1.
The explosion roars like an angry god, and the world erupts around you. Heat and shrapnel slice through the thick desert air. You drop to the ground. Your instinct sweeps you over and your rifle clatter to the ground. Useless. Somewhere in the chaos, you sieve the screams of your men—they were young, invincible boys only moments ago. Now, just voices swallowed by smoke and fire.
You press your palm to your temple.
Your fingers come away slick with blood. It runs down the side of your face, following the contours of your ear. It doesn’t hurt. You try to crawl, but something stops you. Your leg. It’s wrong. It’s mangled in a way that you know means it’s gone—or soon will be.
The world fogs at the edges as your breathing quickens. You see the sun, pale and distant through the smoke. You think about her. Idara. Her laughter, her voice. The way she used to twirl in front of you—in her neat cornrows—teasing you with her beauty, knowing she could bend you with a smile.
But then the world goes dark and you fall into nothing.
2.
You met her in Eket. At her father’s house. The Brigadier General. He had summoned you and a few officers to an after-party in celebration of his promotion to Brigadier General. You are a captain, barely scraping by on duty and discipline. He likes you for your brazenness. You are one of the few soldiers in your battery who do not flinch when he barks cutting orders and asks tough questions.
That was the first time you saw her. She stepped out of the house in jeans and a loose blouse. Her long velvety black hair was tied to the back like she’d been too busy to bother with her looks. She had a mouthy smile and a glassy skin that shimmered at the sight of light—a fine shade of chocolate. There was something arresting about the confidence in her stride, the intelligence in her gaze and how she carried her slender frame.
She greeted everyone, but her eyes lingered on you. You looked away, your eyes feasting on portraits of General lined against the unpainted wall. They were of different sizes and the size of each frame depends on who’s in the photograph. That of General and Colonel Sadiq Hassan seemed smaller than that of him and Major General Rasaq Abdulroqueeb. To the left was also that of him and a cross section of Rwandan soldiers at the 1989 peacekeeping mission in Liberia. You knew that because there’s a smaller version of it at General’s office and he references it whenever he brags of his bravado at the base of Mount Nimba and the valleys of kpelle rainforest. Right above them all was the biggest frame. There was a shard of scare in General’s eyes and you couldn’t blame him. Soldier or civilian, it takes courage to pose for a shot with the Commander-in-chief of the Armed Forces. They say the President knows not how to smile but in that portrait, he did.
The aroma of scent leaves yanked your attention back to the table. You bet it had to be plantain porridge with a protein peculiar to your people: ewa, dog meat, and it was. You told her thank you and she replied with a question.
“You must be Captain Etteka,” she said but you didn’t respond. You dug your spoon into the plate and pretended it was a statement and not a question.
She cut you a glare and you nodded back, saying no word. You were unsure if your voice would betray you. It didn’t have to. That could have been the end of you.
Later, you overheard her speaking to her father. She was planning to join the army.
Walahi! She no go dey follow us suffer for field o. You know as e dey be for General children na! The then-Warrant-Officer Umaru said.
You knew that already. But you let Umaru talk because he did not like to be interrupted. She was the General’s legacy, his only child, the one who would carry the family’s name forward in the military. You didn’t expect less.
As you walked back to the motorcade, you pictured her in a Second Lieutenant’s camo and smiled, like you did the day you got enlisted into the Nigerian Army.
3.
You saw her again a month later. She was visiting the barracks in Ibagwa, where you’d been posted temporarily. She waved when she saw you, and this time, you both spoke to each other. It was now safe to speak back to her. The conversation was brief but warm, and for reasons you couldn’t explain, it left you restless and craving for more.
After then, you found excuses to be where she was, and she didn’t seem to mind. Eventually, you were sneaking off to meet her at a beach in Ibeno. Just the two of you up against the dancing ocean waves.
She laughed when you told her about your first posting to Enugu. It was a garrison duty but during training, you nearly got lost in the bush in the middle of a drill. She teased you about being a soldier who couldn’t read a compass.
“I’ll be better when I’m commissioned,” she said, grinning.
“You’re already perfect, Second Lieutenant Idara Adarabioyo” you teased, giving her a mock salute.
“Please! Don’t be faster than your shadow,” she said, in Ibibio. You laughed so hard it began to feel like your ribs squeaked.
She drifted closer, pulled you to herself and rested your head on her thighs. Her eyes melted into yours. “I know you’re a soldier but I think you should smile more. You have a lovely smile,” she said.
You blushed and for a moment. The world felt simple.
4.
News of your meetings with Idara reached General. You don’t know how. You woke up one morning in the guardroom of the 6th Battalion barracks, Ibagwa—sore and as bare as a bone.
