A Collection of Short Stories

Hymar David
Angels of Redemption
“I am just thinking,” you blurt out.
“About what?” Usman asks in that grown-up voice he has adopted since the march began.
You shrug, but no shoulder work. You look at the trees, sensing the eyes of the other boys boring
qustions into your back. Already you can see a stretch of makeshift tents made of parched grass
and bamboo shoots, figures moving in the distance, black kaftans, faint smoke clouds. A black flag
flutters a welcome in the wind. Apprehension grips your chest.
The chatter picks up. You hear mallam Ibrahim’s name bandied about in reverential tones.. He’s
the prophet’s right hand of justice. He’s the man who was marked by Allah for the Cause. He’s the
Saviour. Redeemer.
A hush hovers your troop as you approach the camp. You see smoke and smell the faint aroma
of something cooking. Conversation fades as your troop pass sentries wielding menace like the
machine guns they tote. They have straw hats and some wore army camouflages most likely
stripped off dead soldiers . Nobody is talking anymore.
Mallam Ibrahim is sitting on a chair, wearing a white turban, white kaftan and marching boots. He is
fondling prayer beads with both hands. Two men flank him, their machine guns pointing skywards.
The wind carries jollof rice aroma to you. It brings memories laced with nostalgia.
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