The atmosphere in the abandoned schoolroom riddled with bullets was so hot, the air was like a physical weight even at 2 A.M in the morning, when it was supposed to be cool. Dare to say that it was the crushing and silent weight of anticipation that made the atmosphere dense. Six men of the Nigerian Army’s 7th Division were crammed inside, waiting for a dawn that promised either a miraculous reprieve or, more likely, a brutal and final confrontation.
This classroom that was once loud with the sounds of children reciting the alphabet, was now a husk. The walls were now faded, the peeling blue paint, were filled with bullet holes. A chalkboard still had faint chalk outlines of long-forgotten lessons, now overlaid with the reality of war. The soldiers were a reconnaissance patrol, cut off and surrounded after their armored carrier hit an IED during a withdrawal. They’d fought their way into the village and barricaded themselves in the only building they could find, knowing full well it might also be their tomb. Lieutenant Tunde Balogun sat with his back against the wall directly below the chalk map. His Camouflage Uniform was plastered to his skin with sweat . He’d already checked his ammunition load three times. He knew exactly what he had, two half-empty magazines and a single grenade. He was counting the bullets not out of fear, he told himself, but for logistics. He needed to make every round count.
"Oga Tunde," whispered Corporal Musa, the section’s machine gunner, standing near the only intact window. "Do you think the Boko Haram boys are sleeping? It’s been too quiet for thirty minutes." Musa’s massive machine gun was set up on a stack of desks, covering the dusty road outside. He was the anchor of their position, but even a mountain like Musa was feeling the strain. His usual voice, which instilled fear normally in the cadets, and could fill a parade ground, was a quieter now.
"They aren’t sleeping, Musa," Tunde replied, his voice calm, projecting a confidence he didn't entirely feel. "They’re gathering. Waiting for the light. Like vultures."
He looked around the room. Across from him, Private Emeka was clutching his rosary so tight his knuckles were white. He was younger than the others. He’d joined the army straight out of secondary school in Aba, looking for adventure and most especially a way to support his family. The adventure he found was this cramped room, waiting for death.
"Emeka," Tunde said softly. The young soldier jumped, his rosary beads clicking. "Yes, Lieutenant?" "Think about your mother’s egusi soup.
The smell of it. The fufu." Tunde smiled, the expression tight but genuine.
"Think about how good that first bite will taste when we get out of here. And we will get out of here." Emeka managed a small, shaky nod.
"My mother makes the best egusi, Oga. The fish is always so soft" His voice trailed off, but some of the tension eased from his shoulders.
"And Musa," Tunde continued, shifting the focus, "think about that new pikin(child) you told us about. What's her name again?" Musa’s face softened instantly. "Aisha, sir. She’s only two weeks old. My wife says she looks like me, God help her." The men chuckled, a brief, blessed break in the tension.
"I haven't even held her yet. Just pictures on the phone." Tunde knew that for his men, memories were the only defense against what was to come.
He needed them to remember what they were fighting for, to anchor themselves to the life waiting for them beyond this school. But Tunde’s own thoughts were turning dark. His memory wasn’t of soup or babies, but of his grandfather, a veteran of the Biafran War. The old man never talked about the fighting, only the waiting. "The waiting is what breaks you, Tunde," he’d say, sipping his palm wine. "The bullets are quick, but the fear of them is slow. It eats you from the inside."
Tunde checked his watch. 0245 hours. The first hint of dawn was at least two hours away. It was a lifetime. His mind drifted back to Abuja, to the air-conditioned office he’d left behind. He remembered the smell of fresh tea, the laughter of friends at the suya spot on Friday nights. It felt like a different world. A single shot rang out from outside. It hit the wall just to the right of Musa’s window, sending a shower of plaster dust onto his helmet. The room froze. "Just a probe," Tunde said, his voice dropping to a command whisper. "They’re checking our reaction. Do not fire back. Save your rounds." Musa didn't move a muscle, his finger resting lightly on the trigger.
Emeka gripped his rosary again. The silence that followed was even heavier than before. It was the silence of a held breath. "You remember Captain Adebayo?" whispered Sergeant Abubakar, the group’s Second in Command. "The ambush in Gwoza? We were pinned for six hours. The insurgent commander was calling to us on the megaphone, telling us to surrender. Adebayo just laughed and yelled back that he was busy eating his lunch." A few smiles cracked the nervous faces. They all knew the story. It was legendary in their battalion. "We ran out of ammo," Abubakar continued. "We were ready with our bayonets. But Adebayo, lai lai (never)he didn't show fear. He kept our spirits up." Abubakar stopped. They all knew how the story ended. Adebayo was killed just before the relief force arrived. He’d held the line, but he didn't get to eat his next lunch.
This was it, "yhey’re moving, Oga. I see movement by the compound wall. A lot of them." "Wait," Tunde commanded. "Let them get close. Make every bullet count." The tension was heavy. Emeka was shaking. Tunde could see the sweat dripping off Musa’s chin. His own heart was pounding in his chest. This is it. This is how I die. In a dusty classroom. I hope I made my father proud. The first insurgent, draped in mismatching camo, stepped from behind a wall. He raised an AK-47. "Fire!" Tunde yelled. The room eruptd. The insurgents outside screamed and scrambled, caught by the intense, accurate fire. Emeka was firing from a kneeling position, yelling prayers with every pull of the trigger. Tunde directed their fire, shifting them to cover different angles as the insurgents tried to flank them. But the enemy had the numbers. More and more poured into the street. Musa’s gun fell silent. "Oga, no ammo!" he roared.
The insurgents, sensing the end were emboldened. A group of them rushed the school, firing wildly. The soldiers were trapped between fire. They were preparing for their final rush into the courtyard, a final, futile gesture of defiance. Tunde took a breath, ready to give the order. And then, above, they heard it. A deep, heavy whup-whup-whup-whup. The insurgents outside hesitated, looking up. Suddenly, the roof of a nearby building exploded into a fireball as two attack helicopters, their nose guns blazing, swept over the village. "Airstrike!" Musa bellowed, his voice filled with a disbelieving joy that cut through the chaos. "Oga, it's the helicopters ooooo!" Tunde felt a wave of relief so powerful it made his knees weak.
A pair of Nigerian Army armored personnel carriers crashed through the remaining village walls, their machine guns adding to the chaos. They were flying the white and green flag of Nigeria. The surviving insurgents, their morale shattered by the overwhelming force, turned and fled into the bush. The hatch of the APC(Armored personnel carrier) dropped, and a squad of soldiers, fresh and armed to the teeth, spilled out, forming a perimeter.
Their commander, a captain from the 7th Division, stepped out.
"Are you okay, Lieutenant?" the Captain asked,
Tunde didn't answer immediately. He looked around the classroom, at the chalk map, the rosary in Emeka’s hand, the machine guns, that had fought to its last bullet. He was covered in sweat, and other men’s blood. The roof above him was collapsing. He looked at his five companions. They were all alive. Every single one.
"We are okay, Captain," Tunde said,
"We are okay."
Images are a.i generated and this is my first entry on this community, also this was a vague narration that was told to me by my cousin, who was one of the people in this ambush!!!
