The dawn broke like a fragile promise, washing over the decimated village with hues of pink and gold, a stark contrast to the horror of the night. Smoke still curled from the remnants of huts and homes, and the bitter scent of gunpowder lingered in the air. The insurgents had retreated just before sunrise, leaving behind a village in ruins and hearts shattered beyond repair.
Suleiman stood at the entrance of the trench, the early morning sun casting long shadows over the wreckage. His body ached, his face smeared with dirt and blood, but he was alive. And so were many of his people. The sound of quiet weeping echoed through the air as the survivors emerged from their hiding places, their eyes wide and haunted by the memories of the night.
Ngozi appeared beside him, her once vibrant clothes now torn and stained. She had fought with the ferocity of a lioness protecting her cubs, guiding the last of the women and children to safety even as chaos raged around them. Her face was set in grim resolve, but her eyes reflected the toll the night had taken.
“They’ll be back,” she said softly, staring at the horizon where the insurgents had disappeared.
Suleiman nodded, too tired to speak. He knew it, too. This wasn’t over. The insurgents were like locusts—relentless, devouring everything in their path. They had come to take Abaji, and they wouldn’t stop until they had it.
“We need to regroup,” Bala said, limping over to join them. His face was pale, a blood-soaked bandage wrapped around his leg. “We can’t stay like this. If they come back tonight, we won’t survive another attack.”
Suleiman felt the weight of responsibility press down on his shoulders like never before. The village was barely holding together, and the people were exhausted. But Bala was right—they couldn’t stay like this. Something had to change.
“We need reinforcements,” Suleiman said finally, his voice hoarse. “I’ll go to the capital and plead for more soldiers. We can’t fight this alone.”
“The government has already abandoned us,” Othman spat bitterly, his face twisted in anger. “Why would they care now?”
“Because we’ll make them care,” Suleiman shot back, his resolve hardening. “We’ll make enough noise that they can’t ignore us anymore. This isn’t just about Abaji—it’s about the whole nation. The insurgents won’t stop with us.”
Ngozi placed a hand on his arm, her touch grounding him. “You’re right, Suleiman. But you can’t do this alone.”
He looked at her, grateful for her unwavering support. “I’m not alone. I have all of you. But I’ll need someone to stay here and lead while I’m gone.”
Bala and Othman exchanged glances, their faces etched with uncertainty. Finally, Aisha stepped forward from the small crowd that had gathered.
“I’ll do it,” she said firmly, her chin lifted with quiet strength. “I’ll help protect the village while you’re gone.”
Suleiman studied her for a moment, then nodded. Aisha had always been a fierce advocate for the people of Abaji. She had the heart of a warrior, even if she wasn’t one in the traditional sense. He trusted her to hold things together in his absence.
“Thank you,” he said simply, offering her a small smile of gratitude.
The journey to the capital was grueling. Suleiman traveled on foot for the first leg of the journey, cutting through fields and forests, keeping to lesser-known paths to avoid any insurgent patrols. His thoughts were heavy, replaying the horrors of the attack over and over again. He knew the clock was ticking. Every second he spent away from Abaji was a second closer to another invasion, another massacre.
When he finally reached the outskirts of the capital, the city’s bustling life felt like a different world. The streets were crowded, markets alive with activity, and the distant sounds of traffic and music filled the air. It was as if the war hadn’t touched this place. But Suleiman knew better. He had seen the effects of the insurgency ripple through every corner of the nation, even if it hadn’t reached the heart of the city yet.
At the gates of the government offices, Suleiman was stopped by a group of armed guards. Their uniforms were crisp, their rifles gleaming in the sun—a stark contrast to the ragged band of defenders back in Abaji.
“I need to see someone in charge,” Suleiman said, his voice strained from exhaustion. “I’m from Abaji. My village is under attack. We need help.”
One of the guards raised an eyebrow, looking Suleiman up and down with disdain. “There’s no aid for Abaji,” he said dismissively. “Go home.”
Suleiman’s heart sank, but he refused to give up. “You don’t understand,” he insisted. “If we don’t get more soldiers, the village will fall. And after that, the insurgents will keep spreading. We need reinforcements.”
The guard laughed bitterly. “You think you’re the only one with problems? This country’s stretched thin as it is. No one’s coming to save your village.”
Rage flared in Suleiman’s chest, but before he could respond, a voice called out from behind him.
“What’s going on here?”
Suleiman turned to see a tall man in an officer’s uniform approaching. His face was stern, but there was a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes. He looked at the guard, then at Suleiman.
“This man says his village is under attack,” the guard explained with a shrug. “He’s asking for help.”
The officer studied Suleiman for a moment, then motioned for him to follow. “Come with me,” he said quietly.
Inside the government building, the officer led Suleiman to a small office. Maps of the country covered the walls, and a large desk sat in the center, cluttered with papers and reports.
“I’m Captain Ibrahim,” the officer said, sitting down and motioning for Suleiman to do the same. “Tell me what’s happening.”
Suleiman recounted the events of the past few days—the attack on Abaji, the drums of war, the desperate fight for survival. He spoke of the courage of his people, their resilience in the face of overwhelming odds. But he also spoke of their despair, their exhaustion. He told Captain Ibrahim about the trenches, the children hiding in the caves, the fires that had destroyed half the village.
When he was finished, there was a heavy silence in the room.
“You’re right,” Captain Ibrahim said at last. “The insurgents won’t stop with Abaji. They’ll keep moving, taking village after village until they reach the capital. We’ve seen it before.”
Suleiman nodded, his throat tight. “So, will you help us?”
The captain leaned back in his chair, his face thoughtful. “I’ll do what I can,” he said finally. “But it’s not going to be easy. The government is reluctant to send more troops into rural areas. They’re spread thin as it is.”
Suleiman’s heart sank. He had come all this way, and now it seemed like it might all be for nothing. “Please,” he said quietly. “My people are dying. If we don’t get help, Abaji won’t survive.”
Captain Ibrahim sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’ll send a message to my superiors. We’ll see if we can get some reinforcements sent your way. But in the meantime, I suggest you prepare your village for the worst.”
As Suleiman left the office, the weight of the world pressed down on him once again. There was no guarantee that help would come, and even if it did, it might be too late. But he couldn’t give up hope. He had to believe that something would change, that someone would finally listen.
The fate of Abaji depended on it.
End of Chapter Thirty-Eight