The captain placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "That's war. But you saved lives. And you're still breathing. That means you've got more work to do."
Emmanuel nodded slowly, the words heavy in his chest.
In that moment, something within him hardened—not hatred, but resolve. If they could turn children into weapons, he would become the shield. If they taught destruction, he would fight to rebuild. Not for glory. Not for revenge.
The following morning came with no fanfare. The sun broke over the horizon in streaks of blood-orange, casting a long shadow across the camp. Emmanuel stood in formation with the others, his uniform newly stitched, his face unreadable. The pain in his shoulder had dulled, replaced by a deeper ache—a hunger to act.
Orders came quickly. Their unit would be mobilizing again in 72 hours. Intelligence indicated increased insurgent movement near Bama. Another potential ambush. Another opportunity to protect. To resist.
Later that day, Emmanuel found himself cleaning his rifle in silence. The rhythmic motion of oiling the chamber and checking the sights calmed him. Musa, his bunkmate, sat across from him, patching a tear in his boot.
"You're not the same since Konduga," Musa said quietly.
Emmanuel didn't look up. "None of us are."
"No," Musa agreed. "But you… you look like you've seen the devil and decided to fight him with your bare hands."
Emmanuel finally met his gaze. "Maybe I have."
He didn't talk about the boy in the ambush. The boy with wild eyes and a too-large rifle. He didn't talk about the nightmares, or the fire that consumed him when he thought of the girls still missing. Of Amina.
Instead, he trained.
In the blistering heat of the northern sun, he ran drills until his legs gave out. He shot until his fingers blistered. When others rested, he studied maps, insurgent tactics, terrain weaknesses. He questioned officers, reviewed footage, absorbed every ounce of knowledge like it was oxygen.
One night, while studying a marked-up map of Borno, he overheard two officers discussing a recent intelligence leak.
"ISWAP is active again," one muttered. "They've been shifting captives to a new site along the Komadugu river. Could be prepping them for transport."
A chill settled over Emmanuel.
That name again. ISWAP. The splinter group. More organized. More dangerous. More vicious.
A memory surged—an insurgent wearing a cleaner uniform, eyes sharp and full of twisted pride. The name burned into Emmanuel's mind.
He clenched his fists.
That night, he wrote a letter he never sent:
Amina,
If you're out there… I will find you. I don't care how long it takes. I will tear through forests, deserts, and mountains. I will walk through fire. You're not forgotten.
I fight for you.
Emmanuel folded the letter and slipped it into the Bible he always carried.
Three days later, as the trucks rumbled to life and the convoy prepared to move, the captain approached him again.
"You've earned your place here," he said. "But remember, this is a war of patience as much as bullets."
Emmanuel saluted. "Understood, sir."
The day Emmanuel received his deployment orders, the air was thick with tension. The typical sounds of soldiers training and preparing for another routine mission were replaced by an unsettling quiet that lingered like an impending storm. It was a regular morning at the 7th Division base in Maiduguri, but Emmanuel could sense something different, something heavy in the air.
He stood in front of his captain, Sergeant Dahiru, his hands clasped behind his back, his mind racing. His boots felt like they weighed a thousand pounds as he waited for the words that would change everything.
"Emmanuel," Sergeant Dahiru began, his voice stern but laced with a hint of respect. "You've been selected for a special operation. This is no ordinary mission. We're storming an ISWAP camp near Biu. Intelligence says that women and children are being held captive there. Some of them might be... well, you know who they are."
Emmanuel's stomach twisted at the mention of the word captives. His heart raced, and his breath quickened. Amina. The name whispered in his mind, steady and true. The one person who had haunted his every thought since the day they were torn apart.
"You've been handpicked for this, but I'm going to tell you now, it's not going to be easy," Sergeant Dahiru continued, his gaze hardening. "ISWAP is entrenched, and they don't hesitate to fight. Be prepared for the worst."
Emmanuel nodded, his resolve firming. This was it. This was what he had trained for. The moment he had been waiting for.
"I'll do what it takes, sir," he replied, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him.
Sergeant Dahiru gave him a sharp nod. "Good. We leave at 0700. Get your gear ready."
