Chapter 1: Mat for the Army Camp

I saved two madwomen.

The way I talk am, e sound simple, but abeg, who really get mind for this kain thing? One, people for camp just dey match her anyhow, like say she be old mat for mosque entrance—her body battered and bruised, sometimes laughing, sometimes crying—don kolo finish. You fit see the scratch for her skin, the way dust dey cling to her like she and the red earth be twin. For camp, dem dey waka pass her as if she be stone dem use jam bush path, nobody dey pity, only gist dey fly for mouth.

The other, crippled and left alone in a church, her legs gone, her temper so fierce that even the reverend sisters dey run from her. If you see the fire wey dey her eye, you go know say, even devil go think twice before e near am. Her room dey always dey scattered—plate for ground, bed sheet tear, as if say she dey fight war for her dream every night. But na inside church compound, peace suppose dey reign.

Everybody talk say dem suppose don die since. Na so dem dey spread the gist for every corner, for evening when everybody dey chop, mouth go dey move: 'Those ones no suppose dey alive, na God dey waste miracle.' Na only prayer warriors sometimes dey try pray for them, but mostly, people just waka pass.

But na only me still remember. Sometimes I dey wonder if na foolishness or na my own wahala make me dey remember. The world move on, but my chest still dey hold their name like secret for pocket, like old woman dey guard market money for wrapper. Some nights, when harmattan cold grip my throat, na their story dey keep me awake.

Dem two, dem be prodigies before—heroes wey kneel break their knees for loyal elders, wey stand alone face thousands of enemy soldiers. Their name dey echo for village square before, small children dey sing their praise, old men dey toast palm wine to their courage. How journey carry them reach here, only God know.