As she fell hard to the ground, she wondered if it was all worth it. She questioned her intelligence and searched for her green manual to locate where it was written that she was expected to die for her country.
Mostly wrapped in white and green, the people became very fond of her and they called her a national servant. She didn’t mind this at all because wearing the khaki could only mean she was a graduate and that she was courageous enough to serve her very own country.
It was a national privilege, they said. You will be protected, they bragged. You will be compensated, they lied. You will have authority, they stammered. You will have a place to rest your head, they promised. She believed in all of their promises but deep down, she knew they kept some truth to themselves. Nevertheless, she persisted and went ahead to wash her uniform, meticulously ironing it until it was sleek and ready to be worn with pride.
With a ripped uniform, she dropped a tear and hugged the grass until she was completely camouflaged. She was aware that if she caught a bullet, no one will give her a national burial neither will her family be compensated for loosing her to a national crisis.
While on the ground, she was filled with regrets because not too long ago, she packed her bag and told her family she would pay her dues to her fatherland. They were glad but her father had his reservations and for good reasons. If only she had listened to him, maybe she would have been in her sitting room watching the news and praying for her colleagues.
She remembered all the lies she had been fed with and all the promises they kept, and questioned her intelligence once again. She watched in pain as sensitive materials were completely destroyed by acclaimed civilised men living in a democratic country.
Corper shun, corper wee! Those were the recitations of Nigerians who met her on the road. She was embarrassed but all she could do was smile and wave back. At that moment, she was proud indeed, she felt greatly rewarded even without receiving any alert. In her heart, she was contented and she knew there was no going back.
She was told the military men would be her saviour in any crisis. She had her fate in their hands, and she had zero doubts about her safety. As they drove into her polling unit, dressed in their respected costumes, her confidence increased more and more. Little did she know they were all part of the game. Checkmate!
Give her, O Lord, your peace and let your eternal light shine upon her.” Congregation:” Amen.” Her father was furious. He had fought in the army but he didn't think he would lose his only daughter to a war disguised as an election. She truly lived but she died trying to survive the wrath of her government. It wasn’t her time but she paid the price for the godfathers' sins.
Still hugging the floor, she saw an opportunity to run. She wasn't sure she could make it, but she had to try anyway. She stood up and ran with all of her strength, courage, and determination, but she fell again. Only that this time, she fell with a bullet in her stomach whereas, young girls her age had butterflies and food in theirs. A stray bullet hit her but was not intended for her, they claimed. She was told they would protect her but she caught their own bullet. They lied.
Her bank account was credited with N30,500 by a commission some westerners call “high neck”. They probably paid her thinking she was alive. They didn’t even know she had passed on. If only she had read through the manual, she would have known that it was only under the rain and sun she was expected to work and not during a war. But how could she have known, they called it an election. She is N30,500 richer now but a thousand feet below. I’m not sure what she can buy with that amount there but I’m sure she can’t buy her life back.
***Fictional account inspired by the violence faced by youth corp members in the line of duty during the 2019 General Election.
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