You can catch up the previous chapters from my blog post.
Suleiman woke to the sounds of the village stirring. Roosters crowed, pots clattered in nearby homes, and the faint murmur of early morning conversations floated through the air. The weight of yesterday sat heavily on his shoulders as he rubbed his eyes and slowly rose from his mat. Mariam had already begun her day, bustling about the small kitchen area, preparing the family’s modest breakfast of millet and beans.
He sat up, stretching his stiff limbs, and caught the distant sound of engines rumbling; a convoy, no doubt. In these parts, it was difficult to distinguish between the sounds of help and the sounds of danger.
"Another day," he muttered to himself, pulling his worn sandals onto his feet.
"Breakfast is ready," Mariam said, not looking up from the small fire where she stirred the pot. Her voice, though calm, was laced with a quiet tension that had become a part of their lives.
"Thank you," he replied, moving to join her. His children, a boy and a girl, sat nearby, their eyes tired but hopeful. They were too young to understand the full gravity of the situation around them, but they were old enough to sense that something was terribly wrong. They ate in silence, save for the occasional scraping of spoons against metal bowls. It was a quiet Suleiman had grown used to, words seemed futile when faced with the uncertainties of the world.
As he left the house, heading toward the school, he noticed the sky was heavy with dust, a thick haze that hung over the village like a shroud. The air was dry and hot, suffocating. Suleiman walked along the familiar path, his thoughts clouded with worry about how long they could continue like this. Every day fewer children came to school, and every day the weight of despair grew heavier.
When he arrived, Aisha was already there, her face set in its usual determined expression, but today, it was tinged with something new—anxiety.
"Suleiman," she said, her voice low. "There are rumors. They say the insurgents are moving closer. Some of the families have left already. I saw Mr. Danjuma packing up his things this morning."
Suleiman’s heart sank. "More people leaving," he murmured. "Soon, there will be no one left to teach."
"We have to stay strong," Aisha replied, though even she sounded unconvinced.
They stood in the dusty courtyard for a moment, neither knowing what to say next. A light breeze stirred the dust at their feet, but even the wind felt sluggish, as if the land itself was tired of fighting.
The morning passed in fits and starts. A handful of children trickled into the classroom—five today. Fatima was among them, her bright eyes full of questions as always. Suleiman tried to focus on the lesson, but the air was thick with unease. Every sound outside the classroom, every rumble, every shout—seemed to carry with it the potential for chaos.
As the sun reached its peak, the temperature inside the small schoolhouse became unbearable. Sweat dripped from Suleiman’s brow as he wrote on the blackboard, the chalk scratching faintly against the surface.
"Alright, let’s take a break," he said, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.
The children shuffled outside, their small voices mixing with the sound of wind in the nearby trees. Suleiman stepped out with Aisha, their eyes scanning the horizon.
"Do you ever wonder what it’s all for?" Aisha asked suddenly, breaking the silence.
Suleiman looked at her, surprised by the question. "What do you mean?"
She sighed. "Teaching. This place. Do you ever wonder if it’s all in vain? That no matter what we do, it won’t make a difference?"
Suleiman paused, staring at the dust swirling around their feet. It was a question he had asked himself many times but had never spoken aloud. The truth was, there were days when it all seemed hopeless—when the weight of the world was too much to bear, and the future looked too bleak.
"I think about it," he admitted. "But I also think about them." He nodded toward the children playing in the courtyard. "If we give up, who will be here for them?"
Aisha didn’t reply, but the look in her eyes softened. She knew he was right. The children were all they had left. And in a world falling apart, they were the only reason to keep going.
Just as the break was coming to an end, a loud rumbling filled the air, much louder than before. Suleiman’s heart skipped a beat as he turned toward the sound. Over the rise of the hill, he could see a convoy of trucks approaching the village. Dust kicked up behind them in thick clouds, obscuring the road.
Aisha’s face went pale. "Are they...?"
Suleiman didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The look in his eyes said it all.
"Get the children inside," he said, his voice urgent but calm. Aisha quickly rounded up the children and ushered them back into the classroom. They could hear the trucks getting closer now, the engines roaring, the sound reverberating through the ground like an impending storm.
Suleiman stood at the doorway, watching as the convoy slowed to a stop at the edge of the village. Men in military gear jumped out of the trucks, rifles slung over their shoulders. They didn’t look like the insurgents—these were government soldiers. But in times like these, the line between friend and foe was often blurred.
One of the soldiers approached, his face hardened by years of conflict. "We’re evacuating the village," he said, not bothering with introductions. "It’s not safe here anymore. You need to gather your people and leave. Now."
Suleiman felt the ground sway beneath him. Evacuate? Leave the school? Leave the village? His mind raced, searching for some way to protest, but the soldier’s face was stern, unyielding.
"You have no choice," the soldier added, sensing Suleiman’s hesitation. "The insurgents are close. We can’t guarantee your safety."
Suleiman glanced at Aisha, who was watching from the window. Her eyes were wide with fear, her lips pressed into a thin line. The children, oblivious to the danger outside, were busy with their lessons, their innocent voices cutting through the tension like a cruel reminder of what they stood to lose.
"How much time do we have?" Suleiman asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.
"Not much," the soldier replied. "A few hours at most."
Suleiman nodded, his mind racing. They had to leave. There was no other option. But where would they go? And what would become of the school, of the village, of the life they had built here?
As the soldiers moved through the village, alerting the rest of the residents, Suleiman and Aisha gathered the children and led them out of the school. The sky, once heavy with dust, now seemed to press down on them with the weight of impending disaster.
"Where will we go?" one of the children asked, her voice trembling.
Suleiman didn’t have an answer. He simply took her hand and began walking, the dust swirling around them like ghosts of a life they were about to leave behind.