---
The convoy roared to life at dawn. Emmanuel found himself in the thick of it, surrounded by soldiers clad in camouflage and gripping their weapons tightly. The wheels of the trucks kicked up dust as they sped along the rough terrain toward Biu, their mission clear. The air was hot and dry, the sun casting long shadows over the soldiers as they moved toward the heart of the insurgent stronghold.
The convoy was a mix of armored vehicles and supply trucks, each one filled with soldiers eager for the confrontation they knew was coming. Emmanuel sat in the back of the lead vehicle, staring out at the barren landscape as it passed by in a blur. His mind was consumed with one thought: Amina. If she was alive, he was going to find her. And this time, no one was going to take her from him.
As they approached the outskirts of the camp, the atmosphere shifted. The usual sounds of soldiers talking and moving grew quieter, replaced by the tense silence that comes before battle. Emmanuel's heart was pounding in his chest. He could feel the weight of the mission pressing down on him, but he pushed it aside. He couldn't afford to think about it now. He had a job to do.
The convoy came to a halt. The soldiers disembarked quickly, their movements swift and practiced. Emmanuel could feel his pulse racing as he slung his rifle over his shoulder and followed his unit into the thick brush surrounding the camp. They were moving cautiously now, aware of the danger that lurked in every corner. Every step they took was deliberate, every sound amplified in the stillness of the early morning.
Then came the first explosion.
A deafening roar erupted from the distance, shaking the ground beneath their feet. The shockwave sent dust and debris flying into the air as gunfire erupted from all sides. ISWAP had ambushed them, and the battle had begun.
Emmanuel's training kicked in. He dove behind a nearby boulder, pulling his rifle into position and scanning the surroundings. His breath was shallow, his senses heightened. He had been in firefights before, but this was different. This was personal. He was not just fighting for his comrades, but for Amina. He couldn't lose her again.
Gunfire ricocheted off the rocks around him, and the sound of battle grew louder, more intense. Soldiers screamed orders, and Emmanuel moved with them, advancing toward the enemy position. His rifle was steady in his hands as he fired at the insurgents who were hidden behind the trees and makeshift barricades. The shots rang out, each one bringing them closer to their goal.
But the enemy was well-prepared. From behind their fortified positions, the ISWAP militants retaliated with vicious force. The air was filled with the staccato bursts of automatic fire, and Emmanuel could feel the heat of the battle closing in around him. His pulse was racing, but his focus never wavered. He had come for Amina, and he would not leave without her.
As they advanced, Emmanuel's mind kept drifting back to her. The thought of her being held captive, of her suffering, spurred him forward. But as he neared the heart of the camp, something unexpected happened. He saw a figure—someone who should not have been there.
Bilal.
The man who had tormented her. The man who had taken Amina and used her as a tool for his own twisted desires. Emmanuel's blood ran cold at the sight of him. The fury that had been building within him since the ambush in Biu suddenly ignited. He had to reach her. He had to make Bilal pay.
But as he charged toward the building where Amina was believed to be held, a bullet slammed into his side. The pain was immediate, intense, and he staggered, barely managing to stay on his feet. He gritted his teeth, refusing to fall, refusing to give up. But as the blood pooled beneath him, his vision blurred. He stumbled forward, trying to push through the pain, his rifle still clutched tightly in his hand.
Through the haze of pain, he saw her. Amina.
She was there, just inside the doorway of one of the huts. She looked different, broken, but she was alive. His heart surged with a mixture of relief and fear. He was so close. But before he could reach her, Bilal stepped into the doorway, blocking his path.
"You think you can take her from me?" Bilal sneered, his rifle raised.
Emmanuel struggled to lift his own weapon, but his body was failing him. His vision was darkening, his strength fading. The last thing he saw before the world tilted into blackness was Amina's face, her eyes wide with fear and something else—hope.
---
Inside the hut, Amina had been waiting, her heart in her throat. She had heard the sounds of battle from outside—explosions, gunfire, shouts—but she couldn't bring herself to believe that help had come. Not after everything she had been through.
Then, the door burst open, and Emmanuel appeared.
She froze. Her heart skipped a beat. Emmanuel. It was really him.
But before she could reach out, Bilal appeared, stepping between them, a malevolent grin on his face. Amina's stomach twisted with dread. He wasn't going to let her go. Not again.
And then everything fell apart.