What Obiora Remembered

On the second night, he told her the story of how he died.

They sat on the roof of the storehouse, which was the one safe place, with a thin sliver of moon above and the whole of Umuoma sleeping below them. The air smelled of woodsmoke and wet earth. A dog barked in the distance and gave up.

"It was the year of the long dry," said Obiora. "The harmattan came early. The harvest failed. Hunger made the neighbouring clans desperate."

"The raiders?"

"They came at dawn, forty of them, with spears and fire. We had no warriors left. They had all gone to the coast to fight the slave traders." His voice grew distant. "I was twenty-four. I was a blacksmith's apprentice. I had never held a sword in my life."