At 0300 hours, the battalion gathered in the motor pool. The air was thick with tension, headlights flickering against the darkness as armored vehicles lined up in formation. Captain Jibril, a grizzled man with deep scars across his jawline, walked down the line of soldiers.
"Konduga is not a training exercise," he barked. "This is live fire. You will engage. You will take fire. And you will remember your training. Stick to your squad. Watch your sectors. And for God's sake, stay sharp."
The convoy rumbled out just before dawn. Emmanuel rode in the back of an MRAP (Mine-Resistant Ambush Protected vehicle), flanked by Private Hassan and Corporal Nyam. His pulse pounded against the metal walls of the vehicle. This was no longer theory. This was war.
Combat Readiness: Preparation and Tactics
Before deployment, the battalion underwent a crash course in active combat conditioning. At a forward base just outside Maiduguri, Emmanuel and his unit were put through an intense ten-day drill. Unlike the structured routine in Zaria, this training was dynamic, live, and unforgiving.
They practiced room-clearing in mock buildings constructed from sandbags and concrete blocks, drilled endlessly on convoy ambush reactions, and ran live-fire exercises with real-time feedback from drone scouts. The terrain was dry and broken, scattered with low shrubs, dry riverbeds, and loose gravel. The heat in the afternoon could peel the skin from your lips, but the instructors pushed them harder.
They were taught to move in silence, communicate with hand signals, and adapt to urban and bush warfare alike. Emmanuel learned how to navigate sniper-infested zones, how to triangulate enemy fire, and how to lay suppressive fire for extraction units. By the end of the course, he could load, clear, and fire his rifle blindfolded.
But no amount of drills could replicate the chaos of Konduga.
The Insertion and First Contact
As the convoy approached the outskirts of Konduga, the distant crackle of gunfire echoed through the morning haze. Smoke curled upward from behind the tall neem trees. The lead vehicle, a scouting unit, came to a stop.
"All units, dismount!" came the order through the comms.
Emmanuel jumped down, heart racing. The soldiers spread into a tactical wedge formation, rifles raised. The air was thick with dust and anticipation. The first IED exploded just 200 meters ahead, flipping a vehicle and sending debris into the air.
"Contact left! RPG!" someone shouted.
Chaos erupted. Emmanuel dropped to a knee behind a broken wall, firing short controlled bursts toward muzzle flashes flickering from an abandoned compound.
"Suppressing fire, Obadiah! MOVE!" shouted Corporal Nyam.
They advanced in short bursts, leapfrogging between cover. Every alley they turned could be an ambush. At one point, a teenager darted across the street carrying a bag. A soldier beside Emmanuel aimed, but an officer barked, "Hold your fire! Not all of them are fighters!"
That hesitation nearly cost them—two militants popped out from behind a crumbling market stall and opened fire. Emmanuel felt the air split beside his ear as bullets smacked into a tree behind him. He dove behind a water drum, returned fire, and watched as one insurgent fell. The other fled.
Room by Room
By midday, the unit had cleared the western edge of Konduga. But the town center was fortified. The insurgents had dug in—snipers in mosque towers, traps rigged across doorways, civilians used as shields. The unit had to switch to urban close-quarter combat.
They moved building by building. Emmanuel's squad entered a school-turned-command-post. His boots crunched over broken glass and bullet shells. He kicked open a door, shouted "Clear!" and moved on. In one room, a child's chalkboard was still on the wall, riddled with bullet holes. Emmanuel stared for a second too long.
"Focus, soldier," Nyam growled. "This place isn't for ghosts."
They climbed a rooftop to provide overwatch for another squad moving into the market. That's when the mortars hit. The building shook under the blast, dust filling the air. Emmanuel clutched his rifle and rolled toward the stairs as chunks of concrete rained down.
Securing Konduga.
By sundown, after nearly 12 hours of nonstop movement and combat, Konduga was mostly secured. The remaining insurgents had either been neutralized or fled north into the bush. The battalion set up a forward outpost and gathered the wounded. Two soldiers were dead. Five more, injured.
