The Day Boko Haram Destroyed my Village

      Few months ago, the clear dream curled up to me to write a book which would together with so many other things, cover the virulent blows the affected peoples of Borno, Adamawa and Yobe states
have had to endure from the heartless Boko Haram insurgents. But I soon realized it would be a herculean task. Firstly because there were insufficient materials about Northern Nigeria I could equip myself with to start writing in the first place: I had not been to the North before in my life; I felt the information in the internet would not be enough for the research. Secondly, I didn't want to go to the North for any reason whatsoever because as at  then, the political climate in the North was yet tensed. So the lofty dream to document the suffering of a people (as a fiction) began to ebb away slowly like the tide.

     But few weeks ago, while on a short holiday in Owode-Yewa in Ogun state, Nigeria, to visit my elder sister and her husband, I had the rarest opportunity to meet a twenty-one year old young man (Jeconiah by name) who had escaped death as a result of Boko Haram invasion, and fled to the South, to struggle for survival. I was fulfilled, and the need to write this great book reared up again. We had a mind-blowing chat about the war ravaging the Borno state and its environs and how his home town fell the day he missed a direct bullet from an insurgent's barrel.

     'My sister told me you are from Borno state.' I said to him when he met me in the living room. He had come to visit my Sister's husband who was his boss at a Poultry farm.
 
     'Yes bros.' He replied and smiled. His skin was ebony typical of Northerners, and he smiled easily as if trying to shield the pain which predated his existence.

     '....and she told me you are a christian and your name is Jeconiah.'

     'Yes bros.'

     'So tell me about your village please and why you have chosen to migrate this far.' I implored and waited for him to say something. How I loved his polished accent!

    Before he spoke, he smiled broadly, surveyed me for a while as if he were mocking me. Then he told me he was from Houndura in Askira/Uba local government area of Borno state. His village would have merged with Wamdeo if it were not separated by the Wamdeo hill. He was in his final year in secondary school when the Chibok girls were kidnapped by the Boko Haram insurgents.

    'Since then,' he said, 'school ended for us in southern Borno.' He still maintained his perfect smile, as if not going to school did not affect him anyway.

    'Did Boko Haram insects invade your village?' I asked.

    'Yes they did.' He replied and sat alright. 'One morning they came and shot sporadically and we ran away to Yola because Wamdeo and Uba were still under attack then. Our village was destroyed. They came early in the morning typical of them, shouted Allah Ahkubaru, before they started shooting at a crowd that had conveyed. I managed to escape. Dead bodies were everywhere. When we tiptoed back later to take our belongings, dead bodies rotted in the open air, eaten by pigs. These dead bodies were our relatives and friends. They were denied proper burial.'

     At this moment, I was scared, not only of the story itself, but with the fluidity with which Jeconiah told it, his cheeks warmed or charred ( which ever) by smile which seemed never to wash away by the bitter memories conjured up by the story which slipped through his mouth like grains of sands.

     He told me more things that afternoon: that the deadly sects oftentimes attacked early in the morning and when any of their members was shot dead, they ensured the body was recovered. He also told me that contrary to false media reports, Soldiers were wasted like chickens on the hills of Wamdeo. It hurt me - these false media reports - and the fact that while soldiers and civilians were dying under Jonathan's government, 2.1billion dollars security fund was being shared for electioneering purposes.

     Well, I have what to write about now.