The Boy That Shot At Gwoza -By Idris Hassan

If you have never experienced the roughness and rigidity of life you won’t understand that life is hard, tough, brutal and dynamic. I was 8 years old when my father passed away in a car accident around Lagos —Ibadan express way. My father actually went there to search for what him and his family would eat— he had been a commercial driver for years — myself and my mother are not worried about that because, he was actually doing a genuine work and was bringing food to the table and taking care of the family.

My father prior to his demise, stopped sending anything home for about two years—ever since he met Atinuke—one prostitute in Ojuelegba who was vested on eating his money. My mother never went to school; she happened to be a full time house wife struggling hard to take care of me, and even when she gave birth to my younger brother—my father was still not around. One morning—a call came in“ Hello, good morning! Hope I’m speaking to Mrs Kudirat Garba? My mother replied“ yes, any problem?” The man on the phone replied to my mother “ The owner of this phone had an accident in Lagos—Ibadan express way with a Dangote truck; the car burnt to ashes” That moment, my mother fell to the ground and that was her end.

It wasn’t easy for me loosing my two parents the same day as I cried until my eyes nearly removed. Their burial were done successfully; father’s little remain in form of ashes was buried in Lagos —while my mother was buried in Lokoja, Kogi State.  Four weeks after the burial, my father’s young brother took me and my younger brother who was just a year old to Zamfara State— since my late father had no house of his own but a rent apartment. 

In Zamfara, my father’s brother was hardly around; always travelling.  His wife maltreated me so badly; I suffered in her hands that I had to run away for two weeks and returned back since I had no where to go. My younger brother later died in her care due to malnutrition and sickness— and I cried but my brother’s wife wasn’t worried at all. She sometimes uses hot knife to punish me and this gave marks on my back— sometimes, my manhood and even when my father’s younger brother returned, I would not be able to tell him because he never sees fault in her.

I left that family when I was 10 years old to look for what to eat in the rain and in the sun. I go to the shops in Gusau to beg for what to eat and sometimes, they drove me away—I didn’t stopped begging. I resulted to fast and eat once in a day just to survive but that didn’t  work. I joined some friends in stealing which I later stopped— not until I came in contact with the Boko Haram group when I left Zamfara for Maiduguri. I was convinced and offered good care, money, food and other goodies. I was so happy and since I was intelligent and smart, I was taken to every operations. I mastered the use of knives, miles, and even AK-47 in few weeks.

In fact, as small as I was, I was enrolled and trained in the infantry division and could handle weapons very well. Our operations and ambush are carried out around Bama, Chibok, Monguno, Ngala, Nganzai, Shani and many others and what we know best is to terrorise and kill in the name of the religion. Yes, we were taught that we were fighting a just cause for Allah and we would be rewarded amicably by Allah in paradise. I had it in my mind that I’ll go to paradise despite slaughtering about 40 human heads. In fact, there are beautiful virgins waiting anxiously for me in paradise—which no one can denial that. But I was wrong and misinterpreted the scriptures of Islam — blackmailed and brainwashed by the terrorist group. Unfortunately for me—with all the bad things I have done, I was killed at Gwoza when the military attacked us.