The intensity of the war in Manzi was better experienced than explained. We knew what we signed up for when we enlisted in the Elite Rebel Forces, we had to fight for our country and free it from tyrants who had taken over the reins of government. The Black Movement weren't just random people or some motley crew with guns – they were regimented, sponsored and systematic in their fighting approach. We had lost a lot of our men in the crucible of combat but giving up was never an option, we vowed to die fighting than to surrender to the marauding army of the Black Movement. We fought for our children, those still alive and those that were yet unborn. We fought for our women, some who had been kidnapped, others raped and for those who had been killed. We fought for our farmlands, the farmlands our own fathers left for us which were the only source of livelihood we knew. Our communities were decimated and degraded, what remained was a shadow of a once prosperous land laid waste by terror – a fitting parallel to the ruins of the ancient city, Rome. There was a Manzi. We were outnumbered in the fight and putting up any kind of opposition looked more and more like a suicide mission but we had come too far to walk back. Some days were particularly deadly, we brought back more men in body bags than other days. The Black Movement were known for striking at odd hours, when we seemed to have let down our guard. So we hardly slept at night because of these devils. The war took a sinister turn when most of our top Elite commanders started dying in a mysterious but familiar manner. After any famous blow dealt by a commander to the Black Movement, they would regroup and infiltrate a well-fortified camp led by that particular commander who would later be reported to have been killed under strange circumstances. Many of our men had run away because they didn't see any light at the end of the tunnel. Others had committed suicide because they just couldn't cope with the trauma and torture of losing their loved ones who were slain in the most gruesome manner. Even those of us who fought on were becoming weary, it seemed the more we looked at the rope, the more it looked like a snake. All hell broke loose when a junior Elite came to us in the dead of the night. We had started shooting at him instinctively and almost killed him thinking he was an emissary of the Black Movement. What gave us second thoughts was when he lay flat on the floor in a way only an Elite would – it was then we held back our gunfire. Behold, it was Wakabi, son of Juto. He share the gut-wrenching account of how he found his father's body riddled with bullets. Just before his father passed, he confided in Juto that he was killed because he uncovered that most of the commanders of the Elite Rebel Forces had been compromised. In fact, they gave out the classified details of our missions to these infidels who successfully ambushed us with ease. He alleged that they did this in exchange for protection and also a part of the ransom payments that came in from kidnapping. I looked at Wakabi straight in the eyes and told him never to insult our collective intelligence by lying against our commanders. I checked his body for communication devices and rigged bombs in case he was being tele-guided by the Black Movement who usually deploy this tactic as condition for releasing a family member in captivity. He swore on his late father's honour that he wasn't doing this under duress neither is he trying to stoke the embers of discord amongst the ranks. Wakabi was a man with many faults but lying wasn't one of them. Our camp was thrown into chaos; many fighters believed Wakabi while others claimed he was on the payroll of unpatriotic elements. Wakabi had run for dear life because he also alleged that the Black Movement had rogue fighters within us working for them and it was hard to tell who was on our side and who wasn't. I almost slumped. All I could think of was how I had become a pawn in a very dishonest chess game. I couldn't join those who headed to the central command to challenge the top Elites with the veracity of these claims. I became suicidal and at some point, almost pulled the trigger on myself. Providence had other plans for me. My bosom friend, whom we called the “Sniper” intervened just at the right time and smuggled me out of the camp and checked me into a medical facility on the outskirt of town. The doctor diagnosed me of acute PTSD – Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. He told me that suicide didn't solve anything, rather it left my loved ones in more severe pain that I could imagine. He was blunt enough to call it selfishness because I was only thinking about myself and not how my death would hurt my family who were praying day and night for my safe return. I was told to find a reason to live; that reason was my family – I vowed to live for them!
