TREE OF CHAOS
The beginning…
CHAPTER ONE
Journey to Calabar: Embracing Change and Family Bonds
The atmosphere in our home was always warm and inviting, but tonight it felt particularly festive. The aroma of my mom’s special delicacy wafted through the air, enticing everyone in the room. My mother was known as the woman with the sauce, and she took great pride in preparing this dish just the way my father loved it.
I enjoyed these moments when my father’s friends would gather around, engaging me in playful banter and treating me as the daughter of a senior lecturer. It was my time to shine, to bask in the attention that came with being a part of my father’s esteemed circle.
As dinner neared completion, my mom called me into the kitchen to assist.
“Oh, Mom! You’re stealing my spotlight. This is my moment,” I protested half-jokingly, but with a hint of seriousness.
“You should let your father and his friends have their discussion,” she replied quickly, her hands deftly moving around the kitchen.
“He’s hardly ever home, Mom. I want to cherish these moments with my father before he disappears again,” I countered, my voice tinged with a mix of longing and frustration.
Despite my protests, Mom continued to orchestrate the meal’s final touches with precision. Meanwhile, I busied myself by serving cold fruit juice, made according to her special recipe, to the awaiting guests. The rich aroma of the food filled the air, making my mouth water in anticipation. Yet, tonight’s spotlight belonged to my father and his friends; our family’s turn to dine would come after they had been well-fed and entertained.
After a lively conversation and hearty laughter during and after the meal, my father’s colleagues began to bid their farewells. Each one handed me a token of appreciation, a gesture that reminded me of the pride they took in seeing me grow up before their eyes. It was a testament to the adage: “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” I was indeed my father’s daughter, proud to bear the name Akintola, a name synonymous with strength and honour in our community.
Later that evening, after helping Mom tidy up and rearrange the dining table, I retreated to my room. However, the peaceful atmosphere was soon interrupted by the sound of my parents’ voices, engaged in a heated discussion about the earlier visit from my father’s colleagues.
What did they say?
Did something go wrong?
Did I do something to offend them?
I wondered anxiously, feeling the weight of uncertainty settles over me.
My mother’s voice, usually gentle and reassuring, carried a tone of concern as she addressed me, “Your father and I have something important to tell you, dear.” She paused, her eyes searching mine for understanding.
I looked at my father, who wore a sombre expression that betrayed the seriousness of the news he was about to deliver.
“You should talk to her, sort things out,” he said quietly, a hint of regret in his voice.
Confused and on edge, I asked cautiously, Sort things out?
What’s going on?
Was the gathering not welcoming?
Did something happen with Dad’s job?
“Come closer, my queen,” my father beckoned, pulling me into a comforting embrace. “There’s something serious I need to discuss with you. I apologize for burdening you with this.” He paused, gathering his thoughts before continuing, “My office has informed me that I’ll be transferring to Calabar by the end of the year. Consequently, your mother, Diekola, and you will be joining me there.”
The announcement hit me like a thunderclap, sending shockwaves of disbelief and fear through my mind.
Why Calabar?
Can’t we stay here? Please, Dad, reconsider.
Mom, talk to him,” I pleaded, my voice trembling with a mix of desperation and uncertainty. “I’ve heard stories about Calabar. I’m not sure if I’ll fit in there.”
“There’s nothing to fear about Calabar,” my father interjected, trying to reassure me. “You’ll come to love it there, my child. It’s a new adventure, a chance for our family to grow together in a new environment.”
The prospect of starting over in an unfamiliar city filled me with apprehension. How would I cope without my friends and extended family nearby? Would I be able to adapt to a new school, make new friends, and find my place in this unfamiliar land?
“I’ll go check on Diekola,” my mother offered gently, sensing the weight of my emotions.
As I stood alone in my room, contemplating the impending move and the uncertainty it brought, I couldn’t help but wonder if this was truly the end of the life I had known.
The thought of leaving behind everything familiar was daunting, yet deep down, I knew that whatever challenges lay ahead, my family would face them together.
The following days were a whirlwind of activity and emotion. The news of our move spread quickly through our community, eliciting a range of reactions. Friends and neighbours visited us, offering words of encouragement and promise to stay in touch.
My best friend, Ada, was particularly distraught. We had grown up together, shared countless secrets, and navigated the ups and downs of adolescence side by side. The thought of leaving her behind was almost unbearable.
“Promise me we’ll write to each other every week,” Ada said, her voice breaking as she hugged me tightly.
“I promise,” I whispered back, holding her close and fighting back tears.
As the day of our departure drew nearer, my anxiety grew. I found solace in the familiar routines of our home, clinging to the comfort of the known. My room, with its walls adorned with posters and photos, felt like a sanctuary I was being forced to abandon. Packing up my belongings was a bittersweet task, each item a reminder of the life I was leaving behind.
On the final night in our home, my family gathered in the living room for one last meal together. My mother had prepared all our favourite dishes, and we ate in companionable silence, each of us lost in our thoughts. After dinner, we sat together, reminiscing about the memories we had created in this house. Laughter mingled with tears as we shared stories, the bond between us growing stronger with each passing moment.
