Battlefield

by Mary Orji

I stepped onto this wide-open field expecting the wild, flowery scent of wildflowers to lull me into dreams just as wild and untamed. But no—I dreamt too high, made a wish too unattainable. For this land, sure, is wild and large, but blood and gunpowder permeate it. This is a battlefield. Beneath its surface lie rows of scattered bombs. I learnt to be on guard. So much so, my entire being is rigid—like steel. My nature—docile—hoped that defending would de-escalate the fight. At first, they were just fights. Then they became war. And in war, the will to live supersedes. So I got stronger. Acquired a sword; still on the defensive, but no longer afraid to attack. The constant blowups taught me stealth, and like a ballerina on pointe, I leapt and twirled, all while swinging my sword. But you know what? That sword was always blunt—a façade, a false armour, hoping the enemy would flee and leave me in peace. How wrong I was. The scars that litter my soul and skin tell their tale—proof of my stupidity. But I finally learnt. Truly, I did. Once I began striking, the blade of my sword, sharpened by anger and pain, tore through flesh, bone, and everything that threatened my safety. However, the enemy stared at me, eyes lamenting betrayal and disbelief—as if I were the enemy all along.