In the days that followed the attack, Emmanuel barely spoke.
The burns on the science block had long cooled, but the embers inside him raged quietly. He walked through what remained of the school with a ghost's silence, eyes hollow, fists clenched. Names of the missing were posted outside the town hall — Amina's among them — but her name was already etched into him in a way that paper could never hold.
Something inside him had shattered that morning. Something he couldn't fix with prayer.
At first, His mom tried to comfort him. She brought bowls of pepper soup to his room, hummed old hymns softly at his door, and whispered reassurances that God's plan would reveal itself. But Emmanuel didn't want comfort. He didn't want prayers. He wanted answers. He wanted retribution.
He no longer joined the family for morning devotion. His Bible remained closed on the shelf. Even Paul noticed the shift. "Are you angry at God?" he'd asked once.
"I'm not angry," Emmanuel had replied, voice flat. "I'm awake."
A week after the burial of the dead — and the silent mourning for the missing — Emmanuel stood before his father as the early morning sun filtered through the cracked windows of their parlor.
"I'm joining the army," he said simply.
Pastor Obadiah, still in his robe, looked up from his Bible. For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then he nodded.
"I thought you might."
That surprised Emmanuel. "You're not going to stop me?"
His father's eyes, usually so soft, burned with something hard and knowing. "If I were your age, I might do the same."
"Mama won't understand."
"No," he said, closing his Bible gently. "She won't."
He was right.
That evening, as the family gathered at the dinner table, Emmanuel spoke again. His voice didn't rise. It didn't need to.
"I've made my decision. I leave for training in Zaria in two months. I've already registered."
The room fell into stillness.
Then, Mummy Obadiah slammed her spoon onto the table, the metal clanging against the tin plate. "You're not going anywhere," she snapped. "You think you can fix what happened by carrying a gun? That girl—"
"Don't say her name like that," Emmanuel said, sharper than he meant to.
"That girl," his mother continued, voice rising, "distracted you from your calling. I warned you, didn't I? I told you. And now you want to throw away your life—your future—for someone who didn't even worship our God!"
"That girl had more light in her than most people who sit in the church every Sunday," Emmanuel said.
Paul looked between them, wide-eyed and silent.
"She was Muslim!" Mama hissed. "You think I didn't see the way you looked at her? You let your heart lead you into darkness."
"That darkness came for all of us, Mama," Emmanuel replied, standing. "Not just her. Not just Muslims. Everyone."
"She took you away from your faith!"
"She made me see it more clearly!"
His father's voice cut through the tension like a blade. "Enough!"
All heads turned.
"Let the boy speak."
Mama turned on him. "And you—what kind of father supports this? What kind of pastor sends his son to kill?"
"I don't send him," Pastor Obadiah said softly. "I bless him to go. There's a difference."
"No," she said, rising, eyes glistening with tears. "There's not."
She left the room, her slippers slapping hard against the floor, her sobs muffled behind the bedroom door.
Silence settled.
"I don't want to lose her and then lose you too," Paul said quietly.
"You won't lose me," Emmanuel said, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder. "You'll see me in uniform. You'll be proud."
But pride wasn't what Emmanuel was chasing. Not really. He wanted something else — the ability to face the enemy that had stolen the laughter beneath the neem tree, the girl with the dancing eyes, the boy he had been.
---
Training in Zaria was like entering a crucible.
The bugle call came every morning at exactly 5:30 a.m., echoing across the dusty compound like a scream through steel. Emmanuel and the other recruits shot out of their bunks before the last note had finished — no time for hesitation. Within minutes, they were lined up in formation, shirts clinging to their skin from the humidity of the early Kaduna dawn.
The first hour was running. Then frog jumps. Then crawling through mud under barbed wire. By the time they returned for breakfast — watery beans and yam slices — most recruits looked half-dead.
Then came parade drills, weapons training, obstacle courses, and combat lectures. The sun bore down like an unkind god. The instructors did not smile. Punishment was swift and collective. If one man failed, all suffered.
By 8:00 p.m., Emmanuel's body ached beyond language. But lights-out didn't mean rest.
Sometimes, well past midnight, the sirens would blare again — an unannounced roll call. They scrambled out of bed in darkness, boots half-tied, rifles hugged to chests. Any delay meant pushups on gravel, knees bloodied, chests pounding.
On rare nights, inspections came at 1:00 or even 1:30 a.m. Officers would storm into the dormitories with torches, overturn bunks, scream at the unprepared, and demand full military protocol.
Then, before they knew it, the bugle would blare again.
Yet Emmanuel did not falter.
The pain made him sharper. The exhaustion, quieter. Each night he collapsed into his bunk, barely breathing. Each morning, he rose again like clockwork. He had left softness behind in Bauchi — left it beneath a neem tree, in a voice that once asked him to remember.
Now, he remembered with every blister.
---
He wrote letters to Paul — short ones. Never mentioning Amina. Never mentioning home. Only updates about drills, his marksmanship scores, and how many push-ups he could now do without collapsing. Paul's replies were always bright and filled with questions.
Mama never wrote.
His father sent scriptures. Not full sermons. Just a single line:
"He trains my hands for battle; my arms can bend a bow of bronze."
"The Lord is close to the brokenhearted."
"Be strong and courageous."
Each one felt like a hand on his shoulder.
But even in camp, Amina's voice returned to him in moments of stillness.
"If something ever happens… you'll remember me, won't you?"
He didn't need to remember.
He lived it.
And in Zaria, among rifles, sweat, and dust, Emmanuel forged a vow in silence.
He would never forget.
He would never forgive.
And one day, he would return — not as a broken boy, but as a soldier.