The March back home is horrible. I keep seeing and feeling the eyea of the men I killed, staring, just staring. And it feels like they can read the guilt on my skin, I don’t wear it well.
The others complain as well. In hushed tones, Uche told me how he wakes up with a scream on his lips every morning. But we already knew, we all did.
And I don’t know if my daughter will be alive when I get back, will she smile? Or will she wail and complain of how she only eats ugwu leaves everyday? Will Ada, my Ada, look at me with tears in her eyes and be glad I didn’t die? Or will she even recognize me with my missing arm?
And now I realise, war is evil. No matter the cause, no matter the noblity of duty, it isn’t pretty. Looking your fellow human in the eye as you kill him isn’t the vision we should have. Dying in a battlefield isn’t the death we should have.
It gets dark, in my head I hide, from the gunshots, the screams. The torture of the soul are the ones that hurt most. I can’t see. I don’t think I’ll ever be home again.
Epidi Leonard Oreoluwa