The morning of our departure dawned bright and clear. As we loaded our belongings into the car, I took one last look at our home, trying to imprint every detail in my mind. The journey to Calabar felt like a journey into the unknown, filled with both excitement and trepidation.
The drive was long and tiring, but my father kept our spirits up with stories about Calabar and the adventures that awaited us. He spoke of the city’s rich history, its vibrant culture, and the friendly people we would meet. Slowly, my fears began to ease, replaced by a growing sense of curiosity and anticipation.
When we finally arrived in Calabar, I was struck by its beauty. The city was lush and green, with tree-lined streets and a bustling market that seemed to pulse with life. Our new home was a charming house with a garden filled with colourful flowers. As we unpacked and settled in, I began to feel a glimmer of hope. Perhaps this move would not be as daunting as I had feared.
In the weeks that followed, I started school and began to make new friends. The initial awkwardness of being the new girl slowly gave way to a sense of belonging as I found my place in the vibrant community. My family and I explored Calabar together, discovering its hidden gems and creating new memories. My father’s transfer, which had initially seemed like a curse, turned out to be a blessing in disguise.
As I stood in our garden one evening, watching the sunset paint the sky with hues of orange and pink, I realized that change, though frightening, often brings growth and new opportunities. My journey to Calabar taught me the importance of embracing change and the strength that comes from family bonds. No matter where life took us, as long as we were together, we could face any challenge that came our way.
The end of one chapter marked the beginning of another, and I was ready to embrace it with an open heart.
CHAPTER TWO
A New Beginning in Calabar
Welcome to Calabar, a city close to the heart of its people, rich in cultural heritage, and brimming with substance. I was sixteen when my father was transferred here from Lagos, and at first, I hated it. I had to start anew in an unfamiliar place, with no friends and no familiar landmarks to escape to. I missed my old life and the activities I enjoyed.
Lagos was a bustling city, despite its high crime rates and immorality. I loved it there—the constant hum of activity, the crowded streets, and even the chaos had a charm that I found comforting.
My mother was a part-time lecturer at the University of Lagos, Akoka, while my father was a police officer. I hated that I rarely saw him, and we constantly prayed for his safety.
There was a time when my parents fought for weeks, leaving our home cold and filled with silence. They refused to speak to each other about my father’s job. My mother wanted him to leave the force, fearing for his life and longing for a more stable family life. But I knew my Baami, as I fondly called him, to be a strong and stubborn man. His sense of duty and commitment to his job was unwavering. Being the first child, I was often the mediator between my parents until my brother Diekola was born.
Our family of four was well-respected, partly because of my father’s position as a police officer and my mother’s role as a part-time lecturer. We were a God-fearing home, a value my father instilled in us as he saw society’s moral decline. He believed in discipline, respect, and the importance of a good education, values he tried to impart to Diekola and me.
I had just completed my junior secondary school at the University of Lagos Staff School, Akoka, a school I had mixed feelings about. Despite its prestige, I disliked being under the watchful eye of my mother, a senior lecturer there. I also had the added responsibility of looking after my brother Diekola, who was a stubborn and spoiled child. My mother had waited so long for a son after three miscarriages, and my father had come to terms with the idea of having just a daughter, believing both genders were equally valuable.
My mother’s nightly prayers for a miracle often included blaming my father’s past promiscuity, convinced one of his ex-girlfriends had cursed him with no male heir.
My nana would bring various herbs and concoctions to help my mother conceive a son but to no avail. She often blamed my mother’s weak womb for not producing a male heir. The tension in the house was palpable, and it took a toll on all of us.
When Diekola was finally born, everything changed. The atmosphere at home transformed from tense and gloomy to one filled with joy and laughter. My mother was over the moon, her prayers were finally answered.
However, this didn’t mean Baami spent more time at home. Life became even more challenging, and my mother had only me and my nana to rely on. Baami missed Diekola’s birth due to work, but my mother, a strong Yoruba woman from Oyo Town, handled it with grace. She balanced her job, household responsibilities, and caring for a newborn with remarkable strength.
Upon moving to Calabar, I struggled to adapt to the slower pace and the absence of Lagos’ bustling energy. Calabar was serene and beautiful, with its rich history and vibrant culture, but I longed for the familiarity of Lagos.
I missed the bustling markets, the vibrant nightlife, and the feeling of being in the heart of Nigeria’s economic hub. My new school, the Federal Government Girls’ College, was reputed to be one of the best in the country, yet I found it difficult to fit in.
Despite my initial resentment, I gradually began to appreciate Calabar’s unique charm. The city was lush with greenery, its streets lined with ancient trees that provided shade and beauty. The people were warm and welcoming, their smiles genuine and their hospitality unmatched. I slowly started making friends, and as I did, I discovered the city’s rich cultural heritage. The annual Calabar Carnival, touted as Africa’s biggest street party, was a spectacle of colour, music, and dance, showcasing the vibrant culture of the Efik people.
