We had just returned from a long patrol, exhausted but alive, holding onto the small comfort that maybe—just maybe—the worst was behind us. Our commander, Major Abdul, stood at the edge of the camp, his eyes scanning the darkness like a man who could see danger before it even arrived. He was more than a leader—he was our shield, our courage when fear tried to take over.
A Nigerian soldier returning from battlefield
Beside him was Lieutenant Abdulraman, his loyal second-in-command. Calm, sharp, and fearless. If Major Abdul was the backbone, Abdulraman was the nerve—quick to act, never hesitating when it mattered most.
And then there was Staff Sergeant Isa…
He had just returned from pass. His wife had given birth days ago. I remember how his face lit up when he showed us the picture of his newborn child. “I’ll make sure this country is safe for him,” he said, smiling in a way only a proud father can.
None of us knew that would be the last smile we’d ever see from him.
It was around 2 a.m. when hell broke loose.
Gunfire erupted from all directions. The enemy had been watching us… waiting. Within seconds, the camp turned into chaos—bullets tearing through tents, explosions shaking the ground beneath us. The quiet night became a storm of fire and death.
“Take cover! Return fire!” Major Abdul’s voice cut through the panic like thunder.
Even under heavy fire, he stood tall, directing us, refusing to hide while his men were exposed. That was the kind of man he was—he never asked us to do what he wouldn’t do himself.
Lieutenant Abdulraman was right beside him, coordinating our defense, moving from one position to another, pulling wounded soldiers to safety. He could have stayed back… but he didn’t. He chose us.
Then I saw it… the moment everything changed.
A heavy blast hit close to their position. The ground shook violently, and for a second, everything went silent in my ears. When my vision cleared, I saw Major Abdul fall.
“Commander down!” someone shouted.
Lieutenant Abdulraman rushed to him without thinking. That was his brother, not just his superior. He tried to drag him to cover, but the enemy fire was relentless… unforgiving.
Another burst of gunfire rang out—and Abdulraman dropped beside him.
Two lions… gone in seconds.
Meanwhile, Staff Sergeant Isa fought like a man who had everything to live for. He wasn’t just fighting for survival anymore—he was fighting for the child he had just left behind. I saw him holding his position, refusing to retreat, buying time for the rest of us to regroup.
But war doesn’t listen to prayers… and bullets don’t care about dreams.
He was hit.
Even as he fell, he tried to rise again. I remember crawling toward him, hearing him whisper something… something about his wife… his child…
Then he went still.
That moment broke something inside me.
We fought harder after that—not out of courage, but out of pain. Out of anger. Out of the desperate need to make their sacrifice mean something.
Hours felt like days… but somehow, a few of us survived.
When the sun finally rose, it didn’t feel like victory. It felt like loss. The battlefield was quiet again—but this time, it was a silence filled with absence.
Major Abdul… the leader who never left his men behind.
Lieutenant Abdulraman… the brother who stood till his last breath.
Staff Sergeant Isa… a father who died protecting a future he would never see.
We buried them that day… but their memories? They march with us every step we take.
And for those of us who survived…
We didn’t just leave that battlefield with scars.
We left with pieces of our souls buried in that blood-soaked ground.
To the departed souls that no one cares about
We that are witness to your sacrifices, we promise never to forget your sacrifices.
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