Mama Please Don't Leave Me

"Chioma! Chioma!" Mama yelled.

"Mama! Mama!" I cried.

"Where are you, Chioma?"

In the darkness, the harsh smoke spiraled away from the pyrotechnic flames in a choreographed dance like a ribbon creating art in the night's sky. Tiny dust particles landed in my eye, making them sting and itch as water formed, blinding me. I opened my eyes briefly and scanned the area. The muscles around my legs tightened while my grasp on my nightdress increased. The tears that formed made their way down my face. Where could Mama be?

Our homes succumbed to the lethal blaze as the crackling fire sent my heart into a frenzy. My skin glistened from the moisture created by the heat. A pungent smell filled the air as each part of our home was reduced to dust and rubble. In other places, nothing remained. The flames grew higher, burning a deep red, orange, and yellow. I turned in the direction of a voice.

"Chioma! Chioma!"

"Mama, where can you be? Mama, please don't leave without me!"

I used my hands as a compass. The air became foggy with smoke. The putrid stench of burning human flesh and other body fluids made the contents of my stomach curdle, and it involuntarily got relieved. The dry heaving that followed was even worse while trying to regain control of my body.

"Mama! Mama!" I yelled out. "Mama, please don't leave me!"

We lived in a small village called Shaburu. The land belonged to our ancestors and has been a gift passed down from one generation to the next.

This land was our everything. We were always happy. Who wouldn't be when our environment was a panoramic photograph filled with serenity. Thick and dense greenery studded our view. We lived in wooden sheds with a thatched roof. Despite our modest lifestyle, we were content.

A few months ago, some strange men came to our village. No one outside our village visited during my eight years there. They spoke to Shobalu, who was the head of our tribe. The expressions on their faces were more so of authority. Some of the other men gathered around Shobalu while they both exchanged words. Neither side looked pleased. I could not listen in on their conversation, for I stayed with Mama and the rest of the women picking peas.

As the strange men left, I followed their every move as they disappeared into the distance. They looked like us but with differences. Our skin color looked the same, but they were oddly dressed. They wore more clothing that layered their skin. The men barely had any beards, which symbolized strength in our community. They wore coverings over their heads and covered their feet from their toes to their knees.

Who are they? I thought. What could they possibly want?

Shobalu called us all to a meeting that night after eating dinner. His words were that we shouldn't worry about the people who visited us that day. They came to talk about the land and wanted us to leave, but he maintained that the land was ours. It belonged to our ancestors and would remain that way. Everything would be ok.

Weeks went by, and life went back to normal. I continued to help Mama and the other women harvest crops. Some days we picked corn and cassava to create our delicious Mangoli soup. On other days, we spent time caring for each other's hair–one of my favorite things to do. I helped make one of our sweet-smelling hair oils using rose petals, hibiscus leaves, and almonds. Mama and the other women meticulously used the oil to grace every strand of hair before continuing to massage the rest into the scalp. The oil was left in place for about three days before being washed away. I often waited impatiently for my turn to be graced with this heavenly scent.

Most importantly, the oil was vital in our healthy hair journey and part of our heritage. We all came together near the fire to share stories while shelling peas during the evenings. Those were the days of happiness and freedom.

A loud thud awakened me in the early hours of that morning, followed by the screams of women and children. The noise aroused Mama too. Her hand clasped around mine as we made our way out of our shed. Nothing could have prepared us for what we saw. Our land burned. Someone had set fire to our crops and some of our sheds. Our people took off in search of safety. The sight was astounding. Our home had never gone aloft in flames before.

Shobalu and other men were evacuating the village as the fire grew, ravaging everything in its path. The women and children were encouraged to follow the pathway to the ocean to find shelter. There was no time to ask questions. We had no time to act, and we were also under attack. Before we knew it, arrows appeared from out of nowhere. Mawuli, my best friend, died when an arrow pierced her forehead and emerged in the back of her head within seconds.

"Oh, Mawuli!" I cried.

Her mom ran after her, and she, too, was struck.

I remained still; my feet felt heavy like they had become embedded in stone. Everything was happening in slow motion.

My body moved when Mama grabbed me by the arms, producing a force that propelled me forward.

"What is going on? Why would anyone want to hurt us?" I asked. We were peaceful people.

Loud and frightening thuds emerged from different directions around us as we ran. At one point, a blast of wind pushed Mama and me backward. Harpo, who was an elder of ours, became decapitated. His feet were the only remaining body part still present on the ground.

