There used to be a story that mma used to tell us. She used
to say that the fly that roams at night isn’t a fly but a firefly; I would occasionally
pass a cursory glance at her whenever she told us such stories, “…but a fly is
a fly mma”. “No my son, after yam is pounded, it is called fufu”. The puzzled
look on my face always left her smiling. It was as if her aim was to throw me
into a deep dark well of confusion.
The sparks of fire from the little bonfire spread apart as
the moon rested high up the reposing sky. The crickets went silent; the sound
of the rats fleeing from snakes in the bush became more audible. “…and after
a long day, the dog finally met the fly at night…” mma concluded. “But mma, did
the fly become a firefly?” I asked. “No my son, I shall ask my grandfather at
Potiskum and let you know what he says”. Mma always spoke about her grandfather
at Potiskum. Mma had really white hair and her shiny skin looked like a parched
landscape in January. I always wondered what her grandfather would look like. I
asked my mother about mma’s grandfather, she smiled and told me to go and help
my sisters pick the little stones out of the rice. But I asked Aisha and she said
mma’s grandfather was a ghost; he lived in a cemetery in Potiskum. I couldn’t
sleep that night; I dreamt about him.
I still remained being that curious child who questioned
everything that came his way. Several years passed until I got here…
Sweat dripped down my face as it dropped near my bended knees
on the desert sand. I couldn’t look at my captors; not even a cursory glance
like I used to give mma. My lips trembled; I couldn’t speak, not even a simple
question like I used to ask mma. I remembered the story mma told me about a man
who was killed for his beliefs. She said he was a martyr and that Allah put his
soul inside a green bird. I told her I wanted to be a green bird and then she
smiled; that smile, unlike her usual smiles, got engraved in my heart.
“Kill him…” I felt the dark shadow of the gun’s barrel behind
my head. As the gang leader walked away, he lit a cigarette and said in words reminiscent
of my childhood “a fly is a fly…” There was a loud gunshot, several others
followed.
Green bird… I thought… but the chance had eluded me. Bullets hit
the thugs who had captured me. Suddenly I longed to spend time with Mma again,
to hear her tell us stories, to ask her silly questions and to watch her smile
at me.
I remembered her smile, that smile… and then I smiled as
soldiers from my platoon carried me away.
