By Sam Akpe

It is their last honour. It is the best their country could offer them—the nation they lived for, and died for. Each coffin is draped in the national colour of green-white-green—a sign of patriotism; an honour befitting only a patriot. It is the colour of their uniforms—the same colour that would send adrenaline firing in them. The colour they had sworn to protect and defend; and even die for—the colour they wore with pride. On this day, December 14, 2018, they are not in the jungle or in the air or in the high seas taking orders and bringing down the enemies; they are about being buried. They died as heroes. They died defending the nation. They died protecting you and I.

Army

A few days back, these were lively, warm human beings; somebody’s husband and somebody’s father. They could have been alive today if they did not choose to be soldiers. And the nation could have been worse for it if there were no soldiers. They were trained in the art of war—to defend their country; so that you and I can stay live. They were trained to lay down their lives so that we can keep ours. Then that day came; and they were commanded to dwell in trenches covered by the dews of heaven; dive into the skies with fighter jets loaded with bombs and into the seas with missile boats; while we sleep in our water beds soothed by the comfort of our cosy homes. They hugged their weapons in the loneliness of their beats; we hugged our loved ones in our air conditioned bedrooms. What a contrast!

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Or, in the eternal, heart-pulling words of Mingo Kane, author of the book:  Scars of the Prophets, “Somewhere in the night, a quiet professional is waiting. He does not care that he is tired. That his hardened body is sleep deprived. He is unbroken and vigilant in his task. Somewhere this warrior is the final tripwire. He has trained all his life in brutal conditions day and night. This barren and desolate world is his home. He lives and survives by an ancient Creed. Somewhere this weapon of war will not ask nor give quarter. He thrives on the mission and completing his objective. That he allows the taste of fear to motivate his actions. He is…the final option.” That is the Nigerian soldier.

Suddenly, the dark night is set ablaze as the bullets begin to fly. The enemy is within reach. The worst war is the war against unknown enemies. These soldiers stand their grounds despite being out-numbered and out-gunned; even in territories better known to the enemies than them. With heroic screams and unity of spirit, they forge on. Each step they take spells patriotism in capital letters. They know that they could die. They know that this night could be their last. But they are fully decided to fight to the last bullet. They refuse to retreat because they have sworn to serve and defend their country with unquestionable dedication. They refuse to give up because they have sworn to lay down their lives if need be—so that we would live.

Daily, while we sleep and snore in the peace of our homes, our men in uniform are face to face with the horror called Boko Haram. Have we ever remembered or appreciated the fact that if they do not fight we would be dead? Crowned with leaves and soaked in the dew, they are deep down in the unknown keeping a date with death as bullets zip past their ears. They have signed a contract with death even though they have a right to live—as we all do. They remain proudly loyal and wear the green-white-green with pride. They pursue the enemy without complains. They suffer injuries from bullets and bruises from thorns; all in total silence. Inside the trenches, in the turbulent skies and in the wild seas where they wait for the enemy to appear, they step on pythons, burst through clouds and dare tempestuous seas but chose to stay still. They do these for the country they love. And that country is you and I.

They face the enemies’ fire with boldness. They look death in the eyes and dare the whizzing bullets. In defence of this country, they step on dynamites or have their aircraft bombed with only one thought in mind: if I die, I die. In the end, they die for our sake. They die for us to live. Yet, we spare no thought concerning them. While we wake up in the morning to face a loaded breakfast table, their corpses are being picked from the battle field and loaded in body bags. Their children have become orphans. Their wives have become widows. Yet, we spare no thought in their direction. We ought to repent because it could have been any of us in that coffin!

As the coffins are carried into the cemetery today, and placed near freshly-dug graves, tears stream down many faces. The end has finally come. Even colleagues in uniform cannot stand the sight. They can’t cry but they can’t smile. These are friends and comrades-in-arms about to be buried. They have been assigned the most despicable assignment—burying their colleagues and friends. Children—too young to fully grasp the unfolding scenario—look in wonder. How do you explain to a five-year old that the bullet-ridden body of his father has just been brought to the cemetery in sealed coffins; ready for interment? Wives—who have suddenly turned widows—dressed in black attires—have their blood-shot eyes hidden behind sunshades. Their husbands—who left home a few days back, with a promise to return for Christmas—are about being lowered into the earth; six feet deep. How can the world be so wicked!

This poetic rendition brings tears to my eyes anytime I read it. The author is unknown. Permit to paraphrase it a little:  I stood and I watched as a mother cried  when she had heard that her son had died. He didn’t die because he was sick. He didn’t die because he was in a wreck. He died doing what he felt was right.  He died fighting our enemies to keep us safe. Then I watched a father try to hold back tears. His son had lived only a scant 19 years. Then he died. I stood and watched as a little girl cried.  She didn’t understand why her brother had passed on. Why he never again played with her on the lawn.  Looking at the little girl’s tears, I knew that her big brother died fighting for you and I. He was a soldier

In spite of the above scenario, the world outside the cemetery bustles with life. Traders are selling with profit. Civil servants smile as they receive salary alerts from the banks. Businessmen are cutting deals. Children of the rich are being chauffeur-driven to and from school. Politicians are planning for the next elections. Life goes on. Only very few think of the fallen heroes. No one seems to know about them. At best, they are simply tagged: unknown soldiers—unknown in life and anonymous in death. What a way to label our heroes. How can we be so callous?

On top of each coffin are their paraphernalia of war Silently occupying the sealed coffin is a neighbour, an uncle, a friend and above all, a patriot with unquestionable credentials—about to be buried. With a short religious ceremony completed, the traditional gun salute is ordered. The final rites are just about ending with the lowering of the coffin into the grave. Written on every face is sorrow. Wetting every eye are tears that may never dry. These young men full of live and with fruitful future have died in the service of the nation.

There is no doubt that nations do not go to war. We the citizens do. We are the nation. The death of a soldier, therefore, is the death of the bravest among us. It leaves the nation without its heroes; nephews without uncles and aged parents without their only child. The death of a soldier should bother all of us. Some of the soldiers, who have died this year in defence of the nation, joined the military less than a year ago. As the army chief, General Tukur Buratai observed, “now, they have paid the supreme price for defending the country.”

A time has come for us to individually or collectively do something for our men in uniform; both the fallen soldiers and those alive. Their sweat, their blood, their lives must not waste. We are alive and safe because they take the risk. Spare a thought for the families of the dead soldiers. You can pay the children’s school fees. You can start a foundation for the widows. Arise and do something. What about those still alive? When they come to your store or furniture shop or pharmacy or hospital or when they book your airline for a trip, give them unusual discounts. This is what happens in other climes. Show them that you appreciate what they do. Give a soldier a handshake, a smile and a lunch. They need it and they deserve it.

Akpe, a  journalist, lives in Abuja