to be there to understand. You cannot write about it from a distance. You have to feel it, smell it, taste it — the fear, the adrenaline, the anger, the despair. These boys, they are not just soldiers. They are survivors, fighters, heroes. And when they come back, they are broken.”
I listened to him speak, his voice heavy with emotion. It was clear that he had been deeply affected by his experiences in the war. I felt a pang of guilt for prying into his life, for asking questions that had stirred up painful memories. But at the same time, I felt a deep sense of gratitude for the opportunity to hear his story, to gain a glimpse into a world that was so far removed from my own.
As the journey continued, the man spoke at length about his time in the military, about the atrocities he had witnessed, about the friends he had lost. He spoke with a raw honesty that was both heartbreaking and awe-inspiring. And as we neared our destination, I knew that I would carry his words with me, that they would find their way into the pages of my novel, shaping the narrative in ways I had never imagined.
When we finally arrived in Jos, I thanked the soldier for sharing his story with me. He nodded, a somber expression on his face. And as I watched him disappear into the bustling streets of the city, I knew that his words would stay with me forever, a reminder of the resilience and courage of those who had faced the horrors of war.
And as I sat down to write that night, I knew that I had been given a gift, a gift of insight and understanding that would forever change the way I approached my work as a writer. And for that, I would always be grateful.