The warm liquid traveled down my face freely. When Mawuli died, I did my best to prevent its spillage. There was no time for tears. However, this time they couldn't be held back any longer. I sensed an aching pain deep in my chest, and the insides of my nostrils stung. The air stopped a few inches away from my face where dust and debris had taken residence. My mind was unable to process everything that happened.

Mama was crying too, but she was trying to be strong. She held onto my hands very tightly as we walked.

As we neared the end of the village and got closer to the pathway leading to the ocean, a dark cloud of smoke engulfed us. A loud sound echoed through the trees. The vibrations from the ground thrust me to the side, separating me from Mama. My ribs ached from the brutal whiplash. My breaths grew deeper. There were blurry movements but not much sound besides a high-pitched tone accompanied by increased air pressure. I scanned the area for Mama until my eyelids shut closed.

Then suddenly, someone yelled out my name, and I replied, "Mama, is that you?"

But there was no answer.

My whole body convulsed. Feelings of loneliness and fear crept over every inch of me like a hungry aminal savoring its meal before going in for a feast. I placed my shaky hand over my mouth to silence my screams. I was a child. Unprepared to take care of myself. I needed to find Mama.

There was her voice again coming from the east. Smoke and dust continued to rain on me, so I used my hands as a compass to guide me. An aching sensation spread across my forehead. I closed my eyes and slowly began to count. Once I opened my eyes, everything spun around me, making it difficult to stand and walk on my feet. The acrid smell that filled the air was no help, and my stomach forcefully expelled all of its contents. The dry heaving settled down after a few minutes. I sat on the ground with my knees tucked below my chin and scanned the area again–listening closely to all sounds, waiting to hear Mama's voice.

"Chioma, Where are you?"

"Mama, I am right here!" I said as I stood up.

Her voice grew distant. I let out a loud wail.

"Mama! Please don't leave me!"

I threw my hands up and knelt on the ground. I buried my face in the soil– on what remained of my tribe, home, and history. I lay there as my tears continued to flow over me.

There were some unfamiliar voices in the distance. My heart rate increased. Who could they be? I did not move and even held my breath while I listened intently. They were the voices of men searching for anyone who was still alive. The sound of footsteps grew louder. Someone was next to me. My body lay still as if I was dead. They talked about returning to finish clearing the land by burning all remaining debris and bodies. I was not going to allow this to happen to me.

A sudden burst of energy came over me after they left. I could not explain it. With my feet firmly planted, I stood up and ran towards the direction from where I heard Mama's voice.

"Mama! Where are you?" I shouted.

I found the path leading to the water. I was thankful for the forces that guided me as I walked. A slow-moving florid orange light passed me as the sun rose.

My search for Mama continued with no response to my cries. Giving up was not an option. Air continued to in and out of my lungs. My life has a purpose, I reminded myself.

However, my body grew tired. Cracks and other openings with clotted blood plagued my feet. The sunsets and sunrises were my representation of time. Saliva forced its way through my painfully sore and dry throat. Gurgling sounds emerged from my stomach. My body was in dire need of food and water. The stream brought me back to life like a dead flower. As I laid down that night against the cool grass with the moonlight shining down on me, I prayed, asking for continued strength and a plan on what I should do next.

Was I dreaming? What are those sounds? Are those my people?

It was Yoshwen, one of our elders. I rose immediately. My feet struck the dry ground one after the next.

"It's Chioma! It's Chioma!" I shouted.

"Chioma, my darling girl. Your mother has been so worried since we couldn't find you. We are so happy you are ok."

My body stood erect, and my eyes didn't blink when he mentioned Mama. She had survived. Yoshwen took me to Mama immediately in their temporary place of residence. As soon as we made eye contact, my eyes welled up with tears. My feet didn't skip a beat, running towards her. We hugged each other as if this was our last time refusing to let go. Tears flowed down our cheeks. Once we broke away from the embrace, Mama inspected me. Food and rest were calling my name.

After eating and having my wounds attended to, I laid under a shaded tree in the corner while the elders gathered a short distance away.

"We are not leaving without a fight. This land is ours and will always belong to our ancestors!" I heard someone say.

I was cheering them on in my mind while drifting to sleep. My heart was heavy, but most importantly, it was content that Mama was still with me.

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Thank you for reading!