Your back was on fire. Tattoos of welts and bruises draped your skin. You can’t even remember being yelled at let alone being tortured. It was so painful you got tired of hawking your own skin.
You spent a week in the guardroom stewing in pain. When they finally released you, you thought it was because the General had shown mercy.
A month later, you discovered that Idara had disappeared. She’d left a note, promising her father she wouldn’t return until you were free. The guilt would rise above you like smoke. You dragged her into this and ruined her relationship with her father. You don’t think she deserved that.
General didn’t forgive you. In the military, there’s no room for mistakes to go unaddressed and what you had done was insubordination. You were a non-commissioned officer who had dared to reach for something above your station. It was a challenge to his authority, his legacy.
He didn’t court-martial you even though he had the might to. Instead, he found a punishment worse than any tribunal. He had you deployed to Maiduguri, to the heart of the fight against an insurgency that has been in existence even before you joined the army: Boko Haram.
When you told Idara, she begged you to let her intervene. “I’ll talk to him. He can send you somewhere else,” she begged, her voice breaking.
“No,” you told her. “This is the only way. If I prove myself, if I survive, he’ll forgive me. Maybe then we can have a chance.”
She didn’t believe you, not entirely, but she didn’t argue. She knew how much the military meant to you, how hard you’d worked to build a career out of nothing. She promised to wait for you.
You promised to come back in one piece.
5.
They tell you later that you’re lucky to be alive. That most men don’t survive ambushes like that.
You don’t feel lucky as you lie in the hospital bed. Your body is sore from painkillers. Your leg had gone below the knee. The bandages around your head and now half leg itch, but you don’t have the strength to scratch. Even if you could, you weren’t allowed to. The albino nurse, a reverend sister in her full glory, says it’s best you keep your hands to yourself. She adjusts your drip set, pat you on the shoulder and fakes a smile.
Sergeant, no worry. Notin go do you!
Warrant Officer Umaru came to see you. Your commander did too. General never showed up. You didn’t expect him to. They’ll all say you’ll get a prosthetic. That you’ll adapt.
You nod even though you don’t believe them. Every wounded soldier you know who was promised a prosthetic never got one. They’ll eventually get reduced to mere wheelchairs. Umaru and your Commander knew this. But everybody just wants to make you feel good. You don’t blame them.
Your bladder is full and you attempt to help yourself up but suddenly remember that your left leg is gone. You’re left with a stomp that dangles like a pendulum when you hold yourself up with clutches. But, that’s not what bothers you the most. The doctor is back. Clean shaven and twice your size—length and breadth. He waves a chart in front of your face, asking you to identify the colors. You can’t.
Captain you sure say na just gray you dey see?
You nod and he shows you more and more charts but all you see is gray. The reds, greens, and blues that once painted your world are gone. They’ve all been replaced by an endless spectrum of gray. You ask why the world is suddenly gray and he explains. He calls your condition achromatopsia. You ask him to break it down to your level and he says it’s complete color blindness. He says you had a shockwave to the brain during the explosion. In two words: brain injury. You had damaged some critical nerves. All your eyes can afford to see now is gray. Other colors are now too expensive for the cones of your retina to afford.
You sit in stunned silence. Your mouth is full of words but you can’t push them beyond your lips. How do you explain that you’ve just lost the ability to see your own memories?
6.
When Idara comes to see you, she’s wearing a dress, pale and delicate, the kind of thing she used to wear to tease you and get you in the mood after dinner. But now, it’s just fabric. The color, whatever it is, escapes you.
She talks about the future, about how you’ll adapt. How you’ll rebuild your life. She’s strong, stronger than you. Her optimism should comfort you but it makes you feel smaller. Weaker.
You used to tell her how beautiful she was. How the colors of her dresses made her look like a goddess. You used to notice the way the sunlight played with her hair. The way her lips glowed with a shade you could never name but always loved.
Now, she’s just shades of gray.
7.
One night, you wake up drenched in sweat. The searing pain in your missing leg stabs like a knife. You reach for Idara’s hand, needing to feel her, to remind yourself that she’s still here. She stirs but doesn’t wake. Her fingers curl around yours.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, though you know she can’t hear you.
You’re sorry for the man you’ve become. Sorry for the beauty you can no longer see. Sorry for the love you’re afraid you might lose, not because of her but because of you.
In the darkness, with her hand in yours, you wonder if you’ll ever find color in your life again.
[Author Bio:] Felix Eshiet resorts to fiction and poetry for social commentary. The Ibibio poet and writer is an English undergraduate from the University of Uyo. His works appear or are forthcoming on Fiery Scribe Review, Afrocritik, Ink in Thirds, African Writer Magazine, and elsewhere. Felix is the Editor-in-Chief at Ekóndó Review.
Cool one man❤❤
Felix Eshiet is damn too good!🔥