The soldier sat watching the pigeons flocking around him. They had finished the bread crumbs he had scattered on the ground and were obviously expecting more.
How can you have no fear of what I'm capable of? Do you know what these hands that fed you have carried? He asked.
Who are you talking to? A voice asked from behind him.
The soldier twisted his neck to find his mother behind him, watching him from above her spectacles. He could see the worry in her eyes, aside from the other emotion, the one she tries to hide.
I am just thinking aloud, ma, he replied.
He had first noticed this new thing in her eyes, the first night he slept in the house after his return. He had been whittling, a skill he learnt from an old, almost blind German sergeant. The man could barely see but he knew how to break young boys and shape them into obedient killers. When he cannot sleep, he finds a piece of wood and with his knife, finds the shape within it. He had heard the room door open and there, before the hallway light was her bright gaze. She never took her eyes off the knife even as she closed the door without a word…
What did you say ma? He asked.
What were you thinking about? Ma asked again.
Nothing important. Just life, you know? He replied.
He waited for Ma to say something but she remained silent. He watched the pigeons as they darted here and there, beating their wings and cooing.
Birds are so free, he said.
Do you feel trapped? Ma asked.
He had forgotten that she was there. That was another thing, she would stand behind him, silent, waiting as if expecting something unnatural to happen around him. Around her, he felt like an alien, like a ghost that has refused to recognize that it is a ghost.
I feel...sometimes. Sometimes, I wish I had wings, he replied.
Where would you go if you had wings? Ma asked.
The soldier turned his torso towards the body by the door. The sun was on her face so he could not fully make out her eyes but he knew what he would find there; that strange thing that she found while he was away killing people for his country. He turned away from her, unable to bear how she looked at him. He sighed, then he raised his hands towards the sun. He could almost make out the blood vessels in his hands. I am alive. He sighed again. The door closed behind him and he sighed for the third time.
The next day was therapist day. He looked at his beard in the mirror and caught the shaving stick with the corner of his eyes. He raised the stick towards his throat and his hand began to shake. He dropped the stick into the wash basin. He washed the lather off his shin and throat and walked out of the bathroom without removing the stick from where it fell. Why can I whittle with a knife but I can't put a blade near my skin? What is wrong with me?
The therapist was an old retired Major. The soldier always met him at his desk, his clothes starched and pressed, his faced shaved and powdered. The man reminded him of a baby. He entered the office and took his regular seat.
Did anything special happen since our last session, the therapist asked.
Nothing special happens to me, sir, the soldier replied.
What about your mother? The therapist asked.
What about her, the soldier replied.
How is your relationship with her? The therapist asked.
I don't know; we talk, we eat, we sleep. What more am I supposed to expect? The soldier asked.
You don't expect anything? The therapist asked
The soldier watched the old man peer at his notes. He is not even paying attention to me. We have done this thing over and over again. We are getting nowhere.
What is there to expect? More war, more lies, more death? The soldier asked.
Do you not expect love, happiness, kindness? The therapist asked
Have you seen how my mother looks at me? The soldier asked, suddenly rising to his feet.
How does she look at you? The therapist asked.
With terror! My own mother is terrified of me! The man replied.
Please do sit down and take a deep breath. Why would your mother be afraid of you? The old man asked.
You tell me! You are the expert in psychology. You tell me, the man replied.
He sat back down on the seat and stared at the many papers peeking from different files on the therapist's table. So many people with so many problems.
Has she said anything to you or has her body language revealed to you that she is indeed afraid of you? The therapist asked.
The soldier said nothing. He just stared at the floor, at his shiny black shoes. They had been polished and were by his door when he woke up that morning. He took a deep breath.
As a soldier, we are trained to identify when our enemy is cowed and ready to break. My mother reeks of fear but I do not know why. I am tired. Can I go? The soldier asked.
Our session is not over but you can go if you want, the therapist replied.
The soldier nodded and stood up. At the door, he paused and turned as if to say something then he shook his head and left. He will not understand. He is not even seeing me.
How was today's session? Ma asked.
All these doctors are a waste of money. If not that I need the psych evaluation in order to be eligible for disability benefit, I won't step a foot in that office, the soldier replied.
He felt his mother raise her head. They were eating their evening meal; yam and palm oil soup. She has not looked at me since I came back from the doctor.
What happened, Osazee?
The soldier's hand stopped halfway from his mouth. She has not called him by his name since he returned from his duty post. He shook his head.
Why are you terrified? Wha...why are you terrified of me? Osazee asked.
I... I… what a stupid thing to say. Terrified? Why would I be terrified of you? Ma asked.
You've not been able to look me in the eyes since I returned! That's why! Today is the first time you are calling me by my name! That's why! I am a soldier. I am trained to notice things. You always stand behind me and I know you lock your room door at night, something...you never did before I left, the soldier yelled.
He watched how his mother recoiled from his verbal attack, how her eyes widen with the terror. He felt disgust within himself. He got up from the dining table and went to his room.
Are you officer Osazee, a voice asked.
The soldier is seated outside again. He is not feeding the pigeons this time. He is whittling the last piece of a chess board. He was working on a pawn. He looked up to see a young woman dressed in shorts and t-shirt waving a parcel before him.
I am he, he replied.
Please sign here, the courier replied, producing a writing pad attached to a pen.
The soldier signed and took the parcel from the woman. He shook it but heard nothing. He checked all over the parcel for any sign of identification but found nothing. He looked up but the woman was gone. He sat down on the porch and pkaced the parcel on his laps. He dug his whittling knife through the paper wrap. Just then the door opened and his mother was behind him.
Where did you get that? She asked.
Her voice sounded agitated so the son turned to his mother.
Someone sent it to me. I don't know who, he replied.
Don't open it Osazee! the mother said.
She rushed to him and tried to take the package from him but he is stronger and bigger. He holds her off. He is anger now. If I am as cruel and evil as she sees me, I would wound her now.
Why? Why should I listen to you? You look at me with terror, why? How have I hurt you, mama? The son asked.
The old woman burst into tears and fell to her knees.
If you open it, you will go. I don't want you to go, she said through the tightness in her chest.
I will go where? The soldier asked.
You will go. Please don't go. Please, the woman said, her knees on the ground, tears streaming down her face.
Mama, stand up. You are drawing attention to us. I am not going anywhere, the son said but when he turned there is no one around, just the pigeons pecking away at the soil.
Ma refused to stand up. She just went limp on the ground and cried on. It was as if she was getting the news for the first time. She felt the hands on her shoulder and a voice
It is time, Matilda. Let go, the voice said.
No! She screamed.
She opened her eyes to see the surprise on her son's face. She watched as his body began to scatter into light like a thousand fireflies. His mouth formed the word mama just before that too turned to golden dust. Her heart broke all over again and she sagged as she was lifted from the viewing chair and settled on a bed.
From faraway, she could hear voices hovering over her.
This is the saddest part of this job, Arinze, watching them try to connect with a simulation of life. How does this help grief? A voice asked.
Another voice, a man's this time replied;
They get to say goodbye. They get to say all the things that they never got the chance to say. It can be satisfying. By the time, we fuse this new memory into her, she will believe that she indeed spent time with her son in his last days. It is not perfect but it is good enough for me.
Oblivion took the woman and just as darkness took over, she heard the Miles Davies song, It never entered in mind. Osazee loved that song. Darkness.
