Chapter 1: Ashes After War

After the war finish, every camp woman dey find soldier to hold—nobody wan enter that wicked place dem call bitter kiln.

That year, the air for camp thick with fear of separation—just like thunderstorm dey scatter villagers during harmattan. All of us dey eye any soldier wey pass, dey pray for chest. Everywhere quiet with desperation, like person dey search for small pepper inside big pot of soup. Every morning, as I dey chew cold moi moi, panic dey bitter pass pepper for my tongue.

When that quiet, dark-skinned officer come find me, na only me and one old woman remain for the whole camp.

Camp empty, just our two shadows dey waka like lost goat. Sometimes breeze go blow through empty tents, carry smell of dried sweat and old palm oil—remind me say everybody else don go. World small, our laughter dey echo like nightjar cry for abandoned village.

She laugh at me.

Her laughter thin, sharp, like when garri don finish for calabash, just dey make empty noise. She hold her stomach, cough dry, but the mockery clear. For her, everything don turn joke—even last hope for escape.

"Ngozi, if person dey willing to carry you go, abeg follow am. Who you still dey wait for? That fine, famous young Captain Folarin, wey wan marry governor pikin so?"

Her words carry old wisdom and bitterness, as if she don carry burden for too many seasons. She eye me with that look elders dey reserve for stubborn pikin.

I say make I think am.

But my heart dey pound like bata drum inside chest. I wan reply sharp, but words stick for my throat, like pounded yam wey too thick. For my mind, I still dey hope for miracle.

That night, Folarin pin me down for bed.

Moon hide behind clouds, camp full of restless, uneasy sounds wey no dey let person forget say na place of war. My heart jump as he enter, steps silent like hunter.

He grab my chin, force me look up at am with rough hand.

Grip hard, the kind wey dey leave thumbprint for morning. Him eyes dark like rain-soaked night, drill into mine with something like ownership, not love.

"I dey marry the governor’s daughter. You dey jealous?"

He just hiss.

Sound from him mouth sharp like broken bottle. He shake head, pride thick for posture, as if to say, 'No woman fit make me change my mind.'

"Still dey carry shoulder like before."

Sneer for him voice cut deeper than wound. Lips curl half-smile, as if he dey enjoy remind me where I stand for him world.

"After I marry her, nothing go change between us. I don buy one small house for outside town. Wait for me there later."

He talk am like person say, 'Keep food for me,' as if my body na another portion dey wait for him return. My heart turn cold. Na so.

For small moment, my hand just dey shake, but I force my face strong. I no fit let am see say I dey fear.

From beginning to end, he no even ask whether anybody come find me for daytime.

Like say he sure say I no go ever follow another person go.

He too sure of him power, sure say no woman for my shoe fit turn away, say world go always bend for men like him. The arrogance just dey shine for him body like new wrapper.

But he no know say I don already agree with that officer wey dem dey call Musa Garba.

The day he marry the governor’s daughter, na that day I go marry too.

As I lie for that small, stuffy room, I make up my mind. No more waiting for promises wey dey float like dust after dry season wind. Tomorrow, I would claim my own fate, even if it meant crossing strange rivers.

I no go look back, even if night swallow me.