A Collection of Short Stories

Hymar David
Angels of Redemption
“And those who go to bed, climaxing with the devil
Wake up militants, summoning God.”
**
-Shittu Fowora.
After some time, your muscles grow accustomed to the weight of the gun. You no longer
suffer cramps from marching all day in the heat of the forest, craving sleep, water and
home. Your reflexes sharpen, your senses become attuned to sounds other than twigs breaking
under marching feet, urine hitting dead leaves scattered on the ground, and ushed exchanges in
Hausa. You hear birds taking flight from umbrella trees as your troop approach, the whispering of the
leaves as the wind pass through them; forest voices. You are becoming one with the forest and one
of them.
By the third day, you find a coil of rope from which you weave a makeshift sling to carry the weapon
across your shoulder. Like you carried your bag when you went to school. Alfa barks instructions,
his thickly bearded face conveying the menace he tries too hard to pass across with harsh words.
But you are not afraid of him, he would not hurt you; he never used his whip back at the Quranic
school. In the forest, the only thing that terrifies you is the excitement in the voices of the boys
marching alongside you. Boys you grew up with. Boys you know. Or used to know.
Their muted conversations are full of demolition, carnage and righteousness. They talk about their
duty to the Prophet, the sacrifice they are more than willing to render. They ooze adrenaline and
bloodlust. They put the fear of Allah in you.
Yes, you fear Allah. You fear whatever can suddenly possess little boys my age , trap their budding
adolescence in hourglasses of savagery, to make them believe they are angels of repercussions
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