled with soldiers and he single-handedly engaged them from his trench and having killed a substantial number in the first two trucks, the last truck retreated. It was the same Abu Mahir’s voice I heard on radio saying he had learned from his mistakes and turned from his old ways. He asked for forgiveness from God, the government and the communities of Kala Balge and Baga where he had been deputy Amir.
The news of his defection was stunning and spread like wildfire. It led to more people trying to escape and led to a lot more people being executed for trying to escape. Bamala kept drumming it into our ears that no matter who was caught trying to escape, the person would be slaughtered like a ram on Sallah day, and he meant it. This was what kept me from escaping. One day, not long after we finished the last Eid prayers, we were returning to base with about a hundred of us riding motorcycles while some others were seated on the back of our truck. Three of us were riding on one motorcycle, Modu was driving and had his AK-47 perched on the headlight. Suddenly we heard the distant whirring of the dreaded plane. Modu increased speed, throwing Abu Jabir who was seated behind me off the bike. GBUM GBUM GBUM was the next thing we heard. It sounded like how Bamala had described judgement day, except this judgment was not from God, but from the big aeroplane. Modu screeched to a halt, hitting the rear of the truck. The rear rim of the motorcycle came down on my leg. I winced but that was not the time to deal with the pain. The bombs raining around us was a far more pressing problem. We soon realised that our problems were compounded. Soldiers had laid ambush and were also shooting at us. We were outgunned and outbombed and outnumbered. We started throwing our guns away in surrender. Bamala, the one who was like my father, the one who literally brought me up in the bush, was killed in this attack. Shrapnel from a bomb the plane dropped, had cut him in half with only a tiny piece of his spinal cord still holding his upper and lower body together. In all my years fighting in the bush I had never seen a body so dismembered. His was a very violent end. When the army was satisfied there was no longer any resistance, they emerged from the foliage. Those of us who survived knelt down and raised our arms. The army shoved us together with their guns and asked us to lie on our stomachs with our arms outstretched. There were about twenty-five of us survivors from the number returning from prayers. We were in that position for hours on end. I knew this because I no longer felt the scorching sun on my back. We were asked to sit in rows of five to drink water and eat bread. Afterwards they brought out a big book and started collecting information from us: our names, who our commanders were, our areas of operation. We gave them all they asked for and when it was dusk, they brought trucks with more soldiers, tied our hands and lifted us onto the trucks. I was so scared. I didn’t know what to think.
I had thought the soldiers would take us farther into the bush and shoot us all. I was taken aback when they offered us water and bread and I thought to myself that your enemy cannot offer you food when he’s about to kill you so perhaps they weren’t going to kill us just yet. I overheard some of the soldiers saying that they were going to take us to Maiduguri. I had only heard of Maiduguri on the BBC and from Bamala who went to koranic school in Maiduguri. I did not know what we were going to be doing in Maiduguri. I was conscious of the widely held view that when the Nigerian army gets you, they will ensure that you never live to tell the story but so far, we had been treated fairly. They had only slapped Abu Naima who tried unsuccessfully to strangle himself because he said it was better for him to die at his own hands than at the hands of kafir soldiers. He had throttled himself so hard that his eyes popped out like to giant balls of kosai swimming in a hot frying pan of groundnut oil.
One of the men in the room where I was narrating my story wore a suit with a cross around his neck. In the bush we used to call people like him “Yan Jizus” because Bamala said they believed Prophet Isah was the son of God. Bamala used to angrily say that God had no son, that God was one and absolute, the basis of Tauhid. When Bamala was not angry he was a good teacher, but he was always angry and quick to hit out. His preaching was laced with so much anger; at the sins committed by men and women, he was angry at politicians, angry at soldiers and police, angry at the members of society. He labelled them idolators who lived in perpetual sin and would be visited by the wrath of God, when our movement eventually took over Abuja. He said too that one day, Muslims would take over Jerusalem, which was originally named Al-Quds, the Holy City. He looked forward to the day when our movement would hoist our flag in Abuja. He wanted to be the one to do it.
The man in the Jizus shirt is now asking me how long I had been out of the bush and what I had learnt since I left bush. He asked me what I had to say to the people I had offended and the government of Nigeria.
Bamala’s voice kept intruding as I tried to answer the question. In my head, I heard Bamala shouting at me, “Never give in to the infidels! The triumph of Allah is always near and Allah never burdens his servant!”
Just then my eyes strayed to the black board where I had written something I just been taught. I don’t know how to describe it to you, but I remember Bamala saying it was the saying of infidels who were loyal to the unholy government. He said it was usually recited by evil soldiers, shaidana, spawns of Satan who worked for politicians, and misguided school children. But my new teachers called it “plejI” and said I should learn how to recite it.
The big man asked again, “What do you say to the people you offended? What do you say to government…?” I opened my mouth and said, “Ku ya fe mun dan girman Allah.” My eyes strayed again, of their own volition, to the board and I blurted involuntarily, “I pledge to Nigeria my country, to be faithful loyal and honest…”
THE END
Good job Malam Alkasim