Our Humanity Woes In my Daily Trust column today She sits on the edge of the river bank, her feet barely in the water. Head bent, she stares into the distance. Occasionally, she shudders as if a piercing cold wind had taken its toll on her frail body giving her fevers. Then talking in her dialect to no one specifically, she beats her chest, muttering in exclamation, hmmm hmmm hmmm hmmm. In the camp, her story is awesome. One night, insurgents invaded her village and caused havoc. They searched from house to house, lining up men and killing them. Boys and many able bodied men and women, fled into the bushes and hills. Later that night, all the mostly young women were herded to a court yard, and herself and many other aged ones were among them. The commander ordered the insurgents to each select a woman. What do you want to do with this old hag? she heard the commander ask the young man who for some curious reason, had settled for her. Speaking through the mask, she heard the young man say in Hausa that he preferred the old woman. She thought to herself, it would be easy on this young mans conscience if he killed her, since she was already advanced in age. Not for a single moment, did she even consider that they were being shared for any nocturnal act. Besides, watching how the men in the village were killed mercilessly, she did not imagine that these animals had any hearts of compassion left in their besotted frames. Each of the young men headed for the bushes with the choices they made, and dutifully, she followed the young man who had selected her from the lot, with him pulling her by her loin strap, which she held on to. She could not feel her feet touch the ground. She knew she was merely walking along. Tears blurring her vision, rolled down he cheeks, she could only think prayers of divine intervention or onward passage to God her makers peaceful bosom. Though the young man slackened the pull on her loin strap, she just followed, sheepishly. Deep into the forest, he growled and stopped, and without turning back called, Woman. She was not sure she had answered. He spoke on, without turning. Promise me you will say nothing of what you are about to see, and I will not kill you. She could only cry more trembling and tears than even a whimper. He went on. I will kill you if you scream for help or say anything, he thundered on. Then turning to face her, he pointed at the continuing path. This path will take you to the main road near the junction. Take it and go till you get to the park in the next village. He released her loin strap and instantly, took off his mask looking sternly at the woman. Even in the dark, she could make out his full features. Blood rushed from the soles of her feet to the tip of her head. She was choking in search of breath, sweat dripping from all over her body, as she recognized her own son, disbelieving, that one of those vicious and heartless killers was one of her offsprings. Mama, he howled beneath his breath. I am sorry. I have already joined and I am deep inside. I chose you to save your life. Go to Yola. Mercilessly, he pushed her on and and turning on his heel, disappeared back to the killing fields. In Yola at the camp for internally displaced persons, she sits lonely in a crowd, muttering nothing particularly to herself. Sometimes she tells the story to the end. Then she screams. Wouldnt you? Two weeks ago, I was told this story by a woman who herself heard it while distributing relief at the Yola refugee camp. It has haunted me every day. I had dismissed it as one of those made up stories of woe, but then watching that well crafted documentary by the Human Rights Watch group, particularly the abducted girls graphic account of how after her initial revulsion at the witnessing of the cold blooded murders by decapitation, her feelings became numb and she just looked on, the story of the old woman from the Adamawa Village became more heavily etched. It could well be true. After all, the insurgents are our own offspring, are they not? Writing it today, I have only tried to recount what a second party had given to me but I wish I had gone to hear the woman narrate her ordeal. But what would I have done? We do not seem to notice it, but incalculable damage has been done to our humanity, and the unavoidable restoration of a whole generation to normalcy is a mean future task, to put it even mildly. In Gombe State today, a reported 15,000 internally displaced persons are hauled in a school and tents in the open field. In Adamawa State, a record 20,000 or more internally displaced persons are crammed at the NYSC camp and the situation would even have been worse, had relatives working in Yola not taken in a large proportion. We are looking at hundreds of thousands of internally displaced persons in their own country. For civil servant folks in Yola from Bazza, Michika, Madagali, Gulak and environs, hardly any one in the last 2 months, has camped less than 30 people in their residences, all in the spirit of being brothers keeper. Quietly, the community has absorbed the shock, to the point that it is becoming even normal. Government has offered some help, just as has done NEMA, within the limits of possibilities. NGOs, Religious Bodies and many politicians are helping out, but it is obvious, personal and institutional resources are overstretched beyond tolerable limits. There is a humanitarian disaster that we are oblivious of yet under our very noses in Adamawa, Bauchi, Borno, Gombe, Taraba, and Yobe State. With all this going on and yet our politicians have just much of 2015 on their minds, I feel as distraught as the mother of the young insurgent, lonely in a crowd, talking to myself, and I should scream. Should you not?
Posted on: Wed, 29 Oct 2014 08:03:46 +0000
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