LIGHTENING

"Love is overrated." She said from her side of the bed.

 You smiled because her words of rejection no longer bruised your ego.  Maybe it had dented it the first time you told her you wanted to be her everything. She had snickered in jest and pursed her lips.

And she had guffawed once, then twice and then sighed.

'What will I gain from this relationship?' She had asked. But you could not find an answer to such an easy question... if it ever had one.

You had promised money, and she had refused. Attention and she had scoffed. Poems, yes, lots of poems.

Your commander said you were talented and would always ask you to read to the men when festive; you would read them stanzas of home; and reassure them their women, children awaited them.

And when loss weighed the spirits he would call on you. And you would bend your little piece of paper to the fire and read slowly; those words that were more than words, to you at least.

But she would not have any of it. Not your money, not your attention and certainly not your vulnerable half scrawled poems.

You had tried to rationalise with her, in this same spartan guesthouse that overlooked Boni Market. They said it was the safest place in Borno, away from the insurgent terror.

Where the barber played old hip-hop hits past 7 pm, adolescents stalked the night with a trail of cigarette smoke in their wake, and the mallams sold suya. Although unlike the west, they didn't call them mallam, they were merely people that sold suya. Everyone here was mallam.

This room wasn't much but it was all you could afford then. The smell of weed seized the air; she smoked, you didn't. Your rifle sat beside your bed, swallowed by the darkness. Sometimes the headlights of a passing car would reflect on its silver coating.

 Now you could rent a bigger room, but this depressing cubicle still held on to memories you wouldn't like to lose. A sense of belonging for this relationship you shared with her. If you dared call it that.

You pulled her to yourself, and she rolled with ease. Skin met skin, and you could feel her slow beating heart; maybe yours beat faster because she asked if you were afraid.

"I'm not" you said.

"You were afraid last time" she said and then started to giggle.

You asked what was funny and she told you how her sister would get excited whenever she bought a new bar of soap; she called it ‘advertising time’ because that was when she would sensually scrub as they did in soap commercials.

You laughed and told her about your brothers too. About how the eldest one would put sugar in his beans because it wasn't sweet enough. You were the last of 5, and she teased you because of your position.

"Will you be my lover?"

You grabbed her arm and looked into where her eyes were supposed to be.  "I'm serious" you added in hope. Maybe it might change something.

"You know what? I just remembered today is Valentine's Day" She leaned in and kissed you.

"Happy Valentine's, baby." she said and then rolled off to her side of the bed.

"Why are you so evasive?" You said

"How?"

"Who hurt you?"

"Nobody," she said

"You have all these walls built around your personality, why in the world are you so guarded?"

"Why does everybody think I was molested or abused?"

"So it isn't only me then" you said

She chuckled then resigned.

"Tell me some war stories" her hand ran through your hair, and it felt like silk. "You know you promised me before you left."

"See, you are evading again."

She groaned.

"I don't know, that's just how I am."

"People?"

"Maybe." she flung herself on the bed again and sighed. "Sometimes I wake up, and I seriously doubt if I could be human enough to get through the day."

You said nothing.

"I always have to mentally prepare myself to see people. And some mornings, I fail."

You still said nothing, a part of you found meaning in her words.

"Have you ever shot that gun before?" She asked.

It was now your turn to evade. There were days in the forest where survival fogged the concept of humanity. Did the other man have a family? Maybe dreams? Sometimes it was a woman, other times it would be a little boy. But there was little room for thought, and even less for hesitation. You would do the needful and thank your stars for safety.

You would retire to your camp and masturbate to thoughts of her. You refused to think any more of her than that; she could be staining another's sheets for all you knew. And then you would scribble poems that painted a faux reality because reality was too real for a paper.

"Maybe," you answered.

She allowed you to evade and silence loomed over the room.

She shifted to your side, and you felt her head on your shoulder. Beyond the sex and the exchange of fluids, that was the most vulnerable she had ever been.

She was right, you were scared the last time. You had never gone to war and was desperate to make sense of your existence. You had loved her, you still did, and you had believed when she said she would never leave.

 And she had fallen asleep, buried in your arms. And when day broke, you had groped for her warmth beside you, only to feel the unassuming air of absence. It was cold and it was unpleasant. She was lightening, and you were struck.

As you drifted, you felt for her hand and squeezed. And then you ran your fingers across your rifle. Because like last time, it was the only thing assured in the morning.