by Ezenwa Obumneme Ugochukwu
On
the 25th of March; three
days after the surviving Lorries left after the war had failed to come through my
village, I rode on a bicycle with Chima sweating ahead of me with our weights
towards Onitsha to board any of the persuaded Lorries to the north.
“Makurdi
is the farthest we will get,” a driver advised some north-bound passenger.
“Is
there no bus for Kano?” a woman asked.
“Madam,
please! What I know is what I have just told you,” the driver raised a hand to
prevent any further argument from the woman.
“ONAGA!
ONAGA!!” a lorry boy cried with his last breathe, announcing the entrance of
the North-bound lorry.
