June 22, 1969

Obianuju

I peered through the cracks of the little window in our miniature hut, the one made of patched mud and rusted zinc, the one that still somehow stood while everything else had fallen.

They weren't back yet.

A full day had passed since we split up — the boys went hunting, the girls went scouting — and I hadn't heard a single footstep, branch snap, or coded whistle since. The silence had settled thick like fog, and no matter how I strained to convince myself everything was fine, my gut twisted harder with each passing hour.

My leg throbbed.

A dull, persistent pain that pulsed from the deep gash I earned last week while escaping a soldier's bayonet. I told them I'd be fine. I lied. I always did. Pain was a luxury we couldn't afford, and sitting idle while my friends risked their lives felt worse than the limp I carried.

"I'll clean," I told them. "I'll make soup from the dried bitterleaf. I'll prepare the weapons, watch the camp."

Another lie.

The truth was, I was too slow. Too much of a liability.

The worst part was the waiting. The not knowing. What if they'd been ambushed? What if they were already dead in some ditch, their bodies picked apart by vultures? What if I was the only one left?

I tried to distract myself. Washed the bowls. Swept the floor three times. Re-braided my hair with trembling fingers.

Still nothing.

The sun began to sink, dyeing the trees with gold, but no familiar voices echoed through the forest.

Something snapped in me.

I couldn't sit still anymore.

I grabbed a stick for support and limped through the thickets, heart pounding as I followed every broken twig and footprint I could find. I called for them softly, careful not to be too loud. My name caught in my throat each time I imagined it drawing attention from soldiers.

The pain in my leg screamed with every step, but I pushed through it. I had to. I couldn't lose them. Not like this. Not without trying.

But the forest gave me nothing.

Not even a whisper.

By sunset, my limbs were weak, my face scratched by branches and my mouth dry. I turned back, each drag of my leg heavier than the last.

Maybe I missed them. Maybe they had already returned.

I prayed — to God, to the trees, to the stars that hadn't yet appeared. "Let them be back. Let them be back."

But when I reached the hut, it was just as I left it.

Empty.

No voices.

No warmth.

Just me and the crushing ache of fear.

I collapsed on the floor, too exhausted to cry, too terrified to sleep. The knife lay beside my mat — a kitchen blade, but sharp enough. I placed it near my chest like a second heart and let the weight of everything bury me.

Sleep took me like drowning.

---

A sound woke me.

Low. Muffled. Heavy boots crunching twigs. Voices — not familiar ones. Masculine, cold, alert. Soldiers.

For a moment, I thought I was still dreaming. Then I heard the click of a gun.

I shot up, pain flaring through my bad leg. My fingers found the knife immediately, gripping it tight. My breath went shallow, every instinct screaming at me to run, but I couldn't. Not far. Not fast.

I crouched behind the door, heart thudding louder than the footsteps now inside the hut.

They were here.

Enemies.

My friends might already be dead. My turn had come.

But I wouldn't go easy.

I pressed my back to the wall, counted the footsteps, tried to guess how many. Maybe three. Maybe more. I had no plan. No advantage.

Only rage.

And desperation.

Just as I was about to move — to lunge or run or scream — the door creaked.

He stepped in.

A tall man. Broad shoulders. Camouflage uniform. Northern complexion. Expression unreadable. A soldier. A killer.

Our eyes locked.

Me — barefoot, blood dried on my ankle, a knife clutched in my shaking hands.

Him — calm, deadly, his rifle already rising.

I couldn't breathe.

His finger curled around the trigger.

And I knew I was staring into the eyes of the man who was about to decide whether I lived or died.

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