Is This Love?

Near the northern part of the village, there was an open space which was used by the local children as their playground. Rebecca was in the habit of visiting that ground every night to sit there for hours and vacantly stare at the stars. She could hardly remember the night when she had slept more than three hours. Mostly the nights were disturbed by the gunfire sound, either produced by the Yoruba militants' guns, or by the retaliating armed forces of the President Mosaka.

Since she had come to realize her own existence in the world, she had found herself surrounded by miseries. The mother was killed in an ambush near their village, the elder brother had joined the armed forces, and the younger brother was an active member of a guerilla group, the father she had never seen in sober condition, always drunk. The locally brewed palm wine was as if the prime objective of the local men. This they talked about, traded, brewed, sold to the people in the city, and even went drunk to sleep thinking of it.

Today, she is very lonely, for her father is not in their thatched hut. He had gone to the city for just one day but it is the fifth day today. He had promised her that he would bring a nice dress for her. She had seen an American movie once when she had visited the city with her father. She was surprised to see the color of the women in the movie. In her hut she had a broken triangular piece of mirror which she had befriended because she could talk to it and ask it why her color was so dark. Suddenly, she hears the sounds approaching the ground. Rebecca hides herself behind a tree surrounding the ground. She was almost sixteen and the women in the village often reminded her of her growing age. At first she used to ignore them but now she understands what they meant.

"She should be somewhere around," said a voice.

"Are you sure, she is here?" said another voice.

"Yes, she comes here every night," he insisted.

Rebecca got a dark vision of the boy with the gun. She recognized him. He was Robin, a handsome boy from the village to the south of their own.

They were classmates when she used to go to the missionary school in the church. He was very nice to her. He often bought her sweets, pencils and story books. She did not know where he got money from. One day he suddenly disappeared in the jungle and never came back. After three years, he was before her, looking for her in the darkness. Has he come to meet her? She did want to come out of hiding to greet him but the gun in his hand frightened her.

"Go, find her anyhow. I must meet her!" he was shouting at his comrade.

"I can't see anything in the darkness," protested his companion.

"We must go back tonight, otherwise the commander will be angry," said the first.

"Why don't you go to her house?" said his comrade.

"The army goons are all over the village and I don't want to take any risk," said the known voice.

Rebecca's heart was palpitating, and she felt sweat trickling down her throat. Her voice wanted to escape the confines of her throat but she composed herself.

Hardly had she realized her situation when the gunfire broke out. The ground was flooded with the lights of the army vehicles. She heard two cries and the rattle of the gunfire. After about three minutes, everything was silenced.

Next morning, the villagers were thronging to see the dead bodies of the boys killed in the darkness of the night. The dead bodies were lying on the ground and flies were feasting on the thick blood over the bullet wounds. At some distance, Rebecca was standing, staring constantly at the dead body of her friend. Her eyes were moist. Then she rushed towards her hut and pulled the broken mirror out of the sack. She looked in the mirror, and her wet eyes were asking, "Is this love?"