To BokoHaram with Love(Melody Kuku) Dear BokoHaram,

I would have l liked to begin my informal letter with a "how are you?" and "I hope you are fine because I am". I would have loved to say a lot of things and talk about how I enjoy staying here in Lagos, but I can't. I know my class teacher is going to be angry with me for writing this letter, but then, she asked me to write a letter to my friend or to my parents. I try to tell her that I can't but I fear she may not understand.

Around me, my classmates' heads are bent over their books. They are writing to their friends and families; telling them lovely things, but I have no friend or family to write lovely things to, you and I know why. You are not my friend but I do not hate you either. I do not know if you will get this letter but if you do, please read it carefully and please do not bomb my school. The children here may not have a nice Aunt like Aunty Clara who can help them.

This is how it all happened; how I came to be in Lagos. Everything began like a fearful dream that I have never stopped wishing to wake up from.

Aunty Clara went back to Jos and stayed there for two weeks. I felt so lonely and scared. I couldn't stop wondering why my parents forgot to call me. It was unlike them to send me away without first telling me where I was being taken. Had I offended them? But Mom and Dad had hugged me before going to Church. So if I had offended them, they hid it well.

I thought of Dad and how he would sit me on his lap and tell me tales of the ancient Nok tribes. Dad was a genius to know so much about them. I have no doubt because my friend Jang said his Daddy doesn't know much of their history. You see, his Daddy is a businessman and hardly reads anything except the Newspaper.

I used to tell people that I didn't need a brother because I was a daughter to my Mom and a son to Dad. Dad treated me like the son he never had. We would repair the sink together and paint the walls whenever we were expecting special visitors. I was just five years old when I painted my first wall. Dad always joked about it even though Mom would raise an eyebrow when he did. It doesn't matter. All I know is that I started helping Dad with painting our peeling walls long before I learned how to write.

Mom was beautiful and tall with the fair milk skin of a Fulani woman. Her high forehead and long neck made her look like one of the gazelles in my picture book. She always loved happy endings and every night she would hug Dad and I: she would tell us how lucky she was to have us. Then, they would both tuck me in bed and kiss me good night.

I know that you may not have had a mother and father who tucked you in bed every night, but you did have at least a Mother who wished she could give you the rainbow. The only problem must have been that she didn't have enough. You too once wished for beautiful things or had something lovely which you were grateful to have. So, you must know how it hurts to lose what you love.

Mom was nine months pregnant. The baby was to be a boy. I was to have a baby brother, a real sibling, and not Mom and Dad who I always count in as my older siblings.

The day you took everything, Mom was beginning to have signs of labour. Dad had wanted to take her to the hospital but she wanted to be prayed for in church before being admitted at the hospital. It was a Sunday morning. I was just recovering from a fever and my doctor ordered that I should be allowed to have a lot of rest. So, I had to stay at home with my neighbour and friend, Jang, whose mother lives in the same compound as us. While Mom and Dad went to Church.

I waited and waited for them to come back. Jang's mother told me that Dad had to stay with Mom in the hospital as the labour pains came while they were in church. The next day, they didn't call me. I began to wonder if Mom and Dad loved me because I was the only child and now that I had a brother, they had stopped loving me.

On the third day, I had cried myself to sleep when someone woke me up. It was my Aunt, we call her Aunty Clara. She always visited us on Christmas day. So, I was surprised to see her. She did not smile or hug me like she used to do. She told me that we would be going on a very long journey and said no more. I tried to read her face but I couldn't. So, I just watched her in silence.

She collected our house key from Jang's mother and together we went into my house. All Mom and Dad's documents were packed into a big bag and so were my dresses and shoes. She then told me to look around for any other thing I may need. I did but saw nothing. We were about leaving when I sighted the scrapbook Mom made for me. It had pictures of the three of us, the perfect family. I picked it and ran to the SUV where Aunty Clara stood, waiting for me.

I did not ask her any questions, I still don't know why I didn't. Maybe it was because I was tired of people telling me that I will see Mom and Dad at the right time. They always stressed the "at the right time". Maybe it was because I was hoping that they were finally taking me to see Mom and Dad. So I kept quiet, watching the ever changing landscape till I fell asleep.

Aunty Clara and the driver did not wake me up till we drove into Aunty Clara's compound and parked. Then they woke me up and I went into the house. Days after, I began to fall ill and was taken to the hospital. All I wanted was Mom and Dad. I hated my baby brother for taking them away from me. I hated myself for not going to church with them. I continued this way till Aunty Clara told me that she was going back to Jos to bring my parents.

The minutes stretched to hours and hours, days. After what seemed like forever, Aunty Clara finally came back to Lagos with Mom's only sibling, Uncle Tom. My parents both had one sibling each and it would have been the same for me if only...

