Half of a Yellow Sun

“You! Stop there!” one of them called.

Ugwu began to run until he heard the gunshot, so deafening, so alarmingly close that he fell to the ground and waited for the pain to drill into his body, certain he had been hit. But there was no pain. When the soldier ran up to him, the first thing Ugwu saw was the pair of canvas shoes, before he looked up at the wiry body and scowling face. A rosary hung around his neck. The burnt smell of gunpowder came from his gun.

“Come on, stand up, you bloody civilian! Join them there!”

Ugwu stood up and the soldier slapped the back of his head and a splintering light spread to his eyes; he dug his feet into the loose sand to steady himself for a moment before he walked over to join the two men standing with their arms raised high. One was elderly, at least sixty-five, while the other was a teenager of perhaps fifteen. Ugwu mumbled a “good afternoon” to the elderly man and stood next to him, arms raised.

“Enter the van,” the second soldier said. His thick beard covered most of his cheeks.

“If it has come to this, that you are conscripting somebody my age, then Biafra has died,” the elderly man said quietly.

The second soldier was watching him.

The first soldier sh

outed, “Shut up your stinking mouth, agadi!” and slapped the elderly man.

“Stop that!” the second soldier said. He turned to the elderly man. “Papa, go.”

“Eh?” The elderly man looked uncertain.

“Go, gawa.”

The elderly man began to walk away, at first slowly and uncertainly, his hand rubbing the cheek where he had been slapped; then he broke into an unsteady run. Ugwu watched him disappear down the road and wished he could leap across and clutch his hand and be propelled along to freedom.

“Get into the van!” the first soldier said. It was as if the elderly man’s leaving had angered him and that he held not the second soldier but the new conscripts responsible. He shoved the teenager and Ugwu. The teenager fell and quickly scrambled to his feet before they climbed into the back of the van. There were no seats; old raffia bags and rawhide canes and empty bottles lay scattered on the rusting floor. Ugwu was startled to see a boy sitting there, humming a song and drinking from an old beer bottle. Ugwu smelled the harshness of local gin as he lowered himself next to the boy and thought that perhaps he was a stunted man and not a boy.

“I am High-Tech,” he said, and the scent of local gin became stronger.

“I am Ugwu.” Ugwu glanced at his oversize shirt, tattered shorts, boots, and beret. He was indeed a boy. No more than thirteen. But the dry cynicism in his eyes made him seem much older than the teenager crumpled down opposite them.

“Gi kwanu? What is your own name?” High-Tech asked the teenager.

The teenager was sobbing. He looked familiar; perhaps he was one of the neighborhood boys who had fetched water at the borehole before dawn. Ugwu felt sorry for him and yet angry, too, because the teenager’s crying made the hopelessness of their situation stark and final. They really had been conscripted. They really would be sent to the war front with no training.

“Aren’t you a man?” High-Tech asked the teenager. “I bu nwanyi? Why are you behaving like a woman?”

The teenager had his hand pressed against his eyes as he cried. High-Tech’s sneer turned into mocking laughter. “This one doesn’t want to fight for our cause!”

Ugwu said nothing; High-Tech’s laughter and the smell of gin nauseated him.

“I do rayconzar meechon,” High-Tech announced, speaking English for the first time. Ugwu wanted to correct his pronunciation of reconnaissance mission; the boy certainly would benefit from Olanna’s class.

“Our battalion is made up of field engineers and we use only the mighty ogbunigwe.” High-Tech paused and belched, as if he expected delight from his listeners. The teenager kept crying. Ugwu listened without expression. He suspected it would be important to win High-Tech’s respect, and he would succeed only by showing nothing of the fear that was crawling all over him.

“I am the one who detects where the enemy is. I move close by and climb trees and find out the exact location and then our commander will use my information to decide where to set up for our operation.” High-Tech watched Ugwu and Ugwu kept his face indifferent. “With my last battalion I used to pretend that I was an orphan and infiltrate the enemy camp. They call me High-Tech because my first commander said I am better than any high-technology spying gadget.” He sounded eager to impress Ugwu. Ugwu stretched out his legs.

“That word you call re-con-zar is reconnaissance”, he said.

High-Tech looked at him for a moment and laughed and offered the bottle, but Ugwu shook his head. High-Tech shrugged and drank and hummed “Biafra Win the War,” tapping his foot on the floor of the van. The teenager kept crying. The first soldier was at the wheel, smoking dried leaves rolled in paper and the smoke was pungent and the drive took so long that Ugwu could no longer hold his urge to urinate.

“Please, I want to piss!” he called out.

The soldier stopped the van and pointed his gun. “Step down and piss. You run, I shoot.”

It was the same soldier who, when they arrived at the training camp, a former primary school with buildings sheathed in palm fronds, shaved Ugwu’s hair with a piece of broken glass. The rough scraping left his scalp tender, littered with nicks. The mats and mattresses arranged in the classrooms crawled with vicious bedbugs. The skinny soldiers—with no boots, no uniforms, no half of a yellow sun on their sleeves—kicked and slapped and mocked Ugwu during physical training. The parade left Ugwu’s arms stiff. The obstacles training left his calves throbbing. The rope-climbing left his palms bleeding. The wraps of garri he stood in line to receive, the thin soup scooped from a metal basin once a day, left him hungry. And the casual cruelty of this new world in which he had no say grew a hard clot of fear inside him.

A family of birds had nested on the roof of the classroom. In the mornings their chirping was interrupted by the sharp trill of the commander’s whistle, a voice shouting “Fall in, fall in!” and the running and scrambling of men and boys. In the afternoons, the sun sapped energy and goodwill and the soldiers quarreled and played Biafran whot and spoke of the vandals they had blown up in past operations. When one of them said, “Our next operation will be very soon!” Ugwu’s fear mixed with excitement at the thought that he was a soldier fighting for Biafra. If only he was with a real battalion, fighting with a gun. He remembered Professor Ekwenugo describing the ogbunigwe: “high-impact land mine.” How glamorous it sounded, this Biafran-made mine, this Ojukwu Bucket, this wonder that was so perplexing to the vandals that they were said to send cattle herds ahead to understand just how the ogbunigwe killed so many. But when he went to the first training session, he stared at what was before him: a dull metal container full of scrap metal.