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I transfer my rifle to my left shoulder. I rub my eyes wearily. The golden rays from the setting sun casts a glow on the dusty town of X. I like the evenings. So cool, so quiet. The curfew starts from 6pm, it's 4pm.I consider enduring the urge to urinate till duty is over.

I change my mind. It's not good to hold urine too much. I always forget where I heard that. It also causes diabetes I heard, I leave my station - the heap of sand bags which partially blocks the road. I walk towards Sgt Ojo, the funny duty officer. He's not a bad oga, he'll surely permit my urine break. I have afterall stood for four hours.

After some banter, I'm permitted to 'rush it'. I take my time going to the makeshift toilet. I wonder why Oga Ojo won't just permit our using the bushes. He insists on the policeman being a role model. I snigger. Our wood-enclosed, zinc - roofed toilet isn't much of a model anyway.

Awhile later, am done. It's 4.30pm. I should go back to my post. Oga Ojo is already manning my post. Waving the cars and tricycle riders past. He's too tired to search again. It's mainly workers going home now anyway. I light a cigarette.

The motorcycle rider seems to be too impatient. He snakes towards the checkpoint, weaving through the congestion caused by our stop - search post. I consider going to slap some patience into him, I stop myself, it's a young boy. Probably in the 16-17 range. Youths and their exuberance though. I suspect nothing, I should have. I was too tired to recognise the lifeless eyes, those dark eyes that hold such hate. I might have saved him.

Oga Ojo noticing the motorcycle waves the other cars past. He flags the rider down. The rider just keeps coming. I hear his safety catch released. He never raises his rifle in time.

I see it all. The rider whom is now some feet away is suddenly jerked backward. His chest seems to explode into little bits of red. The motorcycle erupts in flames. There's no need rushing towards oga Ojo. He's lying far from where he just stood. His neck twisted in a very unusual angle. I feel bile sneak up my throat.


It's been four months since then. I no longer take urine breaks. I don't laugh so much again either. There's no joy to be had here. Just sorrow, suffocating sadness. Squadron A arrives in its hilux vehicle. They've captured suspected members of the sect. 4 young boys no older than 15,an aged man in his late sixties. They're to be interrogated.

They'll be interrogated for days. I know. They'd refuse to say anything. They'd curse the interrogators, spit in their faces. They'll be set free after a week. It's the routine. Another group will be captured again. We're aware they have information. They just hate us too much to share. They just sit in the sand, head bowed, awaiting the 'usual'

I realise am walking towards them, few feet away. I don't remember realising my safety catch. I know when my fingers find the trigger. I feel exhilaration as my rifle spits seeds of death into their chests. I let the tears slither down my face. A musical tune plays in my head. Something about jungle justice and guns.