After our yesterday escapade, we were
exhilarated and curious in our state of being,
every occupant in my lodge tuned to their
favorite radio station-rhythm fm, Ray power,
PRTV fm, et al. I, on my own side was totally
oblivious and lackadaisical as to the political
happenings in the state, let to talk of a low-
key election as such.
I picked up my blue rubber bucket to go fetch
water at a nearby well- you don’t need a
drawer to fetch water from the well, all you
have to do is to stoop and scoop the water
with your bucket without any hurdle. I fetched
my water and trudge to Bola’s lodge to get my
note books, passed through a motor park that
is always cramped with travelers but the park
was deserted and I was a little bit perturbed
but I shrugged it off until a woman in her 50s
with a flaccid bosom and wrinkled face walk to
me and started asking some question in her
native language, Anaguta ,I smiled and told
her in Hausa that I don’t understand what
she’s saying , that was when she code-switch
to Hausa language, “don’t go anywhere my
son, I heard that the city is in turmoil,’’ this
what she told me in her words, trepidation
crept in and I rushed back to my street as a
matter of fact, I was about to pick my bucket
when a man with stab wound on his back
came rushing towards where I was standing
narrating how he miraculously escaped mob
action in Zololo, a densely populated muslim
street-just about 200metres to Terminus
market, I was shaking, half-listening as he
narrated his ordeal, and before I could
recollect my far gone memory in not less than
twenty minutes the whole place went dead,
and dark smokes can be seen enveloping the
cloud from afar, I notified my good buddy,
Chucks about the bizarre happenings and
rushed back to my lodge to convey the news
to my house mates and also to save my
documents by carrying them along. Fehintola
and Jennifer were already dressed and set for
the day’s lecture when I shook them with the
news, that carries fire and macabre, I scurried
into my room to rummage some of my papers,
before I could say the next word that was
hanging on my neck the two girls were gone,
but to where? I asked around and no one saw
them. I asked for my friend, Chucks but he’s
vanished, I tried desperately to reach his
phone line but it was dead, before I know it
waves had conveyed the news to my parents
without my own consent, Mum called me on
phone and I declined her call, then dad’s but
this time I picked it an told him that my street
was calm, again mum called for the second
time and I did same by lying- white lie though.
This was how it started. The area boys
mobilized themselves with whatever weapon
they could lay their hands on and started
setting shops that were owned by Muslims
alight (they scampered and left their shops
and some trucks in the park). In time of crisis
even the most virgin heart that can’t kill a rat
turns into the most venomous snake, I pulled
off my faded jean trouser with my phone in it
and hurled it over a house I don’t know it
occupant, picked up a long stick that has the
shape of a hockey stick-curved end, the
elders in kunga1 of Naraguta village gingered
us to move to the warfront and protect the
village and churches that it house, we
matched forward hurling grenades, arrows
and shooting age-long guns, the other
opponents from Zololo are doing the same.
Causalities were recorded, death toll
increased, business centers turned into debris,
houses were on fire; all from both sides. It was
during this crisis that I got to know that Jos
women posses granite heart than their men-
so turgid, some of the women were supplying
stones and water for the thirsty while some are
in the warfront chanting war songs, I also get
to know that size is not might, inside cultists
they ‘re cultism, most able bodied and giant
students in kunga1 were nothing but chaff,
they had no value as they ‘re scared to their
pants they left us, the miniature creatures to
protect them whilst they were hiding, clutch to
their feeble minded girlfriends, only few of the
over 20 cultist in the area came out with their
short guns to repel the attackers. My friend,
I.P lost his uncle to the fight that lasted for
over 6 hours, his uncle has already told him
about his mission-to protect a church and
also pleaded with them to help pay his debtors
the money he’s being owing them. I.P’s uncle
left his kunga2 residence to kunga1 where the
church’s located, he and some other men
garrisoned the place but when the situation
got intense they scamper and left him with the
church of which the attackers burnt together
with him. I.P swore to us when we went to
commiserate with him that he would seek
retribution of which of which he did because
they were secret killings in the area in ensuing
days. Jimmy and Emmanuel sustained
different degree of injuries from a swollen knee
(he’s struck by a stone) to a bullet wound on
his shoulder. I was lucky to have escaped
some stray bullets flying over my head
because I was crawling so low. It took almost
forever before intervention came from the
Nigeria military force, and this was when
dialogue that had a nix effort began, a b-b
curfew was also put in place.
