Conviction Of The Sword

Untitled Story Part

“Imran!”

“Imran!!” A gruff voice called my name from afar. It was five am on a dry dusky Sunday morning and I was still stationed on perimeter watch for the fourth night in a row. No rest. Just a litter of cigarette butts laying around. But even chain smoking wasn’t keeping me a hundred-percent alert anymore. A neuro-crash was round the corner. I was in a dizzy slumber when the gruff voice shook me up again.

“Shege ba'nza looptenant! Wake up!!”

The cursing of my wing commander resounded in an odorous spray of spit straight in my sleepy face. I groaned awake.

It was the day when the highly confidential directives remotely given by the top commander and leader of the Haya Haram Jihadist Sect – Al Shakur Bin Fadin - was to be unquestionably and unfailingly executed. The mission in question was still shrouded in mystery as usual; until the wing commander deemed it fit to reveal to subordinate warriors like me. This, usually at the very dime minute. And when he eventually did, all that was expected was to gear right into bloodletting state of mind; plunder, kill and destroy.

No questions asked, none answered.

The supreme commander - Al Shakur Bin Fadin - intelligent and tactical, had this hypnotic charisma no one could fully understand. I remember two months ago when I was honoured to meet the man. The aura he exuded could be felt a mile away. Twisted as his cause seemed to be, he was a rugged warrior through and through.

I along with eighty-two other youths between 14 and 20 years old had been assembled north-east of the dense Sambisa for his address. He preached the essence of our Jihad and reiterated the importance of our battle with fresh fire. It was as if he intended to infuse some of that angry intensity in his eyes into us.

“The government continuously underrates and undermines our divine order.” He started calmly. “My brothers. They call us all sorts of names. ‘Insurgents’, ‘Terrorists’, ‘Extremists’... They think our ultimate mission is just to challenge them for control of a portion of territory? Or force political concessions in sharing political power? I swear to you by the most high, those infidels are wrong!” He bellowed in vicious Hausa.

The gathering erupted in savage shouts and howled madly in reply. Sporadic gun shots rang out in excitement. Sixty four of us were made lieutenants that night, including myself Imran Jamiliu. For the eighty-one other youths present that night, the brainwash was completely activated. As for me, I still couldn’t fully grasp the concept where we constantly had to make the international headlines for acts of terrorism.

Maybe it was the compassionate virtues of the Prophet (SAW), my mother used to extol to me when I was younger. Those innocent days seem like a lifetime ago now... and the weak has no place in this world or the life after, or so I've been told. Enough said.

Fast forward two months after, and there I was. On perimeter watch for the past four days in the dense Sambisa – North west of Cameroon. Two long months of constant dare-devil missions and even more counter operations against the Nigerian federal troops and Joint Task Force whom the Cameroonians had recently become allies with.

Two months of no bath, no oral hygiene, no decent shave, and wing commander Shagayi spitting orders in my face.

I shoved a cigarette between my lips and jumped to my feet, battle ready. I had been sleeping with my body-armor the whole time, so there was no need for preparations. I made a quick check anyway:

My signature Uzi Submachine slung across my shoulder: Check.

Fully loaded SIG semi automatic in my belt: Check.