By Amusa Afeez Onireke
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What I’m about to say is the truth some of you are oblivious to. So, chill! Ok, let me go military: ’tion! Now, At ease! Let’s ride on. See, forget the picture above. Don’t let it deceive you. For it’s an irony or let me call it a paradox of emotional twist, emotional betrayal—a sentimental delusion. It’s of a double edged meaning: a bundle of lies on one side and an embodiment of fallacies on the other. Are you lost? Bewildered? Confused? Ok. Just before you fall for that pictorial misconception—or, misrepresentation, with a literal atom of truth though—kindly listen to me, my story.
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II
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More than three decades ago. I left my ailing momma who’d been widowed a year earlier. I left her with her consent. The same very year, I mean 30 years ago, I lost my soul mate with whom I’d planned to spend the rest of my life to another man. I lost her. I remained a broken young man in my early twenties, all for the turbulent circumstances that behooved me. I left momma because I wanted to serve my fatherland. I lost Margaret because I joined the military. I submitted my body, my soul and my flesh to a regimented life—a life of a soldier man.
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III
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When I joined the Army, I ran thousand races. I walked hundred miles. I did countless trainings. I matched numberless parades just because I wanted to be reconfigured from being a MAN to a SOLDIER. It’s a generic and radical transformation. Yes. A man needs money and woman; a soldier needs bullets and victory. Both are different. A man runs away from death; a soldier faces it. I became a paratrooper following rigorous trainings. Then my expedition to warfronts and battlefields surfaced: from Vietnam to Rwanda, from Gulf to Crimean wars, from Sino-Japanese to Russo-Turkish wars, and many more…I fought. Sometimes, I lost but not defeated. In my infantry, I fought gallantly. In Cantonment, I stood tall and triumphed. But my victory cost me my left eye; my kneecaps were smashed by a sledge hammer. I lost few men—my expendable comrades. There…their traces in the cenotaph; and in my diary, their epitaph.
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IV
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I became a captain after the Gulf war and my rank leapfrogged to Lieutenant Colonel. Sadly, momma passed away. Just a year earlier, I married, divorced and remarried at a very late age as a result of infidelity and selfless service to my country. These series of marital setbacks eventuated into a surrogate mother begetting me a son—Liam. But I’m still active in service; my passion and morale for soldiering is unflinching. My resilience and gallantry remained unwavering. I never wore down by my predicaments. To me, it was: “Il buon tiempo verra”— the good time will come. I doggedly wriggled to the next but most dangerous task in my career. It was codenamed: OPERATION SILENT TYPHOON; the mission to hunt down Tarik Hadiz, a notorious terrorist with an alias: “The Desert Scorpion”.
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V
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Are you with me or you’re still basking in that pictorial delusion? Oh come off it! Operation Silent Typhoon was the most dangerous and the bloodiest. Infrared homing, annular blast fragmentation warheads, bazookas, torpedoes, grenades, bombs, Remington guns, AK 47s,
Inter-medium range ballistic missiles and biochemical weapons became the drums of the war. How deadlier of a weapon could these aforementioned toys be? How more dreadful? My 25-man team was greeted with the most destructive offensive ever despite the fact that they were the world’s most dangerous soldiers: dangerous soldiers for dangerous missions! Sadly, the hit was massive: fleshes torn, bones fractured, joints dislocated, and skulls scattered, body dismembered and the dry sands of the desert were wet by the bloods of my men—my heroes. I lost all men but one— Sergeant Mike. I almost lost one arm; I lost my testicles, my pancreas destroyed, three fingers shoved off.
No Medic!
No Exfil!
No Sitret!
All Comms out!
Only Mike and I survived. But we were victorious. Tarik Hadiz, together with his men, was brought down, but my gallant comrades paid the price, we paid the price by saving the world, by saving humanity. So don’t judge my protruding belly. Don’t criticise my ranks. This General I become; I’ve rightfully worked for it. Those stars you see on my chest, I’ve duly paid the ultimate price.
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Thank you.
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