My academic life also started to improve. The teachers at my new school were dedicated and inspiring, pushing us to excel in our studies. I found myself drawn to literature and history, subjects that allowed me to explore different worlds and understand the complexities of human nature. I joined the school’s literary and debate society, where I honed my public speaking skills and developed a love for storytelling.
At home, things were slowly changing too. My father’s job remained demanding, but he seemed more at peace in Calabar. The crime rates were lower, and the community was closely-knit, providing a sense of security that was lacking in Lagos. My mother also found a part-time teaching position at the University of Calabar, where she quickly became a respected member of the faculty. She continued to balance her responsibilities with grace, her strength and resilience a constant source of inspiration for me.
Diekola was growing up fast, his mischievous nature keeping all of us on our toes. He was the apple of my mother’s eye, and despite his stubbornness, he had a charming way of getting out of trouble. My relationship with him was a mix of sibling rivalry and deep affection. I took my role as his elder sister seriously, guiding him and often mediating between him and our parents.
The bond between my parents also seemed to be mending. The move to Calabar had provided them with a fresh start, away from the memories of their past conflicts. They began to communicate better, their arguments less frequent and more constructive. Our home, once filled with tension, was now a place of warmth and love.
One of the most significant changes in Calabar was my growing connection to my heritage. The Efik culture, with its rich traditions and history, fascinated me. I learned about the ancient Kingdom of Calabar, its role in the transatlantic slave trade, and its evolution into a modern city. The stories of the Efik kings and queens, their bravery and wisdom, inspired me. I participated in local festivals and ceremonies, immersing myself in the customs and practices of the people.
My Nana, who had moved with us to Calabar, played a crucial role in this cultural immersion. She was a repository of traditional knowledge, her stories and teachings connecting me to our Yoruba roots while embracing the Efik culture. She taught me the importance of understanding and respecting our heritage, and of knowing where we come from to navigate where we are going.
As the years passed, I grew to love Calabar. It became my home, a place where I found my identity and built lasting friendships.
Looking back, my move to Calabar was indeed a new beginning. It was a journey of growth and discovery, of finding strength in adversity and beauty in unfamiliar places. It taught me the value of resilience, the importance of family, and the richness of our cultural heritage. Calabar, with its warmth and charm, had transformed from a place I once resented to a city I dearly loved.
CHAPTER THREE
The Great News
The school was different that day; the atmosphere could tell it all. We had been hearing patrols of military vehicles all day. At first, we thought it was the governor and his aides heading to a conference, but the alarm sounded differently this time. Before, it had been calm; now, it was more intense. What could be wrong?
“Good morning, class,” the principal greeted as she entered the room with a broad smile, trying to make it look genuine, but we all knew it was unusual for her. There was an underlying tension in her demeanour that she couldn’t completely mask.
Please stop faking it and tell us what’s wrong, I thought to myself, too eager to know what was happening.
Are they planning a coup, or is it a state of emergency?
“Anna, come off it,” I muttered under my breath, snapping out of my wild assumptions and trying to focus on what the principal was saying, of course, we’re not overseas where anything can happen at any time.
This is Nigeria, The only emergencies we think of here are riots or ethnic conflicts. I just hope the events described in the novel “Half of a Yellow Sun” aren’t happening again. God, please, take me out of these assumptions and help me concentrate on what the principal is saying.
The principal stood before us, her usually stern face now softened by an uncharacteristic smile. “Students, I have some wonderful news to share,” she began, her voice filled with excitement. “Today marks a historic moment for our school and our community.”
My heart raced. Could this be about the mysterious military presence? My mind raced through all the possibilities. Maybe they had come to announce a new government initiative or a special event that would put our school on the map. I glanced around the classroom, and I could see the same curiosity and anticipation mirrored in the faces of my classmates.
“As you all know, our school has always strived for excellence in education and community service,” the principal continued. “Today, we have been chosen to be part of a groundbreaking educational program that will receive substantial support from the government and international partners.”
A collective gasp filled the room. This was unexpected. I could see the excitement building as the principal elaborated on the details. The program would bring new resources, advanced technology, and opportunities for students to participate in international exchanges and competitions. It was a once-in-a-lifetime chance for all of us.
“The government, along with several international organizations, has recognized our school’s potential and the dedication of our students and staff,” the principal said, her smile widening. “They have chosen our school as a model institution for this new initiative.”
The excitement was palpable. I could feel the energy in the room shift from confusion and worry to exhilaration and pride. My assumptions about coups and emergencies seemed silly now. This was a moment of celebration, a recognition of our hard work and potential.
“Starting next term, we will have new facilities, updated curricula, and access to resources that many other schools can only dream of,” the principal announced. “This is an incredible opportunity for all of us to learn, grow, and showcase what we can achieve.”
As the principal spoke, I felt a surge of optimism. This was more than just good news; it was a turning point for our school and our future. The military presence we had seen earlier now made sense—they were here to ensure the security and smooth implementation of the new program.
After the principal finished her announcement, the classroom buzzed with excitement. Students whispered to each other, sharing their hopes and dreams for the future. I turned to my best friend, Chidera, and we exchanged wide-eyed looks of disbelief and joy.
