A LONG peaceful quiet filled a large house. It wasn’t a house per se, but it seemed to have walls – even though they were tarpaulin ones; so Moro could only think of there as one.
Still the lost one couldn’t dare to ask a soul there. For there were wounded people lying on raised things with ‘divine beings’ tending to them.
But those angels passing in front of him were rather kind nurses who did their work as caregivers in that time of war.
Now quite a while had passed since Moro passed out at the gunshot. He had been taken to a treatment centre in the welfare camp of the army.
He’d been lying faint on a stretcher board, with a damp towel wrapped round his head.
But now he woke up and tried to figure things out. He squinted his eyes and studied the happenings there.
He watched the caregivers and saw them show love to people in spite of colour. He saw them stand out in their treatment of others.
Yes, the night had fallen and the moon was just rising. Then like the moon was to this night, Moro found those kind angels a breath of fresh air.
Like a rainbow in storm, a rescue for now.
Like his final hope to not lose hope.
So the gentleman peered at them, looking everywhere. Then as he turned to his side, he saw a younger man sitting there.
Moro thought that the man looked familiar. Like anyone he could meet on his way to farm, back home among his native folk.
But then the young man was dressed like the soldiers, the British soldiers. He was sitting on a tall stool, and keeping watch.
So Moro talked to himself. ‘What is wrong with me? How can I think to see a Yoruba here on Whiteman’s soil?
‘How could someone from my native land have come to this foreign land before now. And on top of this, be sitting right here beside me?
‘No, that is just impossible!’
Right then the middle-aged one got a strange response that made everything feel more like a dream.
Still it was a dream, but a waking one.
‘Except this fellow is descended from the native land and walks as Yoruba on British soil,’ quipped the seated young man.
Moro was caught completely unawares. He was stunned and thrown off-balance...
For the man had answered him in Yoruba language, the selfsame tongue that he knew.
‘Wh... what? Are you Yoruba too?’ the older man stuttered.
‘But how come you are here? Does it mean that you’re resident here?’
The younger man realised he hadn’t come clear; so he made the effort to be.
‘I live among Yoruba people, and the place isn’t here in Britain.
‘I am from Jamaica, some island quite far away from here. Alukho is my name and am a Yorubaman.
‘I descended from the Ọyọ tribe of our ancestors carried to my place as slaves. It was during the trade in slavery several years ago.
‘But we’re no longer slaves. Yet our soil isn’t ours but British. Even still, we are fighting to be a country.
‘Then, we’ve been promised independence if we fight in this war on the side of Britain.
‘That is why you find a countryman beside you. You must’ve been from Ọyọ people, too!’
Just then one of the nurses walked over to their side. She was a young lively woman.
‘You’re awake? How do you feel now?’ she asked in English.
Moro looked a bit lost. He had no idea what the lady was saying, so he stared in her face like he could find sense there.
So the lady turned to the seated man at watch. He looked to him for answers.
‘Oh yes, he’s awake,’ he answered her. ‘But I’m not sure how he feels yet – he’s just starting to talk.’
He said those words in English.
Moro’s eyes ran forth and back. He struggled to read the speaking two as he suddenly felt unsafe.
His breath took up a running pace, as his brow came to be all moist in small time.
So the nurse stepped closer and tried to feel his pulse. She saw his perspiration and thought he was running a fever.
Now Moro was stricken sick with fear, so much he collapsed and fell to ground.
He’d just heard a gun sound—again.
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