It was the first week in December, and primary schools were on Christmas break.
Children from the homes in the neighbourhood gathered in the
playground. They divided themselves, unintentionally, into groups, based
mainly on their age brackets.
“Let’s have a drama,” said a bespectacled boy about ten years of age.
“Okay. I want to be a soldier,” said another boy whose name was Yaro.
“I am the president’s wife,” said Maria, a pretty girl whom Yaro liked.
“Okay, Maria, then, I’ll be the president,” Yaro said.
“But you’re a soldier already,” Dele said, squinting through the thickness of his glasses. He continued,
“Remember, Mrs. Mafimisebi said that a soldier’s duty is to protect his country, not to rule it.”
Yaro’s young rage registered on his knitted brows. He feared that
Dele would make Maria not want him to be the president anymore; he
feared he couldn’t impress her with just a soldier’s camouflage. Yet she
smiled when he looked at her, his heart started thumping in his chest,
obstructing his airways. He had always wanted to be a soldier, like his
father was, and wouldn’t give that up without a fight. He turned to Dele
and asked,
“What do I have to do to be president?”