“This is amazing, Anna!” Chidera exclaimed. “Can you imagine what this means for us? The opportunities, the experiences—we’re going to be part of something incredible!”
“I know,” I replied, my mind racing with possibilities. “This could change everything for us. We have to make the most of it.”
As the day went on, the news spread like wildfire throughout the school. Teachers and students alike were filled with a renewed sense of purpose and excitement. The corridors echoed with animated conversations about the future and what this new program would bring.
That evening, I shared the news with my family. My parents were overjoyed, proud of the recognition our school had received and the opportunities it promised for my education and future.
“We are so proud of you, Anna,” my mother said, her eyes shining with pride. “This is a chance for you to achieve great things and make a difference.”
My father nodded in agreement. “This is just the beginning, Anna. Work hard, stay focused, and seize every opportunity that comes your way. We believe in you.”
As I lay in bed that night, I reflected on the day’s events. The worry and tension I had felt earlier seemed like a distant memory. The announcement had brought a sense of hope and excitement that overshadowed any previous fears. I realized that this new beginning in Calabar was not just about adapting to a new place, but also about embracing new opportunities and challenges.
The great news had given us a reason to believe in ourselves and our potential. It was a reminder that even in the face of uncertainty, there are moments of unexpected joy and opportunity. I fell asleep that night with a sense of anticipation, ready to embrace the future and all the possibilities it held.
CHAPTER FOUR
Chaos
I kept wondering why there were so many military vehicles that day, but my heart was light with the big news, and I was glad to be part of anything incoming for my school.
My academic record had improved, and as my teacher had mentioned, I could be shortlisted for the scholarship program. The excitement of the new initiative had overshadowed any lingering doubts or fears.
School was a normal day. Activities were going smoothly, and everyone was quite busy with their lessons and tasks. The air was filled with a sense of purpose and anticipation for the changes ahead. I was in the middle of a particularly engaging history lesson when it happened.
Boom! The sound of a bomb-like gunshot reverberated through the school grounds. The classroom windows rattled, and a deafening silence followed the initial explosion. Panic surged through me as I looked around at my classmates, their faces mirroring my fear and confusion.
“Everybody, run for cover!” the principal’s voice crackled through the school’s public address system, urgent and filled with terror. The announcement sent a wave of panic through the school. The calm and orderly environment we had known was instantly replaced with chaos.
The school gate was shut down, and all classes were closed. The dormitory was locked. Teachers tried to maintain order, but the sheer magnitude of the situation overwhelmed their efforts. Students screamed and ran in all directions, desperate to find a place to hide.
“Something bad is happening,” I whispered to myself, my heart pounding in my chest.
My thoughts raced.
Is it…?
Are we…?
Is this a military invasion?
I tried to stay calm and think rationally, but the noise and confusion made it difficult. My classmates and I ducked under our desks, following our teacher’s instructions. The teacher, Mr. Okoro, tried to reassure us, but even his voice trembled with fear.
“It’s going to be okay,” he said, though it was clear he was trying to convince himself as much as us. “Stay low and stay quiet.”
Minutes felt like hours as we huddled under our desks, waiting for the next sound, the next signal of what was happening outside our classroom. The silence was suffocating, punctuated only by distant screams and the occasional crash.
Finally, another announcement came over the PA system. “Remain in your classrooms. Do not attempt to leave the building. Security forces are handling the situation.”
The principal’s voice was steady, but the tension was palpable. We could hear faint sounds of shouting and movement outside, indicating that something serious was unfolding. My mind raced with possibilities, each one more terrifying than the last.
My thoughts flashed back to the military vehicles we had seen earlier. Could it be a military invasion? Were we caught amid a violent conflict? The stories from history lessons about civil wars and military coups suddenly felt all too real and frighteningly close.
Time seemed to stretch endlessly as we waited for further instructions. I clung to my classmates, drawing some comfort from their presence. We whispered reassurances to each other, trying to stay brave in the face of the unknown.
After what felt like an eternity, the sound of footsteps approached our classroom door. We tensed, unsure of what to expect. The door creaked open, and a stern-faced soldier stepped inside, his rifle slung over his shoulder. Behind him, the principal and a few other teachers followed, their expressions grave.
“Everyone, remain calm,” the soldier said, his voice firm but not unkind. “We are here to ensure your safety. Please follow us to a secure location.”
We scrambled to our feet, relief and fear mingling in our minds. As we filed out of the classroom, I saw the destruction outside. Windows were shattered, and debris littered the hallways. The air was thick with smoke and the acrid smell of something burning.
We were led to the school’s assembly hall, where other students and staff had already gathered. The room was filled with anxious whispers and worried faces. The principal took the stage, trying to bring some semblance of order to the chaos.
“Students, please listen carefully,” she began, her voice steady despite the tension in the room. “There has been an incident, but the situation is under control. The military is here to protect us. Stay calm and follow their instructions.”
