It all began with little whispers, like the chirps of crickets in a wooden rickety garage. My father had ordered everyone in the house to remain calm, and if one must talk, it mustn’t be anything more than a little whisper or a movement of hands. The subsequent gunshots were strong enough to force all households, including the lazy ones to press locks by their doors. My father stood in the concrete open-chalet built in the middle of our compound. An average height building; long enough to allow him to examine the footsteps on his wall, and short enough to prevent seeing the inside from the outside.

It was 23rd July, 2009, the young morning was already ripe to allow the Sunday sunshine envelop its body. We have taken our early breakfast and left the small chat circle we usually hold after the morning breakfast. Some scattered sounds few to count that seemed like knockouts on Christmas Eve started; something that often plays sequentially and then halts for a period that would take a smoker to light his cigarette. Then more horrible sounds loud enough to cut down ears began. In a short while, the gunshots multiplied into whatever calculation cannot count per second. Fighter jets immediately took over the sky. Every now and then, they would walk in parallel in the sky, reprimanding at the earth, and prostrating their heads towards a direction to pour their anger with fire, like dragons. Dust rose like smoke, and smoke like flame, all interwoven to fuel fear, bombs burying walls, gunshots plunging bodies, heads below roofs, roars of soldiers, splitting of woods, and voices of the engine.

Reign of fear and power compelled our hearts to fall from our bodies and run to save themselves. But our bodies were too heavy to stand, so the hearts became shackled in our bodies and the only thing they could do was to pump blood excessively. I was just thirteen then, young and soft at heart; for we were children of flesh, weak and fresh. We have seen in movies how wars conquered cities, from the softness of our chairs. Not before our eyes. We have read in news too, about buildings collapsing, streets burning, and lives fleeing away from bodies. We never knew that a conflict over the wearing of helmets on bikes could bring far happenings to our doorsteps. Before that day, the news about how the police and Yusufiya (the first indigenous name we call Boko Haram members, derived from the leader’s name, Mohammed Yusuf) clashed over not wearing helmets while riding a bike would be disastrous. An event that led to shootings and death of few Yusufiya men.

The shots and bombs continued. It was when you think it had ceased that you would hear an almighty sound that would eat up the little composure you had managed to swallow. Rumors began to weave from mouth to ears, from house to house in whispers. Some had even sworn that they have taken over the city, and the only thing not taken, is probably you, listening to the news. This continued till around midday.

By noon, there was a great deal of quietness in the air. The guns have stopped singing. There were only a few to hear; the murmur of soldiers and sounds of engines in passive anger. More are for the eyes to see. So men began to peep through the small openings between their doors and walls, eyes blinking like pigeons. Whispers told me that numerous soldiers were killed, and it reminded them that the life of one soldier is equivalent to ten civilians. Perhaps the battle has just begun for the soldiers. For the civilians, it was a choice of no-choice. Death or death. State of emergency was imposed immediately and the only kings left were those who have remnants of food in their stores. A lot of people have never imagined themselves spending three days without food.

Moses, a neighbor who grew up in our house was with us. Like most of the Christian families in the neighborhood, his family too fled to the nearby barracks. Amidst the state of emergency, he had convinced me to accompany him to the barracks to take food to his parents. I sneaked out when the eyes staring at our gates have reduced. He didn’t start his bike until after we walked out of the house. We rode on the bike for as long as the journey could take us to the barracks.

All our eyes could see were empty streets, burning tyres, armed soldiers at alert, walls brought down, and insides of houses through tiny bullet holes. We were both quiet as though we weren’t going back home again. Few meters away from the barracks gate, Moses reduced his speed, to signal peace, at least for a while. It sunk our hearts how groups of soldiers were bringing people down from their vehicles. Immediately, one of the soldiers pointed his gun at the two men in front of us, who were already brought down from their vehicle, and shot one bullet at each of them.

For the first time, I saw breathing men breathless. Sweat, tears, and blood seemed to prick the dust in the eyes of other travelers. It appeared to me as if I could tap their shoulders and say: Man, it was all a joke, you can rise. But there was no breath to reply. I didn’t know that almost a thousand have died already. Amidst the smart confusion, Moses rode the bike helplessly into wherever on earth the foot could stand. Then I whispered, under the sun, every blood shall walk.

– Sa’id Sa’ad

Author’s Note: In “It All Began With Little Whispers,” and just like the title implies, I try to carry my readers along on an account of my experience with the first Boko Haram terrorist attack. I was as a teenager growing up in Borno State (the epicenter of the Boko Haram Terrorism) in Nigeria.