We moved like a river of broken dreams across the scorched earth, thousands of us fleeing the eastern borders of our homeland. Once proud citizens of Bermuda, now reduced to wanderers in our own country. The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly as our procession stretched endlessly toward the horizon.
My daughter Amara slept against my back, her tiny breaths warm against my neck, while my son Kiano trudged ahead, his twelve-year-old frame bent under the weight of our few remaining possessions. The boy who once chased butterflies in our garden now carried the burden of our displacement on his narrow shoulders.
Two days had passed since we left our village. Around us, children who should have been playing in schoolyards instead balanced bundles larger than themselves on their heads. Their eyes registered memories no child should experience. The thunder of artillery and whisper of approaching militia were the daily routine.
“Mama,” Kiano’s voice cracked, drawing me from my thoughts. “I need to rest.”
“Just a little further, my son,” I said, reaching out to steady him. Three months had passed since they gunned down his father, mistaking him for a rebel. My beloved Rabiu died in my arms while Kiano watched, and now I saw that moment reflected in our son’s eyes every time he looked at me.
A commotion ahead brought our column to a halt. An elderly woman, Nyota, had collapsed in the dust. Her daughter Zuri knelt beside her; panic etched across her face.
“Mama, please,” Zuri begged, “You must get up. The soldiers are coming.”
Nyota’s weathered face creased with a gentle smile. “My child, my journey ends here. But yours must continue.”
“No!” Zuri clutched her mother’s hand. “We stay together or not at all.”
The old woman’s eyes shone with unshed tears. “Listen to me, Zuri. When I reach heaven, I will speak to God himself. I will not rest until He brings peace to our land, until He returns the light to your blameless eyes.
Before Zuri could protest further, Nyota’s body began to convulse. Within moments, she lay still, another casualty of a war that fed on the innocent.
I wanted to comfort Zuri, but the distant rumble of military vehicles spurred us forward. We had no time for proper mourning – survival demanded we keep moving. I adjusted Amara on my back, took Kiano’s hand, and pressed on, my feet bleeding into the rust-colored earth beneath us.
The sun was beginning to set when Kiano stumbled again. This time, his knees hit the ground hard, and the bundle he carried spilled across the dirt path. His thin shoulders shook with silent sobs.
“Why did they kill Baba?” he wailed, his voice raw with grief and exhaustion. “Why are they making us run?”
I knelt beside him, my heart breaking anew. “Some men carry hatred where they should carry love,” I said, gathering him close. “But we must keep moving, my brave one. For Amara. For the future.”
The sound of helicopter blades slicing through the air made us both freeze. But instead of the dreaded government gunships, a different sight emerged over the horizon – the white and blue flags of the UN refugee camp.
Relief swept through the crowd like a cool breeze. We quickened our pace, hope lending strength to our weary legs. At the camp’s entrance, aid workers rushed to help those who could barely stand. I fumbled with my wrapper to give Amara water, my hands trembling with exhaustion.
When I finally freed her from my back, my daughter’s body was limp and cold.
“Amara?” My voice emerged as a whisper, then rose to a scream that tore through the camp. “Amara! Wake up, my baby!”
Aid workers rushed forward, gently trying to take her from my arms, but I clutched her closer. Kiano stood frozen beside me; his young face became a mask of horror. At that moment, I saw him transform from a child into something else – a survivor who had witnessed too much death.
“Please,” a woman in a blue vest knelt beside me, her eyes kind but urgent. “Let us help.”
But we all knew it was too late. The heat, the journey, the weight of our suffering – it had been too much for my baby’s fragile body. While I had focused on keeping us moving forward, death had crept silently up my back and stolen my daughter’s last breath.
Kiano’s hand found mine in the dust. “Mama,” he said, his voice steady despite the tears streaming down his face. “Amara has gone to be with Baba. They will watch over us together.”
His words, so wise beyond his years, broke something in me. I collapsed into the red earth, my grief erupting in wails that echoed across the camp. Other mothers gathered around us, adding their voices to my sorrow – not just for Amara, but for all our children lost to this senseless violence.
As the sun set over the camp, casting long shadows across the endless rows of tents, I held my remaining child close. Kiano’s heartbeat against my chest reminded me that even in our darkest hour, love persisted. We had lost so much – our home, our dignity, my husband, my baby – but somehow, we had to find the strength to continue.
“We will live,” I whispered into Kiano’s hair, making a solemn promise to both the living and the dead. “We will live, and we will remember, and one day, my son, we will help build a world where no mother has to bury her child because of senseless wars.”
Around us, the camp slowly settled into night, a temporary haven for thousands of shattered dreams. But in our shared breath, in our clasped hands, in our determination to survive, we carried the seeds of hope for tomorrow.
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Emecheta Christian’s work explores themes of self-actualisation and the complexities of the human experience. His poems and short stories have appeared or are forthcoming in esteemed literary journals and anthologies such as Arts Lounge Magazine, Writefluence Anthology, Synchronized Chaos Online Journal, The Decolonial Passage, Mocking Owl Roost, and elsewhere. He has been recognised with a few literary awards as well. Emecheta’s unique voice and evocative imagery have garnered him a growing reputation as a voice of change in his local literary scene.
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