The sky above Abaji was clear, but the village felt a growing storm beneath its surface. The presence of the soldiers had unsettled the people, a stark reminder of the perilous world that lay just outside their fragile bubble of peace. Each day felt like the calm before the storm, with every villager bracing for an uncertain future.
Suleiman stood in the schoolyard, watching the children file into their classrooms. Their laughter, high-pitched and innocent, brought a small smile to his lips. But his thoughts were elsewhere. He couldn’t shake the words of Captain Musa, the warning that the insurgents would return—and they wouldn’t just pass through this time. They would be determined, angry, and seeking revenge.
"Suleiman," a voice interrupted his thoughts. He turned to see Ngozi approaching, her brow furrowed. "The council wants to meet. There’s talk about a more drastic plan."
Suleiman sighed. "I feared this was coming. What’s being suggested?"
Ngozi folded her arms, concern etched into her face. "Some believe we should leave. Evacuate the village before it’s too late. There’s growing fear that we won’t survive another attack."
His heart sank. Leaving Abaji? The idea seemed unthinkable. This was their home, the land of their ancestors. How could they abandon it now, after all they had done to rebuild?
"We need to fight for this place, not run from it," Suleiman said, his voice resolute. "Leaving would mean letting them win."
Ngozi nodded, though her eyes revealed her own doubts. "I agree. But not everyone feels the same. They’ve lost so much already. They’re afraid, Suleiman. And I can’t blame them for that."
"I don’t blame them either," Suleiman replied softly, "but running won’t guarantee safety. The insurgents will find us wherever we go. We’re not just fighting for Abaji. We’re fighting for a way of life."
The council meeting that evening was held under the shade of the baobab tree, where so many decisions had been made in the past. The tree stood like a sentinel, its roots intertwined with the very fabric of the village’s history, its branches spreading wide as if to protect those gathered beneath it.
Suleiman, Ngozi, and Aisha sat among the other village elders and community leaders. The air was thick with tension, and for a moment, no one spoke.
Bala, the village elder, finally broke the silence. "We have come to a crossroads," he began, his voice deep and weary. "We can’t deny the threat that hangs over us. The insurgents will return, and when they do, it will be worse than before. We must ask ourselves a difficult question: Can we afford to stay?"
A murmur spread through the crowd, with many nodding in agreement. Others, like Suleiman, remained silent, their expressions sombre but defiant.
"We’ve rebuilt this village from the ashes," Bala continued. "But we can not rebuild our lives if we are dead. I propose we consider evacuating Abaji, relocating to a safer place before it’s too late."
The suggestion sent a ripple of unease through the gathering. For some, the idea was tempting—a chance to escape the looming danger. For others, it felt like betrayal.
Aisha stood up, her voice steady. "I understand the fear we all feel. But abandoning Abaji now would undo everything we’ve worked for. The insurgents thrive on fear. If we leave, they win—not just this battle, but the war for our spirit, our will to live freely."
Her words hung in the air, challenging the fear that gripped the hearts of many.
Suleiman rose next, his gaze sweeping across the faces of the villagers he had known all his life. "We’ve faced darkness before, and we overcame it by standing together. This land—our land—has been home to generations of our ancestors. If we leave now, we forsake not only our future but our past. I’m not saying we should fight with weapons, but we can resist in other ways—through unity, through resilience."
A few villagers nodded, though their faces remained anxious. One man, Othman, spoke up, his voice tinged with frustration. "And what happens when the insurgents come with guns and fire? Unity won’t stop bullets."
"No," Suleiman replied calmly, "but fear won’t either. We can strengthen our defences, prepare escape routes if needed, and build alliances with neighbouring communities. Running may buy us time, but it won’t bring peace."
The meeting ended with no clear resolution. Some were swayed by Suleiman’s words, while others remained steadfast in their desire to leave. It was clear that the village was divided, and in the days that followed, the tension only grew.
One evening, as the sun began to set behind the distant hills, Suleiman sat by the well, his thoughts heavy. Ngozi joined him, her presence a comforting reminder that he wasn’t alone in his struggle.
"I don’t know what’s right anymore," Suleiman admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I want to protect everyone, but I can’t guarantee that staying here is the safest choice."
Ngozi smiled softly. "None of us knows what the future holds. But you’ve given this village hope, Suleiman. You’ve shown them that there’s more to life than fear. Whatever happens, that’s something no one can take away from us."
Suleiman looked at her, grateful for her unwavering support. "Thank you, Ngozi. I don’t know what I’d do without you."
She chuckled. "You’d probably be fine. But it’s nice to know you need me."
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the sky darken as the stars began to appear one by one.
"We’ll get through this," Suleiman said finally, more to himself than to Ngozi. "Somehow, we’ll find a way."
As the days passed, preparations continued. The villagers fortified their homes, dug hidden trenches, and devised plans to alert each other at the first sign of trouble. Captain Musa’s soldiers remained stationed at the edge of the village, a constant reminder of the threat they faced.
But life in Abaji didn’t come to a halt. The school continued to operate, the market still buzzed with activity, and the villagers refused to let fear dictate their lives. They had survived one attack, and they would survive again.
One night, as Suleiman lay in bed, a sudden noise startled him awake. He sat up, his heart racing, listening intently.
There it was again—a distant, rhythmic thudding. It was coming from beyond the hills, growing louder with each passing second.
Suleiman’s blood ran cold.
It was the sound of drums.
End of Chapter Thirty-Six