THE JOY OF SOLDIERHOOD
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(c) Richie Jay
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Gentlemen, grab a seat, let me tell you a story.
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Story story...
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In a country, in a city, in a home will emerge sb who wants to serve for the lands, the practice of military. He goes to buy the form. He applies. He is shortlisted. He goes to get screened. Successfully, he is recruited. He is yet to undergo training. Then he...... Hmm.
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(sips my cup of tumbo to two swallows)
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The training date is pronounced. He gets all rudiments ready and prays to pass out alive. The training has begun. It was a living hell. It was tougher enough to imagine. Shouting, discipline to the core, flogging, bleeding, recruits dying -- such memory. Such bitter guts! Such had-they-knowns! He passes out after many months; such sweet sorrow! He wears the khaki and sees its spirits. 'Assumptions' now are dead. His prayers have been registered, he thought; 'he don make am.' He is posted to a unit to serve. Thence, he is shifted to terrorism dwelling place. In a bullet exchange, he sees plenty of his regulars fall -- they are dead, and lifeless. He is going to see them no more.
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(drinks my wine again to four mouthful)
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His heart skips many beats that he may not see his loved ones again; that the ambulance might be his next transport. Is this really worth the blind bullet? Many voices in his head. He struggled. Morale is higher but spirit is scared to go to the greater beyond. He held unto his rifle as though, his chi. Like the saying, if one agrees, his chi agrees too. He held his rifle so tight like it was his chi and if he didn't hold so tight, it would leave him any sooner. The enemies are out of sight. The troop falls back as some took cover.
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(coughs, coughs.)
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They were many casualties. Oh no, there is a sniper from the enemy team and he is positioned and.... Poooooooow! It is his neck. He bleeds and struggles for survival. Survival is golden this time. As he falls to the ground, his rifle leaves his hands to the ground, as though his chi has left him. He bleeds more. Cover.
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(stammers)
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He was trying to.., to.., to utter some words but.., but.., he is dead. He is gone. There he is lying lifeless. 'Tis lachrymal and impossicant to just die like a fowl. So inhumane. Many a man fighting for all. One minute alive, one minute dead.

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This is the Joy of SoldierHood.
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Joyful, isn't it? Such irony!
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Gentlemen, when you sleep, they are awake. When you cry for newer cloths, they hunger for life. You wake up to the sounds of butterflies; they wake to gun shots. You are given a befitting burial; when dead, maybe after a war, fighting for you, they are wrapped in lining.
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I rest my pen to the painful pages on my book wet in tears.

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Source: http://chatinent.com.ng/index.php?act=ST&f=47&t=524

cc: Lalasticlala, Obinnau, Divepen1

Arty!!!

These cattle lovers should stop tribalistic sentiments when collection clowns for the Army.

Then they can do exploits like in 1966.

TarOrfeek:

Arty!!!

These cattle lovers should stop tribalistic sentiments when collection clowns for the Army.

Then they can do exploits like in 1966.

Impeccable!

Still await more comments.