Madu (The Letter of a Dead Soldier)

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Madu (The Letter of a Dead Soldier)

Madu (The Letter of a Dead Soldier) Part 2

Written By: The Clit

Titilola, I have questions that I feel you could answer. First, what is the essence of life? What do a soldier live for? Secondly, why do nations fight? Titi, war is senseless. War is man; man can be senseless and sensible; none getting to the end of life’s spectrum. At this point in time, I seem to be more senseless than sensible. I have raped girls, burnt down houses, shot at scared Nigerian soldiers. Indeed, I am senseless. I have mourned my butchered parents by setting a Nigerian military hideout on fire! I have killed sperms that would have fused with eggs to make the country a better place. What is more senseless than that?
I am still sensible once in a while. I am a man and catharsis is inalienable from me. I become weak when the beastly Nebuchadnezzar leaves me. I become a cold individual in search of warmth in an icy world. This world is too cold for feelings that we don’t know when to get warm. The same way I occasionally get warm in my army trousers when your face arouses an ejaculation. I get warm with an uncomfortable aphrodisiac when your figure eight bombards my little amount of sleep! Little devil! Get behind me!
My final question will be answered after my death. May I say after the death of I and my comrades in army? What will be the result of this ideological friction that ravaged a blessed country for three years? A war that dispossessed me of my humaneness, my parents, my family, my education, my you. Yes, my you!
I would love to make some assertions. Perhaps, the government of Nigeria will be generous enough to pay pension to the left over Biafran soldiers who survived the ideological plague.
Maybe, the sun on our flag was full that we halved it ourselves. Maybe, our thriftiness of designing nature to suit our tastes defined our fate. Maybe, the sun should have been full; probably, the artist proclaimed the destructive nature of the art he created. For all I know, no one can subdue the sun: why make it half?
Remember the economy of this nation has been squandered in a fruitless enterprise. Remember that this country has seized and destroyed its wealth by its own hands. I know that thousands of Igbos lost their Nigerian bank accounts to their inventive brothers. Their money was used in the purchase of weapons fashioned against them which prospered in their deadly magnitude.
 Let me write you a bit about war. War is brutal. I can remember handling local dynamite for the first time: it was terrible. The ground shook under my feet; in less than a second, the lovely green uniforms and the men in them transformed into heaps of hot coal barricaded by the sniveling sound of bodily juices and fat roasting alongside bushes.
You should be disappointed at this point. Your heart would reprimand my evil deeds. Especially this one I did after we conquered the enemy troops in Umuahia. My informant had told me that the principal of a school in one of the communities was a Yoruba man. He became a fugitive in the house of the natives after the Biafran troops arrived. I was furious and my fury was intensified when a young soldier remarked:
‘He is Yoruba. Why can’t he teach in his homeland? Igbos deserve the right to teach in their own land’
I ordered my boys to ransack all houses of the natives and bring the bastard and his family to my camp. I know you will be at the point of destroying this letter but do not. You are Yoruba and I called your unrelated brother a bastard.
When they arrived, the handsome pair looked tired and bruised from the harassment. They were yet to face more.
First, we undressed his wife and his young teenage daughter. We made them speak Igbo: it was hilarious. We then poured them water and made them dance in the market square. My boys took turns raping the women. I, the commander in charge of the 10th Battalion of the Biafran Army, watched indescribable insanity unveil itself before the natives. Their faces displayed shock, indignation and surprise at our actions.

What happened next reminds me of Victor Hugues’ Guillotine. The man was beheaded after witnessing the public rape of his family. My boys stripped him naked and made fun of his manhood, it was small. They questioned the natives if it should be cut off or tied with a barbed wire retrieved from a welder’s store nearby. I quickly hushed the confused natives and my nasty soldiers. There was a market woman who sold Ogiri and Oha leaves; I ordered her to remove her wares. Immediately, the table was brought to the centre of the market square by my boys. The condemned man was led forward, made to kneel down and rest his head on the table in a sleeping form. 



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