"John" [Writer's contest 3]

In the army, his name was John. Just John. No prefix, no suffix. It was odd, but it was good enough to keep him in the army, let him rise through the ranks, and become a Major. Some people said the oddity of his name was what made his superiors favour him. But those people were just people with a bad case of envy-pimples. Because John wasn’t just good. He was the best there was.

The day they took him, the Army had just recaptured Boga, a desert in hell. He was alone in an unmarked Jeep, taking a cursory tour of the ruined town. There was little to see – the debris of destruction. He had driven for almost thirty minutes when he encountered a roadblock along a stretch of road bordered by thickets that reminded him of Madagascar. He saw them rise from behind nearby thickets, wielding big guns. He felt no fear. He simply wondered how long they had been lying under the cruel sun, waiting for an enemy. How did they survive? What motivated them? Virgins?

***

They put him on an electric chair, and wired an infrared device to his eyes. Whenever he tried to close his eyes, a blast of electric current passed through him.

But John told his interrogators nothing.

***

“You are going to die here John if you tell me nothing,” their leader said, pacing the cell. “No one’s going to remember you. The country which you die to protect will not even miss you. What gain is that? So, start talking.”

John was still in his seat. Their leader was a lanky man with designer tribal marks. He was dressed in military style outfit, but with a turban wrapped around his head. John watched him; studied the way he paced around the cell. His vision was blurry but it was good enough to measure the things he had to measure, the angles and curves. He had planned this meticulously, and there was only one shot at freedom. No second chances.

“Sir, you ever read the Bible?”

“No.”

“So, I’m pretty sure you don’t know what’s in Mathew 26:31.”

“Why should I care?”

“Because you are a dead man.”

***

He spent six months in a hospital in Berlin, but John lived. When he returned to the Defence Headquarters in Abuja for debriefing, General Shehu invited him for tea inside his commodious office.

“Why did you do it John?”

“I thought I could see her again. But the cells . . . they were empty.”

Shehu shook his head. “Amina’s gone John. You have to accept that.”

There were tears in the soldier’s eyes. “She was just a girl.”

“I know John. Life isn’t fair.”

“She was just a girl,” John repeated, silently, like a solemn prayer.

That night, for the first time since he was a boy, he wept. But he wept with purpose. Because the bad guys were going to pay for Amina. Big time.

NAME:  John Jako