I was in the room watching TV with Aunty Clara's maid when they came in. Uncle Tom's eyes were glistering with unshed tears. His shoulders stooped over his long body. He held my hands and told me not to cry as he was about to tell me something important. He began to tell me that Mom and Dad needed me to be strong and not cry about anything. He asked me to promise not to cry at all. I did not understand but I nodded and promised him that I would not cry.

Then Aunty Clara tapped his shoulder and he stood aside. She then began a ten minutes sermon on "inner strength". I did not understand yet, but as I watched them, the fear rose like the waves of the Elegushi beach Mom, Dad and I used to go to whenever we came to see Aunty Clara in Lagos, but even that has become a past now.

When Aunty Clara finished talking and wiping her tears, Uncle Tom came to sit beside me.

"Sarah, you are eleven years old and your Mother used to boast of how strong you are." He paused.

Used to? Why is he using past tense for Mom? I wanted to correct him but I stopped. Dad had always told me that it was wrong to cut in when adults were having a discussion. So, I kept quiet. He then held my hands and told me that there had been a bomb blast at our Church and that Mom and Dad had died in the bomb blast during the worship service. He told me that they had gone to heaven and were in peace. I guess that is what grown ups tell each other in order to feel better but, it only made me feel worse as I tried to take his words in.

"And my baby", I asked, quietly.

I wanted to believe anything; to believe that my baby brother jumped out of the womb when the bomb blast took place. I wanted to believe that he landed on the bed of a nice family who lived close to the church. I wanted to believe that they would be nice enough to give him back to me, so that I could take care of him. I knew the answer but it didn't stop me from wishing.

Uncle stroked my hands now.

"Gone too, with God, Sarah, gone with God..."

"Gone with God or blasted to death? I was eleven years old but I was old enough to know death was no Ice cream. I knew I was never going to see them again. I could feel dark curtains close on my grief, wrapping me up in itself. Yet, it didn't stop my imagination. The pain made my thoughts even more vivid.

I could see Dad, hands in the air as he danced. I could see Mom with her swollen belly, smiling at him like she always did whenever he danced with his hands suspended over his head for a long time. I could see the car that had the bomb, burst through the walls of the church.

Mom must have probably jumped in shock and my baby brother must have begun to kick in the womb. Dad must have held her as she screamed in pain while trying to peer through the dust the broken walls had created. Suddenly, the time on the bomb stopped tickling. The car that had driven into several pews exploded along with Mom, Dad and everybody in the church.

I could see Mom's flesh, scattered around the pieces of wood that were once church pews. I could see her burnt belly open and my baby brother lie a little distance from it; a lump of pink flesh with burnt umbilical cord, close to Dad's severed hands.

Maybe my imagination was over working but I knew I wasn't far from the truth. I saw the pictures in the Newspaper Aunty Clara brought home. I still see them, even today.

When Uncle Tom stopped talking, my mind stopped thinking. I didn't cry. I just got up and went to my room. I guess I should be grateful that I have people like Aunty Clara and Uncle Tom who would help make my life comfortable. But what about those children who have no one to help them start life all over again? What about the men and women who lost everything like me?

I went quietly to my room and shut the door. I did not cry. Mom and Dad needed me to be strong. Still, I knew something died inside of me. I shut my door to the pain of losing my parents; to the pain of having no one to tuck me in bed; no one to tell about my day; no one to tell me what a blessing I am to them. I shut my door to all the beautiful images of the moments I shared with my parents. I shut my door to it all.

The next day, I stood up and opened the door to my new world and new family. The old Sarah was dead and gone. This is my world now, the world of an orphan. I have been made an orphan in the worst way that can ever be imagined. The images are locked up in my head. For days I stared at everyone from empty eyes. My eyes hold nothing but the memories I have chosen to keep covered.

You killed me the day you killed my parents and brother. I live because I have to live for Mom, Dad and my baby brother. They died and I live. Sometimes, I wish I had died with them but then, who will tell their story? So, I know I must live, go to school and become a Doctor. Dad always said I would make a good doctor since I love helping people. It was what he wanted me to be. It is more than that now to me. I want to save lives; I want to be able to give people back the life you denied my parents.

This is my story. I have said all there is to say. I do not hate you. Dad said I must never hate anyone even if they do me evil. I forgive you and if you do get to read this, please know that everyday, you make many little children like I, orphans. You destroy lovely families and take away our beautiful dreams.

We do not have to believe in what you believe but, we do not condemn you either. So why should you kill us for what we know and love? Does our blood bring you happiness? Does it make you better than you have ever been? You only make the blood on your hands increase till they can never be washed away. If only you would stop and look at the blood trail you've made and the ghosts you have made of both the living and the dead. One day you will die and meet with the dead; your guns and bombs all gone like the lives you took and you shall be a helpless ghost. No reward, no power.


Not Yours Sincerely,
Yandela.


(Jos is a state in Nigeria. It is one of the places that first experienced mass BokoHaram attacks.)

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