The Day It Rained Red
I will not forget this day — January 26, 1983. Nigeria, Africa.
The sound of the horns is distant — sad and low as the rain beats against our hut and the canopy that surrounds us. With each growing second, the brassy and quick toots become louder growing to a crescendo that awakens my stiff body from sleep. What is happening?
There is no time to remain lazily in the comforts of my bed. Every member of this tribe knows what those sounds mean.
“Omeko are u a-wake?” I gently tug at his arm. It is hours away from sunrise and the bright light from the moon is now faint.
His eyes open and he peers intently for a few seconds. His white pupils are bright darts against the darkness that now consumes our small space. His silhouette moves as he stands on his feet and says, “We do not have time. We need to go now.” I hear him looking around for something.
‘What do u think is de matter?”
He throws me a thick piece of cloth. “I am not sure but put this over ya head so we can go to de pit.”
We can hear the sounds of more horns outside. They remind me of the voices of our tribal elders screaming at us, their stubborn children, to leave now.
