Chapter 7: The Price Of Slient
634 Words
The rebuilt church had no stained-glass windows.
Its roof was made of corrugated iron donated by churches from distant towns.
The pews were rough planks cut from fallen trees.
The walls remained unfinished.
Yet every Sunday, the building was filled long before the service began.
Not because it was beautiful.
But because every brick represented survival.
Pastor Yohanna stood quietly before the congregation.
His Bible was older than many of the young people sitting before him.
The leather cover had cracked.
Several pages had been repaired with tape.
But every scar upon that Bible reminded him that what is preserved often bears the marks of suffering.
"My brothers and sisters," he began softly, "today we remember."
The congregation bowed their heads.
"We remember those whose voices are now silent."
"We remember the children who never returned to school."
"We remember the mothers whose tears have not yet dried."
"We remember the fathers whose dreams were buried beneath broken homes."
"And we remember because forgetting is another kind of death."
Silence filled the church.
No one moved.
Some memories are too sacred for words.
---
Far away in Abuja, Adaobi Nwosu finished the final page of her investigative report.
For months she had traveled through villages, displacement camps, police stations, hospitals, churches, and government offices.
She interviewed survivors.
Security officials.
Relief workers.
Traditional rulers.
Academics.
Religious leaders.
Her notebook contained thousands of names.
Every name represented a family.
Every family represented a story.
When she submitted the report to her editor, he looked at her and asked,
"What is your conclusion?"
Adaobi thought for a long moment.
"The victims deserve more than sympathy."
"They deserve truth."
"They deserve justice."
"And they deserve a country where no community lives in constant fear."
---
The report sparked conversations across Nigeria.
Universities organized public discussions.
Churches held prayer vigils.
Civil society organizations renewed calls for stronger protection of vulnerable communities.
Security experts debated reforms.
Lawmakers promised renewed attention to communities affected by violence.
Some citizens welcomed these discussions.
Others wondered whether meaningful change would follow.
The survivors had heard promises before.
They hoped this time would be different.
---
One evening, Deborah found Pastor Yohanna sitting alone beneath the old mango tree.
"Pastor?"
"Yes, my child."
"Will people remember what happened to us?"
The old man looked toward the sunset.
"If nobody tells the story..."
"They may forget."
She sat beside him.
"Then who will tell it?"
He smiled gently.
"You will."
She frowned.
"I'm only a little girl."
"Today."
He nodded.
"But one day you'll become a woman."
"You'll tell your children."
"They'll tell theirs."
"And as long as the truth is told with honesty, those we lost will never truly disappear."
---
That night Deborah opened a small notebook that had survived the attack.
On the first page she wrote:
"Our village still lives."
Then she continued.
"If anyone reads these words many years from now, know that we were ordinary people. We loved our families. We worked our farms. We worshipped God. We laughed. We celebrated weddings. We buried our elders with honour. We dreamed of better days.
Then violence came.
But it did not erase who we were.
If you remember us, let it not be because of the evil that wounded us.
Remember us because we chose faith instead of despair, courage instead of fear, and hope instead of hatred."
She closed the notebook.
Outside, the church bell rang for the first time since the rebuilding was completed.
Its sound rolled across the valley.
Old men stopped walking.
Children looked toward the church.
Women smiled through tears.
The bell did not announce the end of sorrow.
It announced something just as important.
The people of Gidan Haske were still standing.
And as long as they stood together, their story would never be silenced.
- Writer
