Chapter 6; The Book Of Remembrance
727 Words
Three weeks had passed since the night that changed Gidan Haske forever.
The smoke had disappeared.
The ashes had settled.
But the questions remained.
Every morning, villagers walked through the ruins of what had once been their homes. Charred walls stood like silent witnesses. Empty compounds reminded them that grief was not measured in days but in memories.
Pastor Yohanna often stood before the damaged church, looking toward the hills.
"They burned the building," he said quietly to himself, "but they could not burn the Gospel."
---
The tragedy of Gidan Haske was no longer confined to the village.
Newspapers carried its story.
Television stations aired interviews with survivors.
Churches across Nigeria held special services of prayer for victims of violence.
Humanitarian organizations appealed for emergency assistance.
Across the country, people asked difficult questions.
How many more villages would mourn before lasting peace came?
---
Adaobi Nwosu had returned to Abuja, but Gidan Haske refused to leave her heart.
As an investigative journalist, she had covered elections, corruption, floods, and epidemics.
Nothing had prepared her for the eyes of children who had lost everything.
She spread dozens of reports across her office desk.
Government statements.
Security briefings.
Human rights reports.
Academic studies.
Church publications.
International assessments.
She discovered a troubling pattern.
Communities in different parts of Nigeria had experienced repeated attacks over many years. Researchers, security experts, and government officials often disagreed about the relative importance of different factors—violent extremist ideology, criminality, disputes over land and resources, the spread of illegal weapons, climate pressures, weak governance, and failures in law enforcement.
Yet almost everyone agreed on one fact.
Ordinary civilians bore the greatest burden.
---
Adaobi's editor entered her office.
"What are you looking for?" he asked.
"The truth," she answered.
"And have you found it?"
She shook her head.
"I've found many pieces."
"But not the whole picture."
The editor nodded.
"Then don't write what you cannot prove."
"Write what the evidence shows."
"And let the facts speak louder than opinions."
Those words stayed with her.
---
Meanwhile, in Gidan Haske, investigators interviewed survivors.
Security personnel collected evidence.
Community leaders submitted lists of the missing and the displaced.
Church leaders met with government representatives to call for stronger protection, thorough investigations, and support for affected families.
The process was slow.
For those who had lost loved ones, every delay felt painfully long.
Justice, they believed, should not move at the pace of bureaucracy.
---
One afternoon, Deborah asked Pastor Yohanna a question.
"Why do bad people hurt innocent people?"
The old pastor closed his Bible.
"If I gave you a simple answer," he said gently, "it would not be an honest one."
"The world has always known evil."
"Sometimes it wears the face of hatred."
"Sometimes greed."
"Sometimes power."
"Sometimes an ideology that teaches people to see others as less than human."
"But evil never has the final word."
She looked at him carefully.
"Who speaks the final word?"
He smiled.
"God."
---
Across Nigeria, voices continued to rise.
Christian leaders called for justice and protection.
Many Muslim leaders publicly condemned the violence, insisting that murder and terrorism violated the teachings of Islam.
Civil society organizations demanded greater accountability.
Security analysts urged reforms that would improve intelligence, rapid response, and protection for vulnerable communities.
Despite different perspectives on the causes, there was growing agreement that innocent Nigerians—regardless of faith or ethnicity—deserved equal protection under the law.
---
Months later, rebuilding finally began.
Young men mixed cement.
Women carried water.
Children planted trees where ashes had once covered the ground.
The first brick laid for the new church drew tears from many who watched.
Pastor Yohanna placed a small wooden cross beside the foundation.
He looked at the gathering.
"This building is not a monument to tragedy."
"It is a testimony that faith can outlive fear."
The people answered together,
"Amen."
As the sun dipped below the western hills, its golden light fell upon fresh bricks rising from scarred ground.
For the first time since the night of terror, the people of Gidan Haske saw more than ruins.
They saw a future.
It would not erase the past.
It would not remove the pain.
But it reminded them of a timeless truth:
Darkness may endure for a night.
Yet those who refuse to surrender can still greet the dawn with hope.
- Writer