The soldier who had escorted us to the hall stepped forward. “We are conducting a thorough search of the premises. For now, you will remain here under our protection. Your safety is our top priority.”
As we sat in the assembly hall, I couldn’t help but think about how drastically things had changed in such a short time. Just hours ago, we were celebrating the great news about the new educational program. Now, we were facing an entirely different reality, one filled with uncertainty and fear.
I clutched Chidera’s hand, drawing strength from her presence. “We’ll get through this,” she whispered, her eyes filled with determination.
I nodded, hoping she was right. As the soldiers continued their search and the principal tried to keep us calm, I prayed for the safety of everyone in the school and for an end to the chaos that had descended upon us.
This was a day we would never forget, a day that reminded us of the fragile line between peace and turmoil. In the face of such adversity, all we could do was stay strong, support each other, and hope for a brighter, safer tomorrow.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Siege
It was clear that we were targeted and were under attack by unknown people. Thank God for the military men’s intervention; we got home safe and sound, but I was worried about my father, who is a military man too. I knew that he would be on his feet, directing his subordinates and ensuring the safety of others.
My mom had been worried all day, ranting about him quitting the military job, but he insisted. Nana had been calming her down, reminding her that if he didn’t take up the job to save people’s lives, someone else might not, and kept her pace up by talking about how courageous he was.
I was super worried because I felt like history was about to repeat itself, especially since we were close to the neighbouring town. Could it be a conflict between the two neighbouring towns? What could have possibly gone wrong? I was worried about my friends and family all around. I just hoped this situation would be contained easily.
The sporadic shooting had not stopped, and while I thanked God for the security personnel at home, I couldn’t help but think about others. What would be their fate? This should not be happening, not when I’m at my final lap, a chance to get a scholarship to study abroad, a chance to start a new horizon.
Is this the end?
The day had started with so much promise, filled with the excitement of new opportunities for our school and community. Now, it was overshadowed by fear and uncertainty. As the gunfire continued outside, I tried to stay calm, drawing strength from the presence of my family and the memories of my father’s courage and dedication.
My mother paced the room, her worry evident in every step she took. “Why does he have to be out there?” she said, more to herself than to anyone else. “Why can’t he just leave the military and be safe with us?”
“Nana, please, tell her again,” I said, my voice trembling. “Tell her why Dad does what he does.”
Nana sighed and placed a comforting hand on my mother’s shoulder. “He does it because he believes in protecting others, my dear. He knows the risks, but he also knows the importance of his duty. We must have faith in him and in the protection he provides.”
I nodded, trying to internalize Nana’s words. Still, the fear gnawed at me. What if something happened to him? What if this attack was more than just a random act of violence?
The news on the radio was grim. Reports of clashes and unrest were coming in from all over the area. The government was urging people to stay indoors and remain calm, but it was hard to keep calm when the sounds of conflict were so close.
I couldn’t help but think of my friends.
Were they safe?
Were their families okay?
The uncertainty was overwhelming. I tried to distract myself by focusing on the positive news we had received earlier about the scholarship program, but it seemed so distant now.
My mind raced with questions.
What had caused this sudden attack?
Was it a political issue, or was it something more personal, targeting our school or our community? The lack of answers only added to my anxiety.
As the hours passed, the gunfire gradually subsided. The tension in our home remained, though, as we waited for news. My mother continued to pace, occasionally stopping to pray for my father’s safety. Nana busied herself with small tasks, trying to keep herself and us distracted.
Finally, the sound of a car pulling up outside broke the silence. We rushed to the window and saw my father stepping out of a military vehicle, his uniform dusty but his expression calm. Relief flooded through me, and I felt tears sting my eyes.
“Thank God,” my mother whispered, rushing to the door to greet him.
He stepped inside, and we embraced him tightly. For a moment, everything else faded away—the fear, the uncertainty, the chaos outside. We were together, and that was all that mattered.
“What happened, Dad?” I asked, my voice shaky.
He sighed, looking tired but resolute. “There was an attack on the neighbouring town, and it spilt over to our area. It seems to be a coordinated effort by some armed groups, but we’re not sure of their motives yet. The military is doing everything it can to restore order.”
“Will it be safe?” my mother asked, her voice filled with concern.
“We’re working on it,” he replied. “For now, it’s best to stay indoors and stay safe. We’ll get through this.”
His words were comforting, but the reality of the situation was still daunting. As night fell, we huddled together, drawing strength from each other and praying for a resolution to the conflict.
The events of the day had left a lasting impression on me. The excitement and hope of the morning had been replaced by a stark reminder of the fragility of peace. But amidst the chaos, I found a renewed sense of gratitude for my family and a deeper understanding of the sacrifices made by those who protect us.
As I lay in bed that night, listening to the distant sounds of military activity, I vowed to make the most of the opportunities that lay ahead. The scholarship program, and the new educational initiatives—were chances to build a better future, not just for myself but for my community.
The siege had tested us, but it had also shown us the importance of resilience and unity. Whatever the future held, I was determined to face it with courage and hope, just as my father had taught me. This wasn’t the end; it was a new beginning, and we would rise above the challenges together.