Gideon offered me a round -the -street tour
where he showed me all the mess, the burning
and the lootings, we later digressed to a more
entertaining discourse, hence to divert my
attention from the objects of reality. We
passed a bend where shops were looted and
burnt down, egg shell scattered everywhere,
tins of peak milk that has already been used,
‘’Guy, look down, ’’Gideon said to me without
any sign of panic, I looked down as he
commanded and I immediately staggered
behind him. It was a burnt man, we call him
’Aboki’ because that’s what Hausa people are
fondly called in Jos and other
Non-Hausa speaking states. Narrating how
Aboki got burned to death, Gideon told me that
when his other fellow Hausa men were running
for their lives he stayed behind in his
warehouse garrisoning his raw yam and egg
which he do fry to sell to us, student favorite,
when the locals noticed him, he took to his
heel, when he noticed they were coming for
him.
Aboki ran to my friends lodge, khalito
momento, khalito hid him in his toilet but when
the locals came knocking at khalito’s door
post, to khalito’s surprise his local friend
threatened to kill him if he don’t produce
Aboki, khalito in his mid- twenties cried like a
baby and handed Aboki to them, they poured
fuel on him and set him alight, he was dying
slowly until khalito’s friend finally took his
arrow, he was finally sedated. I was really an
eye sore, seeing a man burnt beyond
recognition with an arrow pricked to his chest.
When the dust settled, after two days of the
comatose, I made up my mind to go home,
because I was nostalgic. During the last two
days we were forced to live indoor with no
water and food except for the eggs in bags my
friends loot from a full-to-beam trailer, so we
all settled for the eggs, Sometimes we fry them
but when our vegetable oil got finished we
started boiling it, funny as it may sound we
couldn’t differentiate the stench oozing from
our room and the farts from our butts, I think
all the eggs we ate broke down into bad air in
our stomach because everyone of us
developed a bulge stomach, we couldn’t visit
the lavatory. Only farts.
News later got to us about chucks, while he
was standing and waiting for me he saw an
almost empty bus travelling to Gombe, he took
that chance and boarded the bus, and it was
almost a fry pan to fire experience for him
because Gombe state was wearing a hostile
face that morning.
For Fehintola and Jennifer it was a different
story altogether, funny as it may sound, it was
an escape embedded on exchange theory.
They were running on their toes when they
saw a muslim Fulani woman with her two year
old daughter (her husband had fled that
morning) also trying to evade the scene.
Fehintola took the baby from her as they
trudge towards zololo, a haven for the Fulani
woman, but what about fehintola and Jennifer,
how about their safety? The Fulani woman
depicted her benevolence by taking off her
hijab and gave it to Fehintola , pulled that of
her daughter and gave it to Jennifer,
Immediately they took a change of name.
Fehintola became Halimat and Jennifer
transfigured to Aisha, this was how they move
freely in zololo in the guise of being a muslim,
until they got to Abuja hostel of the university
of Jos.
When everything seemed like it has cooled off,
I rummaged for my belongings, and some were
intact while others has been stolen. I arranged
them in a big Ghana-must-go bag and left for
the park by 4pm (Just not to catch up with the
curfew) for tomorrow early morning bus. There
was nowhere for me to lodge, so I had to
sprayed cartons on the floor and use my bag
as a pillow, lying there with other folks in the
middle of the night with hubbub of dogs
barking, mosquitoes producing agonizing
noise in my ears and sulking blood.
This is my story, this was how it turned sour
and this was how something that was political
turned into a religious ceisis within a wink of
an eye.

like seriously dude, we should read d whole story u wrote?, on a cold day lyk dis?

It will do good to read it to warm your brain and it will also do good if u dnt- so you won't bothered about things that indirectly affect you