War Gone By (Short Fiction)

This is a story about what happened to a boy, during and after world war. Everything is fiction. Story is set in Nigeria.

Happy reading!

---

Lagos, Southern Nigeria.

The dead boy's name was Patrick. What happened was, we sneaked out of camp, just before midnight and walked into a trap.

Three weeks earlier, we were conscripted. Me, Patrick, Jide and fifteen other boys, none older that nineteen. The soldiers told us about the blast that took England and how Niger joined forces with India and Germany. We fight with the British, they said.

Patrick never liked the war. The fight has gone on for three years without us, what’s the fuss now? he had mumbled.

That night, he nudged me and said he was going to look around. We left with Jide. The air was balmy, but much better than the foul stench of soiled boots in the tent. We made our way out of the shabby forest and towards the main road.

We crossed the road and headed for Mallam Salim's kiosk to buy suya. I was reaching for the money I hid in my pocket when it happened. Jide saw it first.

"Watch out, Uche!" he yelled.

I turned just in time to see a dagger aimed at my temple. I dropped my wrap of suya and swerved sideways. The dagger rushed past, missing me by inches. Someone screamed. I turned. Patrick clutched his chest, lying in a pool of blood.

"Christians!" Mallam Salim shouted.

I grabbed Jide's hand and pulled. We ran. That was the last time we saw Patrick. I would later learn that the northern Muslims secretly sent weapons to Pakistan throughout the war, causing infiltration of camps and division between Christians and Muslims. The soldiers never told us.

Source

---

Enugu, Eastern Nigerian.

The small stool creaked under my weight as I threw stones into a muddy puddle in front of the house. My fourteen-year-old sister sat on a small hole in the ground. I had dug the hole two days ago when she started bleeding. That way, she wouldn't have to tear her clothes to make a small wrap that would keep the stain away. We had none left.

We watched uniformed soldiers walk past in twos and threes.

"Uche?" my sister turned to me.

"Yes?"

"I had another dream."

"What about?"

"Mum and dad. They were coming home."

Silence.

"Do you dream about them too?"

"No."

"Are we ever going back to Lagos?"

"No."

"I want to go back. I want to draw on a big canvas, again."

I looked away and forced the tears back. I swallowed the pain of my sister's shattered dreams, and thoughts of parents I would never see again.