Salisu

The moment we arrived at the camp in Ibadan, I knew I couldn’t hide anymore.

Even the air felt different—drier, harsher, like it already knew what was coming.

The military base was surrounded by barbed wire and sandbags. The gate was tall and rusty. Armed guards stood everywhere. No one smiled. No one even blinked. Muda and I walked in slowly. My boots dragged across the gravel, and my uniform looked old and tired after all those months of running and hiding.

I gave my ID tag to the soldier at the gate. He looked at it, raised an eyebrow, and called his superior. A radio crackled nearby, but I couldn’t hear what was said.

Then the soldier turned to me.

“Private Salisu Abubakar?”

I stood straighter. “Yes, sir.”

“You are under arrest for desertion.”

Before I could say anything, two soldiers came forward. They grabbed me roughly and forced my hands behind my back. Cold handcuffs clicked tightly around my wrists.

Muda shouted, “He didn’t desert! He was injured. He saved lives!”

“Stand back,” one of the guards said sharply. “This doesn’t concern you.”

I didn’t fight back. There was no point. They didn’t care about the truth—only about orders.

They dragged me past the checkpoint, past new recruits training under the hot sun, and into a gray building. The hallways were empty. Metal doors lined the walls. My footsteps echoed as I walked.

They pushed me into a chair. The handcuffs stayed on.

Then they left me there. For hours.

No food. No water. No questions.

When they finally returned, three officers entered the room. They looked older, serious, with clean uniforms. One of them threw a thick file on the table. The sound made me flinch.

The man across from me didn’t say his name. He didn’t need to.

“You disappeared after the ambush near Owerri,” he said sharply. “Your team was attacked. Some were killed. Others ran. You were believed dead.”

“I wasn’t,” I said quietly. “I was shot in the stomach. I couldn’t move. I barely survived.”

“But you never sent any message. No letter. Nothing.”

“I tried. I had no paper. No transport. I was injured—”

He raised his hand to stop me. “We’ve heard all these excuses before. Every deserter says the same thing.”

“I’m not a deserter.”

“You are,” he said firmly. “You disappeared during the war.”

He opened the file and pushed a paper toward me. My heart sank.

It had details about me and Obianuju.

“You were seen in enemy territory,” he said. “With a Biafran woman. You stayed with her?”

“She saved my life,” I said, trying to stay calm. “She wasn’t a soldier. She was a civilian.”

“Civilians don’t wear Biafran armbands,” another officer muttered.

“She never wore one.”

“You stayed with her. Traveled with her. Slept with her?”

I clenched my fists. “She’s not spoil. She’s not a prize.”

“To us, she’s not even Nigerian anymore,” the first officer said. “You crossed a line.”

I leaned forward, ignoring the pain in my wrists. “I was left to die in a war zone. She didn’t have to help me, but she did. And I helped her too. We survived together.”

“But you never returned to any base,” the third officer said.

“Didn’t you hear me? I couldn’t. I wasn’t just hiding from the enemy. I was hiding from my own battalion—your Sergeant and your General.”

The room went silent.

“What did you say?” the lead officer asked.

I took a breath. “I was ambushed by my own men. The Sergeant and the General. They left me behind on purpose. No backup. No help.”

They exchanged looks.

I continued, “Later, while I was hiding near a burned checkpoint, I overheard a truck driver say something. He said the ‘Abubakar problem’ had been handled.”

“So you’re accusing top officers of trying to kill you?” one asked.

“Yes. And I’m not the only one who heard something. Corporal James. Lieutenant Oke. They had doubts too.”

What exactly were they hiding?

“You’re saying the same Sergeant who reported you missing… planned to kill you?”

“Yes. Because he had something to cover up.”

Another pause. This one heavier.

The officer asked, “What was your relationship with this girl—Obianuju?”

I hesitated.

“She became my friend,” I said. “Then more than that. But I didn’t stay because of love. I stayed because I was being hunted.”

“She’s Biafran.”

“She’s human.”

“Do you love her?” someone asked.

I looked him in the eye. “Sorry, I don’t understand your question.”

The officer leaned back. “So you won’t admit it.”

“What exactly am I supposed to admit?” I shouted, slamming my fists on the table. The cuffs dug into my skin. “I’ve told you the truth. The Sergeant and General tried to kill me.”

Another long silence.

One officer stood up and left the room. Maybe to make a call. The other two stayed.

“You know what people will say?” one of them said. “You disappeared. Came back with a Biafran woman. Now you’re blaming respected officers. You have no proof. No witnesses.”

“I know,” I said. “But check my wound if you want. I’m not lying.”

The officer tapped his pen on the table. “And if you are?”

“Then why would I come back at all?”

He paused.

“I could’ve run to Cameroon. Or gone back up north. But I returned. Because the war has already taken so much. I came back to clear my name. And because maybe… there’s still something worth fighting for.”

The other officer looked at me, his face softer now.

The one who left returned. “They’re reviewing your case. For now, you’ll be held in a cell. But if your story is true, and we find proof of a crime by the Sergeant and General… you may have uncovered something serious.”

“And if my story isn’t believed?” I asked.

“Then you’ll be charged with desertion. And treason.”

They stood me up again. Not as roughly this time, but firm. The cuffs stayed on. The hallway felt colder as I walked out.

Muda was waiting by the gate. His eyes were full of questions. They didn’t let him speak to me. Just gave him a warning look.

Before I was taken away, one officer turned to me.

“If you’re telling the truth about the Sergeant and the General,” he said, “then you’ve been braver than most. But if not…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.

I nodded. I understood.

Even when they locked me in a cell and the cold air hit me like a slap, I still felt something small but real.

Not hope for myself.

Hope for the truth.