By Fatima Anibaba

Adigun saw the men just as they were approaching the cluster of hills that surrounded the village. A thousand and one men marching in synchronisation, striking their spears upon the ground so the echoes resounded throughout our little town. We had expected them so we were ready.

The dreadful slave captors, infamous for turning prosperous villages into ruins; capturing the able-bodied, slaying the crippled and weak. They had invaded five of the seven neighbouring villages four moons ago and we had known it was only a matter of time before they reached ours. Hence, when we saw them approaching we were prepared. 

Our warriors had mounted their horses and assembled at the entrance of the village armed with bows and nocked arrows, sharpened spears and unsheated swords; adrenaline and righteous anger pulsing through their veins. It was a fight for our dignity and freedom, for the land of our fathers and their fathers before them. 

The battle was unlike any we have ever seen, the grounds bled, the streams flowed forth red water, and when near dusk the Balogun had come back holding a severed head – a mark of victory, we had all jubilated.

We threw a feast that night. The biggest ever to be had in Ayefele village; and as the women danced and sang praises of our brave soldiers, we passed uneasy glances amongst ourselves. We knew this was to be our last feast. We knew they will be back and Ayefele will fall. We knew because it happened to the five neighbouring villages before us.