The letter arrived on a market day, tucked by the side of the metal gate.
Ade saw the crest of Nambara printed in faded color on the envelope. It was tucked at the side of the gate like thrash usually put in by some passer-by.
He slipped his arm into the side and grabbed it. The wall left a faint dust mark on the clean paper.
"To: Sulaiman Adebola, Village of Kouta, Northern District."
He already knew what it was. The rumors had been running ahead of the mail truck all week. Birth year lists, conscription, "national service for security."
His mother watched from behind him, hands still busy picking up plastic bags after opening the gate.
"Are you going to open it, or are you just going stare at it until it opens on its own?" she asked.
He slid a thumb under the flap. The paper tore with a sound too loud for such a small thing.
"By order of the Republic of Nambara, you are hereby called to service in the National Defence Forces for an initial period of twelve months…"
He read the rest, but the first line was enough. Report to the district barracks in two days. Bring basic clothes. Transport will be provided.
The neighbor who was just leaving the house noticed clearing his throat he man asked "Are you serving?".
Ade folded the letter and put it in his pocket. "They seem to have decided that for me."
His mother forced a smile at the neighbor, as he left to the market, then turned to her son.
"We need to head inside," she said. "Your uncle will know what to do."
On their way up the stairs, he noticed the truck bouncing over potholes filled with last night's rain. The dry season hadn't fully settled, and the sky was still heavy, but dust already rose in thin red veils behind every passing motorbike.
Fields of maize and groundnuts stretched to both sides, some half‑harvested, some abandoned. In the distance, a line of trucks rumbled toward the mines, each with a blue foreign logo on the side.
Ade watched them pass. Two years ago, people had cheered when the mining company came. Jobs, roads, hospitals, they said. Now the company's convoy rode with an armored vehicle at the front, soldiers on top, guns pointing out toward the bush.
At home, his uncle's radio was already crackling in the living room, powered by a small solar panel and a battery they treated like treasure.
On the national station, the president was speaking.
"…We are not at war with our own people," the man said. "We are protecting them from bandits, extremists, and foreign agents who wish to break Nambara apart."
Ade's uncle snorted and turned the volume down. "If there is no war, why do they need more soldiers?"
His mother held out the letter. His uncle read it in silence, then handed it back.
"You will go," he said while looking at him. "If you hide, they will punish the whole family. They need bodies in uniform now, anyone can see that."
Ade swallowed. "You served once," he said. "You came back."
His uncle nodded slowly. "That was before the mines. Before the protests. Before the burning trucks. We had borders then. We knew who the enemy was supposed to be."
"And now?"
His uncle looked north, toward the thin line of hills where the army said "bandits" hid.
"Now the enemy wears many clothes," he said. "Some of them even wear that same crest on your letter."
The radio crackled again. A different station now, one from the regional capital.
"…clashes near Cazanda," the presenter said. "Witnesses report gunfire after a protest against the mine