Emmanuel sat against a wall, helmet off, sweat streaking down his face. His hands trembled. Not from fear—but from release. He was alive. He had fought. He had killed.
Later that night, a local elder approached the battalion commander. He thanked them, said the village had been held hostage for over three weeks. Amina's face flashed in Emmanuel's mind—not as a memory of loss, but as a symbol of what this mission meant.
Every bullet he fired was for the forgotten. Every breath, a tribute to what was taken.The Cost of Silence
Night settled over Konduga like a blanket of ash. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood and gunpowder. Fires crackled in abandoned homes, and the cries of goats and distant civilians echoed faintly through broken alleys.
Emmanuel sat on a rusted bench near the temporary medical post, his rifle across his lap. His uniform was stained with sweat and dust. Around him, soldiers shared water canisters, bandaged wounds, and quietly spoke about the day's carnage. Some laughed—nervous, hollow laughter. Others stared into nothing.
Across the courtyard, an army chaplain muttered prayers over two black body bags.
"First blood," muttered Private Hassan beside him, clutching a cigarette with shaky fingers. "They don't tell you it smells like this. The air. The heat. It's like death hangs here."
Emmanuel didn't respond. His mind was on the boy he had seen earlier—a flash of youth behind enemy lines. That could've been Paul. He shook the thought away.
From the darkness beyond the village came a faint cry.
"Help! Please!"
Everyone turned. A small group of villagers was approaching—disheveled, barefoot, some carrying injured children. An old man limped ahead, waving a white cloth tied to a stick. A few soldiers raised their rifles instinctively.
Captain Jibril stepped forward. "Hold fire. Let them through."
They filtered into the compound slowly, fear in their eyes but relief on their faces. Women clutched their babies. The men looked worn and hungry. One teenage girl with matted hair approached Emmanuel's squad, her dress torn at the hem. She couldn't have been older than fifteen.
"Water?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Emmanuel reached into his pouch and handed her a bottle. She took it gently, eyes wide with gratitude.
But something was wrong.
Her hands were trembling—not from weakness, but from tension. Her eyes darted quickly, as if counting exits. And beneath her robe… Emmanuel saw something. A faint, unnatural bulge across her midsection.
His instincts screamed.
"DOWN!" he roared, lunging forward.
Too late.
The explosion ripped through the compound in a thunderclap of light and fire. Emmanuel felt himself thrown backward, his body lifted off the ground like paper in a storm. The world spun. Then—darkness.
Aftermath
When Emmanuel woke, the first thing he heard was ringing. Then muffled screams. Dust choked the air. The once-sturdy wall he had sat against was now rubble. Blood was everywhere.
He coughed and rolled over, pain slicing through his ribs. Beside him, Hassan was gone—only his helmet remained, charred and dented. The medical post was obliterated. A crater now sat where the girl had stood.
Emmanuel crawled forward, dragging his rifle. His leg was bleeding. His vision blurred.
Captain Jibril was shouting somewhere nearby, organizing medics, securing the perimeter. "This wasn't over," Emmanuel thought. "We got too comfortable."
In the corner of the compound, a child screamed, holding the limp body of her mother. Another soldier knelt over a dying man, whispering prayers.
Grief into Fire
Later that night, Emmanuel sat near a flickering lantern as a medic stitched the gash in his thigh. His hands wouldn't stop shaking.
"She was just a girl," he muttered. "They used a child."
"They always do," the medic replied softly. "Innocence is the first casualty in this kind of war."
Captain Jibril approached, his eyes red with exhaustion.
"Obadiah," he said, "You kept your head. You warned us. Without that shout, we'd have lost the whole platoon."
Emmanuel didn't look up. "We still lost too many."
The captain placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "That's war. But you saved lives. And you're still breathing. That means you've got more work to do."
Emmanuel nodded slowly, the words heavy in his chest.
In that moment, something within him hardened—not hatred, but resolve. If they could turn children into weapons, he would become the shield. If they taught destruction, he would fight to rebuild. Not for glory. Not for revenge.
But so no other girl like Amina would be used. So no other boy like Paul would bury pieces of himself in the dust of a village he barely knew.