CHAPTER SIX
A Morning of Turmoil
I woke up to the sound of gunshots, my heart pounding in my chest. Diekola had been worried and crying all day. This was not what my little, innocent brother should start his new beginning with; it was a trauma that would live with him for a long time. My mom had been in a disagreement with my father because of his job, and everyone was super worried and mute at home, but we were reassured that evil was not going to befall us.
Mom was sick and tired of the turmoil around us. She was worried about everything. “We should have stayed in Lagos,” she murmured to my father, who was trying to calm her, saying that the situation was under control, even if it was just to keep her calm. Her phone had been ringing all day; the news had spread fast to Lagos, and everyone was worried about our safety.
“I told you, things are in control,” my dad said with a smile on his face, trying to reassure us all.
“Ah, is this a time for you to smile, Diekola’s father?” My mom cut in abruptly, her voice filled with frustration and fear. “Nothing is funny anymore, sir. I just want my children’s safety and the rest of the house and…”
“Good morning, sir,” an officer interrupted my mom’s conversation with my father. “Your attention is needed at the barracks, sir.”
“I will join you ASAP. I have to clear some orders here,” my father replied, his tone firm but calm.
“Alright, sir,” the officer responded without haste, saluting before he left.
“Now, you’re leaving again,” my mom said, turning to my nana with a pleading look. “Maami, please, speak to your son. This thing is getting out of hand,” she said with a teary face.
I thought my grandma had been the one backing my father right from the time of Diekola’s birth. This assumption played over and over in my mind, but I knew assumptions wouldn’t solve anything. Feeling overwhelmed, I decided to leave the conversation to the adults. I went to my room to check on Chidera, hoping to find some solace, even as my mind raced with worry about the safety of others and the rest of Calabar at large.
“God, please, help your children,” I whispered, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on me.
In my room, I found Chidera sitting on my bed, her eyes wide with fear. “Are you okay?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
She nodded, but I could see the uncertainty in her eyes. “What’s going to happen, Anna?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted, sitting down beside her. “But we have to stay strong. For Diekola, for Mom, for everyone.”
We sat in silence for a moment, the distant sounds of gunfire and shouting seeping through the walls. It felt surreal, like a nightmare we couldn’t wake up from.
The day dragged on, each minute feeling like an eternity. The sporadic shooting had not stopped, and while I was thankful for the security personnel at home, I couldn’t help but think about others. What would be their fate? This should not be happening, not when I was at my final lap, a chance to get a scholarship to study abroad, a chance to start a new horizon.
The tension at home was palpable. My mother’s worry had turned into exhaustion, her energy spent on fretting over our safety and my father’s insistence on his duty. Nana did her best to keep the peace, but even her calm demeanour was strained.
In the evening, as we huddled together in the living room, trying to distract ourselves with old family stories, the front door creaked open. My father walked in, looking more tired than I had ever seen him.
“The situation is stabilizing,” he said, his voice a mixture of relief and weariness. “The military has regained control of the area. We’re safe for now.”
The weight of his words hit me like a wave. Relief washed over me, but it was tinged with the knowledge that this safety was fragile and could be disrupted at any moment.
“Thank God,” my mother whispered, her shoulders sagging with relief.
Nana placed a hand on her shoulder. “See, my dear? He knows what he’s doing.”
My father knelt in front of Diekola, who had been clutching my arm tightly. “Hey, champ,” he said gently, ruffling his hair. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
Diekola nodded, his eyes still wide with fear but showing a glimmer of trust in our father’s words.
As we sat together that evening, I realized how important it was to cherish these moments of togetherness and safety. The world outside might be chaotic and unpredictable, but as long as we had each other, we could find strength and hope.
The siege had been a terrifying experience, but it had also brought us closer together. It reminded us of the resilience and courage we possessed, the importance of family, and the power of faith. As the night wore on and the sounds of conflict faded into the distance, I found solace in the love and support of my family, vowing to face whatever challenges lay ahead with the same courage and determination.
This was not the end; it was another test of our strength and unity. And with each other’s support, I knew we could overcome anything.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A twist in fate
It had been a few months since the initial upheaval, and life was slowly regaining a semblance of normalcy. The market occasionally opened, allowing us to get essentials, and Chidera could visit her family. However, schools remained closed, so we all adapted to online classes. Chidera visited periodically to access these classes and review what had been taught. It was an easy, albeit monotonous, routine, but given the circumstances, it was the safest option.
One cold afternoon, the chaos outside made it impossible to gauge what was happening in the wider world. We had grown accustomed to the “inside company” and the introverted lifestyle it imposed. Despite my efforts, I could not convince Mom to let me visit Chidera. I promised to be cautious and return before curfew, but she refused. I was heartbroken and reminded her how Chidera braved the inconvenient journey to visit us because our home was a safer haven for her.
“Your father won’t agree to this,” my mom shouted, her voice echoing with finality.
I retreated to my apartment, seething with anger and frustration. I cursed the people responsible for the turmoil. I despised the restrictions and the lack of freedom. As an adult, I felt I should have the right to make my own decisions.
