ALL through night at the close of that day, Moro was down on the way-out for his brothers and him. A way out of being drafted into Ekiti army alongside his half-brothers.
Yet Moro’s way-out appeared even more dangerous than facing rifles now.
For it didn’t seem like a mere escape from the war. But somewhat like a dangerous escapade.
The moon was up in all its glory as the glowing full circle brightened the earth beneath.
Still the night light wasn’t enough for the young man. For Moro was finding home the darkest place to be.
This was the large homestead belonging to his father Dada. The village was also called home by the whole clan.
But Moro had lost his mother before he knew much of her. And while he was still learning to trust his father, he lost him. Even when the man didn’t travel or die.
So the boy and his younger brothers had been all alone since they were little.
Then they’d got to rely on the favours from their half-brothers, as they were born to Dada by his second wife.
Even so, this eldest boy kept a bright picture in his head. He wanted to dream, and be—and prosper. Wanted to live, and become. Wanted to matter.
It was a dream that anybody could nurse. But to the poor young thing it was quite the luxury.
Still Moro couldn’t help wanting the gold, the glitter in life... the glamour.
But there again was the rifle war. And all of Dada’s sons had been summoned to join the army.
Now this was like clear sign that Moro wouldn’t see the morrow. So he cringed on the straw mat where he lay by his brothers.
Yes, the sixth son of the man Dada was still a boy when the war began. And so when men were drafted into the army to defend the kingdom, he was spared.
His half-brothers, too, weren’t enlisted in the army as the troops then had enough gunmen to not need them.
Yet only the first and second sons had later joined the battle. So they had returned to fetch the rest also.
Now Moro knew how the men were drafted into battle eight years before. He saw the force involved, saw the agony of separation.
He had read on men’s faces the fear of falling in battle.
Then after eight years it was his turn to fight in that tough war. And he was just sixteen years old.
So this bright night, while all nature reposed, Moro made a plan to save him, Oji and Daleka... his two kid brothers.
He woke the boys up and told them he planned to flee, skirt the jungle routes westwards, over mountains and hills, and rivers, and plains...
Until he reached a quiet land faraway, and quite removed from the heat of battle.
He asked his young brothers. ‘Will you come with me?’
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