WARFRA.
Photo by Chris Curry on Unsplash.
Sun.
The road to the future is a fragile thread, growing ever more elusive since the war began months ago. In daylight, it slips through our fingers, a thing too delicate to grasp firmly, no matter how hard we try. Despite our belief in the unbreakable chain of destiny, the wheels of fate have faltered. Was it all a lie? Did we put all our eggs in one basket, expecting the sky to forever keep its mosaic of hope alight?
Even in the dark, as we stare into the fugitive void of a moonless sky, our eyes scan for the dreaded glint of enemy planes. At any moment, an air raid could descend upon us, a surprise we might never recover from. How long can we live like this? Starving, war-torn citizens of a nation pleading for secession but held fast in an iron grip.
“Obianuju...” My husband calls, his voice thin, cracked, under the weight of the war pressing down on him. I can hear the tremble in his tone, the brink of tears he tries to hold back. We all do. But they promised us hope—a frail, fragile thing. A belief to quell our fear, to make us believe we will win this war. We will have our own country. But when? How long must we wait for that dream to become real? Until we are all torn skin and bloated stomachs, our voices perched on the edge of death, muffled by hunger and grief? Until our tears dry up in the pit of despair? Until fear sharpens its claws and tears through our souls?
“Obi m...” His voice softens, clutching to a small ember of belief, like holding onto the thought that the sun will rise again. The closer we come to dawn, the more death corners us, creeping closer with every breath. Terror grips us tighter, its icy fingers wrapping around our hearts, squeezing with each beat.
A shiver slithers across my skin as his hand rests on my swollen belly. It is hope that keeps us going—the child growing inside me. I mouth a silent prayer and pinch his hand away as I feel a kick. “Hmm... Ọ bụ gịnị?” I take his hand and intertwine it with mine. Even in the darkness that surrounds us, I can sense the tremor of anxious thoughts running through him. He is worried about everything: his family, his ageing parents, his siblings fighting in the Biafra army.
“What will we name our child?” he asks, gently stroking my wrist. Silence wraps around us, save for the chirps of crickets and the sigh of the wind rustling through withered leaves. Distant voices float toward us, perhaps Biafran soldiers keeping watch. To name this child is to summon a future we may never see. A future dangling over the edge of the unknown.
I shake my head. “It’s too early to think of a name,” I say, pulling my hand away, startled by my own suddenness. Am I afraid of tempting fate?
“Why? We should—”
“Di m, please. I’m tired,” I interrupt quickly, stopping the conversation before it spirals into something heavier.
He sighs. “Alright. Go inside. I’ll keep watch and join you later.” He helps me up, placing the tray of plates in my hands. I scuttle inside.
I know why we shouldn’t name our child yet. Because seeing the sun, the daylight, has become a gift we must earn.
Son.
I clutch my belly, biting down on the pain that flares across my skin. The contractions are getting stronger, though I’m not due for another two weeks. Why now? My vision blurs, and I grip my husband’s shoulder as he hurries me to the hospital. The building looms ahead, half its roof blown off by bombs, walls crumbling, cracks running through its foundations.
The pain grips me like the talons of fear, as the whirring sound of aircraft fills the air from a distance.
“Come on, we need to get inside!” His voice is calm, soothing my fear more than the pain. “Let’s pray it’s not the veranda.”
Suddenly, two nurses rush toward us, taking my hands from his.
“Veranda! Run for your life!” A voice cuts through the air. Panic swells as the nurses dash for cover, abandoning me. I try to follow, but arms encircle me, and I am shoved to the ground. A deafening boom explodes just inches from my ear. Please, God, let it not be what I think it is.
Gunfire crackles in the distance, the air turns hot and abrasive against my skin. When the chaos fades, a graveyard silence settles over everything. I open my eyes and see him—my husband. His lips are stained with blood, his eyes barely open. He smiles, a tragic smile of someone who has fought their last battle and won in the cruellest way possible.
“Obinze! Don’t you dare die on me!” I pull myself up, shaking his numb fingers. His head rests against me, my stomach pressing into him, tears streaming down my face. “Obinze, please, don’t go. Obi m!” His back is soaked with blood, the stray bullet tearing through him. “Obi m! Biko nu!” My voice cracks, drawing others from their hiding places. The air is thick with the scent of death, and the ground is littered with the remnants of fallen bodies. Who can I cling to? Is the hope we’ve held onto still worth protecting?
How thin is the line between life and death? Between love and hate? Between pain, grief, and joy? The pain comes again, but this time, I embrace it.
“Someone help her! She’s bleeding!” I hear a voice, though I can’t tell who. I’m lifted from the cold, hard ground, my body trembling in someone’s arms. My husband is dead. The man I saved from joining the army when I found out I was pregnant is gone. They carry me inside, laying me on a mat.
“Obianuju, you have to push now!” My thighs part, but I keep shaking my head. What am I pushing for when all hope is gone? “If not for yourself, push for your late husband.”
Late.
The word sears my heart. A realization that I will never see him again. Yet, I push.
“It’s a son! Ekele dịrị Jisọs!” Voices cheer around me. But joy in this land is fleeting, like smoke in the wind.
Soon.
“Obi m, what do you think?” He twirls in the dim light, wearing a tailored Ankara shirt with black stars scattered across a yellow skyline. It’s the “Kiri-Kiri star” design, a cloth that symbolizes unity in our village. But crimson stains the fabric, a gaping hole in the back where a bullet tore through. He steps toward me, his touch like a shiver against my skin.
“Obi m, when will you come back?” I ask, my voice trembling. Our son lies nearby, asleep, oblivious to the chaos surrounding him. How can I protect his innocence? How can I raise him alone in a world marred by war?
“Shh... You’re strong, Obianuju. You can do this.” His fingers brush the tears from my cheeks. “Remember when I wore your bum shorts?” He smiles, his lips stained with the same rosy tint of blood.
I smile, remembering the day he wore them as a joke when we were newly married before the war. “You never did have a bigger bum than me,” I tease, our laughter mingling with the bittersweet memories.
“What should we name him?” he asks, his voice distant, fading like an echo.
“I don’t know…” I scramble for pen and paper, hoping to capture this moment. “What do you think?”
“Warfra,” he says softly. “A child born during war.”
I write it down, placing the paper beside our sleeping son. Peaceful.
“Obianuju, who are you talking to?” My mother-in-law’s voice pierces the air. I turn around, but he’s gone. “You’ve been talking to yourself since you gave birth.”
“Obi m, where are you?” I whisper, searching the empty space, tears filling my eyes. “Obi m come back.”
“Your husband is dead, Obianuju. It’s time to face reality.”
I ignore her. I can’t believe it. I rush outside, ignoring the rising roar of planes, the shouts to “Take cover!”, “Air raid!” My feet move faster, driven by desperation, by the need to find him.
The pain in my shoulder is sharp, but I press on. Obinze, wait for me! I fall, the ground rushing to meet me. Blood spills, the world turns dark. Yet I crawl forward, determined to reconcile with him, to escape this world. But I can’t hold on any longer. I welcome the darkness.
Ọzọemena.