The temptation to sneak out grew stronger. I meticulously planned my escape, determined to see my dear friend. It had been days since we last communicated, which was unusual for Chidera. Despite not having a mobile phone or other means of communication, she always found a way to reach out to me.
I checked on my mother and saw she was engrossed in her online classes, with the guards at their posts outside. Seizing the opportunity, I quietly slipped out and made my way to Chidera’s house.
However, things did not go as planned. As I neared her neighbourhood, the familiar sound of gunshots pierced the air, shattering the fragile peace. I was paralyzed with fear, realizing the danger I had unwittingly walked into.
Panic surged through me as I ducked into an alley, my heart pounding in my chest. What had I gotten myself into? The streets were eerily empty, the silence between gunshots amplifying my dread. I knew I had to find shelter and fast.
I spotted an abandoned shop and hurried inside, crouching behind a counter. My mind raced with thoughts of Chidera.
Was she safe?
Had she heard the gunfire too? The uncertainty gnawed at me, and I cursed my recklessness.
As I waited, the minutes felt like hours. The gunfire gradually subsided, replaced by an unsettling quiet. Gathering my courage, I decided to try and reach Chidera’s house. I moved cautiously, sticking to the shadows and avoiding the main roads.
Finally, I arrived at her home, my nerves frayed. I knocked softly, and after a tense moment, the door opened slightly. Chidera’s face appeared, her eyes wide with surprise and relief. She quickly ushered me inside, and we embraced tightly.
“Why did you come?” she whispered urgently. “It’s too dangerous!”
“I couldn’t stay away,” I replied, my voice trembling. “I had to make sure you were okay.”
Chidera led me to a small room where her family was huddled together. The fear in their eyes mirrored my own. We spent the next few hours sharing stories and finding comfort in each other’s presence, the outside world temporarily forgotten.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Danger Ahead
“She can’t stay here,” Chidera’s dad’s voice rang out, loud and resolute. It was clear my presence was unwelcome. While this didn’t surprise me, the reality of it still stung. I wasn’t worried about their discomfort; my primary concern was the growing anxiety about home.
I walked through the room, putting on a brave face. “Good morning, sir. Good morning, ma. Thank you for the hospitality,” I greeted, trying to sound cheerful. “I’ve reached out to my mother and told her that I am safe and she should be expecting me soon.” My voice was steady, but inside, I was a bundle of nerves, knowing that my mother was probably worried sick.
“My dear, you can have breakfast with us,” Mrs. Usigo suggested kindly.
“I’m full, ma’am,” I cut in quickly. “I don’t want my mom waiting any longer.”
“Are you sure it is safe for you?” Chidera asked, her concern evident as she held my hands tightly.
“Yes, it is,” I replied with a reassuring smile. “I’m glad you’re safe. I’ll reach out to you when I get home.”
I thanked Mrs. Usigo once more for her hospitality and made my way to the nearest exit, a sense of guilt gnawing at me. I should have told them the truth about my fear and uncertainty. My mother must be frantic by now, and I wondered what my father would do if he discovered I was missing. Would I be declared missing? These questions plagued my mind as I walked further away from Chidera’s house.
As I made my way down the deserted street, a bus rider pulled up beside me. “Where are you going?” he asked, his voice a lifeline in my moment of despair.
“The highway, please,” I responded, a flicker of hope igniting within me. Finally, help was here.
The bus ride was tense. I kept my head down, avoiding eye contact with other passengers. My thoughts were a chaotic jumble. I replayed the events of the previous day, chastising myself for my reckless decision. The gunshots, the fear, the uncertainty—it all seemed like a bad dream.
As we approached the highway, I took a deep breath, preparing myself for the journey ahead. I knew the walk home would be long and fraught with danger, but I had no other choice. The driver dropped me off at a secluded spot, and I thanked him profusely before stepping out into the open.
The highway stretched out before me, a seemingly endless path. I started walking, each step heavy with anxiety. The landscape was eerily quiet, the usual hustle and bustle replaced by an unsettling calm. I kept my eyes peeled for any signs of danger, my heart pounding with every rustle of leaves and distant sound.
Hours passed, and fatigue began to set in. I stumbled upon a small rest area, a dilapidated structure offering a brief respite. I sat down, my legs aching and my mind racing. I thought about my parents, imagining their worried faces. I pictured my mother pacing the floor, her phone clutched tightly in her hand, and my father trying to maintain his composure.
Suddenly, the sound of an approaching vehicle broke my reverie. I looked up to see a bus pulling up beside me. Relief washed over me as the driver motioned for me to get in.
“Where are you headed?” he asked.
“To the highway,” I responded, thankful for the lift.
As the bus started moving, something felt off and strange immediately. It was too late to turn back now. The driver took a wrong turn. Even though I wasn’t too familiar with the roads, I knew this wasn’t the way to the highway. The other passengers began to murmur and complain, but the driver dismissed their concerns, saying he knew a shorter route that would avoid military checkpoints and fees.
