I was at the refugee camp as a soldier under the aegis of the United Nations in Kalibia, a far country in Northeast Africa, to free captives of war who had been made prisoners over the years and treated less than animals

But something strange happened

Right among the prisoners I heard my name. Although not my real name but the appellation I was known within my secondary school days

Surprised

“Who in this strange land knows me this much,” I said to myself.

As looked back toward where the tiny voice came from

My face met a lanky being. His appearance betrayed my chance of knowing him but his voice wouldn’t

“Nbaku,” he said in a tone as low as his voice could carry

“Nbaku?!” I shouted as ran to hug him. I couldn’t look into his eyes, written in them were the travails of an innocent soul and the palms of his hands bore misery of negative fate

My good friend was back in secondary school.

The one who talks often, the one who will make you laugh no matter your mood.

I last saw him in the late 80s, the story had it back then that they moved back to their native home after he completed secondary school.

I held him up as we walked to my station, I stole a glance at him and noticed that the broad shoulders and fine chiselled face which made him popular among girls those days were gone, leaving a gangly body that moves loosely like a leaf falling off a tree in a harmattan season

I tried not to cry for I was already vulnerable in the hands of tears

Later that night, I asked him about his dreams and what would become of them now that he has his freedom for I’m already the soldier I promised to become so I can fight for others’ safety.

In a low but convincing voice, he said:

“I don’t even know if I still want to become an archaeologist like I used to desire, I don’t know if I want to be anything anymore, I just want to go home”

What he does not know is that there is no longer a home, for what used to be a proud City of theirs has fallen. What’s left of it are carcasses of warriors, collapsed buildings, smoke that suggests destruction, a collection of ruins, a dirge and a voice of hope which will someday tell the tale of how this great city will be rebuilt.

I met my friend again.