The earth trembled and the bodies of men in army green uniform littering the ground shook. Many of the bodies were missing their legs, hands and some parts of their faces had peeled off. Their numbers depleted as the bloody heap of fallen soldiers increased; the number of men standing less than those on the ground.
Missiles were fired continuously: left, right, centre, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake. Soldiers dropped to the ground like the Northern tsetse flies as bullets penetrated their mortal bodies, their wooden shields doing little or nothing to protect them against their opponent's fancy weapon.
The air had grown hazy; a red mist had formed from the amount of blood that had been spilt. The red mist and the blue sky met, tangoed like two lovers recently united until the sky itself was blood red. They were being slaughtered, yet, they surged on, the cries of their fallen brothers as they laid dying fuelling them with adrenaline.
With shotguns pointed to their enemies, faces painted, heart pounding behind their ribcages, and blood rushing to their ears, drowning the sound of their enemies’ machines, they surged on. It didn't matter that the ratio of their enemy to them was eight to one, their machines more sophisticated. Still, they moved forward in practised unison; war was a sad business.
Okonkwo could hear the happenings going on above him. As a man experienced in the art of war, he could picture the events going on, something he had been doing for the past sixteen months since the war started. He wished he was there, fighting alongside his men. But as his gaze strayed to his only child, he knew he made the right decision. "Papa, I'm hungry," Ikechukwu, his son, moaned. His limp was visible as he strutted to his father, spittle dripped from the corner of his lips and onto his hairy chest. Okonkwo brought a finger to his lips, signifying for his son to keep quiet. He didn't care that they were in a tunnel underground which was plenty feet below the earth where his men were fighting bravely. He wanted him quiet.
He sighed, the tunnel was as dark as night, their only source of light being the red dot from the radio he had kept so close to him for months, praying and hoping for good news. He wasn't certain what he would do if the war continued, their barrel of food had gone dry, algae had formed in their water but they drank it, sometimes mixing it with their urine so the water would last longer.
Lizards had stopped visiting this part of the tunnel. The poor reptiles had probably figured out the reason for their decrease in population was because Okonkwo and his son fed on their kind to survive.
They couldn't risk going up. After so many days of eating raw lizards, rats and whatever insects they could find, their taste buds had adjusted. It might as well have been cocoyam and palm oil served in clay plates with the way they had used their teeth to separate the last lizard’s head from its body. They had been too hungry to care.
"Come," Okonkwo gestured for his son to come closer, patting the space beside him. The darkness was blinding but like two blind men, they had grown a sixth sense. They now had night vision and their sight would put the average man to shame.
"This is the last piece," Okonkwo muttered. It was the remnant of Okonkwo's left arm, the part of his body he had forced his fifteen- year-old son to chop off with their blunt knife. Hunger had sunk its evil claws into them, turned the father-son duo into cannibals. Their once robust frames had shrunk like that of a skinny model suffering from an eating disorder. If any of them cared to, they could have easily counted the ribs that poked from their rubbery skin that was stretched taut.
"Chi gozie anyi," Okonkwo murmured under his breath as his son divided the last bit of his flesh they had left to dry so it would be tastier; time had taught them that.
Ikechukwu couldn't understand why his father still prayed or why he had carved out the crescent moon sign of the goddess, Ala, on the tunnel wall. It made no sense to the teenage boy but his father believed that she had kept them alive for this long.
How else could he explain his strength as he had laid on the ground with only a thin strip of material around his mutilated arm? A normal man would have bled to death. Or, the mysterious lack of injuries on his son's body as he had rolled violently on the floor when having his usual seizure; the first and last since they went into hiding.
When they finished eating, Ikechukwu crawled onto his father’s lap and Okonkwo stroked his son's overgrown hair with care only a father could possess. His son was epileptic and would convulse at will. Sometimes, he would throw himself to the ground or stare into blank space like he was conversing with the spirits. It scared him.
After many years without a child to call him papa, the goddess had blessed him and his wife with a child, a sick child, but he couldn't care less. Ikechukwu's parents could not figure out his triggers so they had restricted his outings, paid attention to his every need. It was demanding, almost the same as having a grown-up child. And when his wife had run away, unable to bear this curse of such a child. He had taken over the role of father, mother, sibling and friend to his only child. He loved him more than life itself.
His thoughts wandered briefly to Olanna, Ola, as he would fondly call her, she was the love of his life at some point. Okonkwo wondered if she was alive or ever regretted leaving him and his son, he still cared deeply for her however much he tried to deny it, a typical case of you never forget your first love. But he was glad she left long before the war started, she wouldn't have been able to survive here with them.
A crackling sound pierced through his thoughts and he tapped Ikechukwu gently to get him the radio, the source of the noise. His movements had gotten slower but Ikechuwu was more than happy to be his father's arms and legs. He adored him.
"Beat it very well," he whispered as his son returned with the radio, the red light looking even brighter than before.
He considered the radio's survival even with their lack of batteries as one of the goddess many blessings. He had owned it before the war, it had seen better days.
"Stop there ... No, go back," Okonkwo instructed as his son fiddled with the knob of the radio, his ears perked for the anchor's voice.
"War ... Death ... People dying."
Okonkwo sighed, piecing the news together; it was the same bad news all over. He knew what it felt like to have his hopes built only for it to be crushed like empty cans that had been run over by heavy wheels but he never stopped hoping; he had to keep faith. However, today was one of his bad days, he was tired; drained. An end to the war was all he wished for, that wasn't too much to request from his goddess. After all, she had done greater things for them in the past, this shouldn’t be hard for her.
He requested of his son to return the radio to its resting place, tomorrow might be the day. It was his mantra ‘tomorrow might be the day’, the one he reminded himself of daily after every news report. He had to keep faith. He couldn’t lose hope like his son.
Okonkwo simply longed for the sun on his face, he didn't care if he would be sunburned; then his freedom, that of him and his son. He missed the village stream that was free of piss, algae and every iniquity their water here had. Oh, how he longed for a change. How he longed to dip his feet inside the river. He would never shout at the youths that stayed longer than they should at the riverbank having water fights. He would sit on the wet sand, ignore the chill from the water that would seep into his abada, admire everything around him and inhale the salty air with a newfound appreciation for nature.
"People are dyi-" "Ikechukwu, I said you should turn off that radio." His voice had grown stern; a tone he never took with his son but who was to tell whether the radio would work tomorrow. Ikechukwu’s shoulder slumped, he knew his father was getting frustrated and so was he, he was angry at everything. He didn't want to disobey but he wanted to hear the news completely. Sighing again, he reached for the control of the radio, reducing the volume to the lowest. He needed to hear the news to the end; he needed to know. "War-" "Ikechukwu!" "-is over. The war is over!"
Ikechukwu didn't know when the radio fell from his hands but he felt the cold metal brush against his feet as he rushed to his father, hugging him tight like a groom that had found his long lost bride. Warm liquid rolled down his bareback - the tears of his father. Ikechukwu sniffed, his father had never cried in front of him until now.