As we ventured deeper into unknown territory, the scenery grew increasingly ominous. Abandoned buildings and desolate streets replaced the familiar cityscape. My unease grew with each passing moment. The final turn brought us to a place that filled me with dread. The area was deserted, and the sight of bloodstains on the ground made my stomach churn.
“I am in deep trouble,” I whispered to myself, my heart racing. “What have I gotten into?”
Panic set in as the bus came to a halt. The driver got out, leaving us in the eerie silence. The passengers exchanged worried glances, the tension palpable. I knew I had to act fast. Staying on this bus any longer was not an option.
I gathered my courage and quietly slipped out of the bus, hoping to find a way back to safety. I moved quickly but cautiously, trying to stay out of sight. The desolate streets offered little cover, but I kept moving, driven by the need to get home.
After what felt like an eternity, I reached a main road. Relief washed over me as I saw a few cars passing by. I flagged down the first car I saw, a small sedan driven by an elderly man. He looked at me with concern as I approached.
“Please, can you take me to the highway?” I asked, my voice trembling.
He nodded, and I got into the car, grateful for the kindness of strangers. As we drove away from the dangerous area, I allowed myself to breathe a little easier. I was closer to home now, but the experience had shaken me deeply. Till the driver manoeuvred to another point.
CHAPTER NINE
A Day of Terror
“I’m sorry, this is what I get for redemption,” the driver said in a remorseful tone. I was filled with fear, and a cold rush of adrenaline through my spine made me shiver uncontrollably. The sky was overcast, casting an eerie gloom over everything. Visibility was poor, and we could barely see ahead. The air was thick with the terror of innocent voices and the sight of blood flowing like a river. My heart pounded in my chest, and I felt disgusted by the people who had turned the day into a nightmare. Nothing would ever make me forget this day.
The image of women in khaki trousers and black tops with Arabic signs was etched in my mind. Most of them were covered in black hijabs, while the officers wore khaki trousers and solidarity sign bandanas over their heads. Their men were fierce, ready for war, their eyes filled with unrelenting determination. As we trudged forward, the oppressive silence was intermittently broken by distant gunfire and the agonized cries of those who had fallen victim to the violence.
As we walked further, the sound of an army officer’s scream pierced the air. “You bloody Calabar people!” he shouted before shooting the victim twice, once in the head and once in the chest. The gruesome sight of the lifeless body falling to the ground replayed over and over in my mind as we were pushed toward the place where we were to be executed. Each step felt heavier than the last, the weight of impending doom pressing down on my shoulders.
“Lord, I know I haven’t been righteous in Your eyes, but please help me overcome this situation,” I prayed silently, my mouth dry and my feet cold. We were all trembling with fear, and the man beside me, a Calabar native, cursed the day he had placed his trust in the tricycle driver who had betrayed him. This betrayal wasn’t for thirty pieces of silver like Judas’s; it was for redemption, a twisted form of atonement. His words echoed in my mind, mingling with my desperate thoughts.
I couldn’t help but think about how my life had led to this moment. Growing up in a small village, my days were filled with the simplicity of rural life. I had dreams of becoming a teacher, of inspiring children to learn and grow. But those dreams seemed so distant now, overshadowed by the immediate reality of our dire situation. I thought about my family, my parents who had worked so hard to give me a better life, and my younger siblings who looked up to me. Would they ever know what had happened to me? Would they understand the choices I had made that led me here?
As we were forced to our knees, I couldn’t stop thinking about my future—if I had one. “This is a story I’ll tell my future children, if I make it through this tunnel of death and dream-crushing,” I thought, trying to hold onto a sliver of hope. The ground was cold and rough beneath me, and I could feel the vibrations of footsteps and movement all around. The smell of fear and blood was overwhelming, making it hard to breathe.
The officers moved among us, their faces hidden behind masks of authority and ruthlessness. One of them stopped in front of me, his eyes boring into mine with a look of cold indifference. He raised his weapon, and for a moment, everything seemed to slow down. The sounds around me faded, replaced by the pounding of my heart in my ears. I closed my eyes and braced myself, waiting for the inevitable.
But then, a sudden commotion erupted nearby. Shouts and gunfire filled the air, and the officer’s attention was drawn away from me. I dared to open my eyes and saw a group of armed men rushing toward us, their faces set in grim determination. They were resistance fighters, risking their lives to save us. Hope surged within me, and I seized the moment of distraction to scramble to my feet.
“Run!” someone shouted, and I didn’t need to be told twice. I bolted, my legs pumping furiously as I pushed through the chaos. The sounds of battle raged around me, but I focused on the singular goal of survival. I could hear the others behind me, their footsteps echoing my desperation. The landscape blurred as I ran, every breath a struggle, every heartbeat a reminder that I was still alive.
After what felt like an eternity, I found myself in a small clearing, panting and exhausted. The sounds of fighting had faded into the distance, replaced by the eerie silence of the forest. I collapsed to the ground, my body trembling with relief and fatigue. I had made it out, but the memory of the day’s horrors would stay with me forever.
