“Passed with distinctions: Monica…” I screamed with joy upon hearing my name through the loud speakers of my grandpa’s radio. The results of the national exams were out, and I passed with distinctions. My mother looked at me with tears in her eyes, crushing me in the embrace of her arms. My father looked at me, a small smile lurking at the corners of his lips — he wasn’t a very affectionate person, but the sparkle I saw in his eyes was only one thing; he was proud of me. I turned to my grandpa, his bald head and jaws covered in white beards— which he says is a sign of wisdom— his wrinkled skin and flaky fingers as he pulled me in for a hug. Grandpa looked at me, smiling— his front tooth missing— and he spoke,
“My Doctor.”
______________
“Everyone, go down!” Gunshots. Screams. Tears.
I crawled under my bed, curling myself into a ball and covering my mouth with my shaky hands to avoid being heard. I was in class reading when Yannick, a short light skinned girl from science D class entered screaming,
“They’ve come! Everybody, run!”
My brain took more than a minute to understand what was going on but before I could fully comprehend what was happening, my feet were already carrying me out of class, just as the other students were running into the dormitories, looking for any safe space.
Unknown gunmen broke into our boarding school—one of the best in the country—
shooting anyone they found.
“Remove your clothes!” a husky voice ordered. I saw a little girl that I recognized to be in form 2 frightened and at the mercy of the 5 men that entered our dormitory. I closed my eyes and ears and blocked away her screams, praying to God to do something—anything.
After what felt like forever, with only the sounds of my racing heart, I heard footsteps entering our dormitory again.
“God” they breathed out.
“Is anyone here?” the feminine voice that I recognize so well called out. I peeped from under the bed and slowly got out of my hiding spot with uncontrollable tears streaming down my cheek when I saw her.
“Monica.” My chemistry teacher, Mrs Rose muttered when she saw me. She took me and a few other students that survived the attack out of the school as we manoeuvred through the layers of dead bodies.
______________
The political state of my country had been unstable for a while but never would I have thought that it would grow to be this bad. The fight for a better country wasn’t a peaceful fight as it resulted in killings and other atrocities, which in return claimed thousands of civilian lives.
As I sat on my bed thinking about the political state of my country and how affected we were, I couldn’t help but feel helpless and compare it to the situation of the heart-wrenching Biafra War that I read in the novel Half of a Yellow Sun by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. Because of this crisis, I have been at home for more than a year now. Our education has been halted due to the constant insecurities, and all we can do is hope for it to end soon.
My heart bleeds as I face the reality that I would never accomplish my dreams. Unlike my other friends who were opportune to escape the crisis by fleeing to the other part of the country to live with their relatives, I couldn’t because I had no one there.
Does that mean this is the end for me?
My heart aches for those that are in a similar situation as I am.
My heart aches for others that are in the fight against their will.
My heart aches for the lives that were lost, those that were abused, and others that were held captive.
My heart aches for those whose dreams were shattered — for me whose dream of becoming a doctor was shattered.
I looked at my grandma’s framed photograph from across the room, a heavy feeling in my chest as I realize that I’d never accomplish the promise I made to her.
_________
“How much for this one?”
“It’s 400. It’s very fresh you’ll like it”
“Ah!! Madame 400 for these small tomatoes?”
“Aren’t we in the same country? Don’t you know things are expensive now?”
“Na wa oh! Ha! Na so e dey?” the lady grumbled as she searched through her purse to pay for the tomatoes.
“Thank you, ma. Have a good day,” I smiled at the angered lady, despite being frustrated myself.
I turned around arranging the items on the top shelf when I heard someone call my name.
“Monica?” I turned around; confusion written on my face as I wondered who it was. A dark-skinned beautiful lady dressed in a yellow jumpsuit, one I recognized to be like the ones I see in movies. She stepped out of a Mercedes car and walked towards me. Her demeanour gave off wealth and affluence and I felt a mixture of excitement and confusion. Excitement because rich customers were easier to manage as they paid without complaining and mostly bought in bulk. Confusion because she knows my name.
“Oh, my goodness! Monica! Is this you?” the lady smiled showing off her white straight teeth.
“Welcome ma. how can I help you?” I decided to be formal and not bother too much about it. I was well known in the market so it could be that I was referred.
“Monica, it’s me! Alisha. We were benchies back then in secondary school.” I looked closely at the beautiful lady before me examining her every feature and then it clicked. Alisha and I were classmates, bench mates and even friends back then in school.
“Oh my! Ali! What a pleasure to see you again. I heard you left the city. Please come inside and sit.”
Alisha and I discussed anything and everything. We talked about us, my life and her life out of this country furthering her education, and how she’s accomplished the dream she always spoke of— becoming an accountant. After we spoke, we bid ourselves goodbye and exchanged contacts promising to stay in touch. When she left, I stayed glued to my seat, hidden in the dark, and began to get lost in my thoughts.
I was so happy for Alisha but I couldn’t help but feel the bile-like liquid on my tongue— bitterness. I was bitter, not towards her, but towards how unfair things were. I was bitter towards the inequality in the country. I was bitter towards the fact that nothing was done to remedy this tragedy.
I thought back to the moment I had with that customer. I was used to this scenario every day by customers. The rise in prices was really worrisome and it was not only affecting them but also us, the salespeople.
I thought of the way my life took a rollercoaster; from me stopping my education in upper sixth because of the crisis, to my parents and grandfather being gruesomely killed in our home one fateful day after I went to hawk pure water. To me being here 5 years later, a saleswoman at the central market to earn a living. Bitter tears streamed down my cheeks and I quickly wiped it off with the back of my hands.
Where is this country heading to? There’s so much insecurity and fear. How does one feel comfortable in a place he used to call home, now a battlefield?
5 years later and the crisis hasn’t ended.
5 years later and the fears and insecurities increase by the day.
5 years later, the country’s political state takes no turn for the better.
5 years later and the country goes into billions and billions of debts.
5 years later and there’s no assurance as to whether things will go back to normal.
5 years later and my dreams and that of millions of others are shattered.
Read – Blood Knot – A Short Story by Ruth Nyadzua Mwangome, Kenya
