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TITLE: Yes | Previous Challenge Entry
By Gary Ritter
11/22/14
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It was the worst day of my life, but it had to be even worse for my younger sister. When Boko Haram came we had just arrived home from school. Gunshots erupted. We heard screaming. All of a sudden terrifying men with rifles and machetes surrounded us. Our father came out of the house and they shot him point blank. They grabbed my mother who struggled and beat at the men with her fists, but she didn’t have the strength to overcome them. One man held my sister and said something lewd about her, then that she would make a good virgin wife for a lucky man. Sarima was twelve and developed for her age. I was sixteen and immature.

I wanted to kill the man who said those things about Sarima and the other who kept Mother from going to Father’s body, but instead I burst into tears. I felt so helpless with the huge hands that gripped my arm and pulled me along.

They shoved us into a throng of other youth and women they had gathered in their raid. The majority were girls, most not even into their teens. Fear etched their faces, their eyes were wide with second-hand knowledge of how others had been treated when captured. As we walked swiftly into the forest under the watchful eyes of the soldiers one casually came up to me. “Boy,” he said, “we will make a man of you. No more crying. For every tear I see, you’ll receive one lash of the whip. Understand?” I swallowed hard and nodded. The man sauntered away.

It took us three days of marching through dense underbrush to reach their camp. In that time I had plenty of opportunity to reflect, and to dread that which was to come. Our family was Christian living in a Christian village, which Boko Haram set on fire as we left. I no longer had a father or a home.

We had attended church every Sunday and though my parents worshipped and had great faith, I had little use for religion. There was so much to life. Why should I care about life after death? I’d always believed nothing would ever happen to me, or my family. We were secure. When my mother spoke of sin and its dreadful effect on mankind, I’d agree with her and quickly run off to play. The concept of sin was as foreign to me as nuclear physics. You’d think that in a poor country like Nigeria the effects of scarcity would focus one’s mind. I guess for some it did, but not for me.

Sarima got the point of religion. When Jesus got ahold of her she turned her life around. It’s not like she was doing anything bad but the way she spoke of it, she felt that her sin would have soon led her into dangerous situations. She cleaned up her language and behavior, read the Bible, and prayed. I’d look at her, scratch my head, and run outside looking for my friends to play a game of football. My feet had magic in them and kicking that round ball into the goal gave me such incredible satisfaction. Plus the applause of my buddies made me feel even better.

In the camp the female captives were separated from the males. The girls and women were forced to wear burqas covering them from head to toe. Even close up I couldn’t tell which were Sarima and Mother. It was hot in the jungle. I couldn’t imagine how they must have sweltered in those garments.

As the weeks unfolded I learned they were preparing to pair the women with the soldiers and marry them off. Part of that meant renouncing their Christian faith. I feared for Mother, but was horrified for Sarima. She was so pure, and what these actions might do to her caused something within me to rise up in protest. As childish as I was in my outlook these atrocities simply weren’t acceptable to me.

As the day of the mass weddings approached one of the Muslim women spoke to me as I gathered firewood. She was careful so the men wouldn’t know, as communicating with us wasn’t allowed. She had sympathy for Sarima and would help her escape. Would I help by making a disturbance?

I hesitated only a moment. And in that instant I grew up. Regardless of the danger to me, I had to do it. I said, “Yes.”

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