after Abigail Mengesha; for casualties of the Nigeria-Biafra war

See how they hang a rifle around their necks. Clavicles flattened. Hands on the trigger. The entrance of a war is always smoother than the war itself. They must be oblivious. These boys, warm-blooded, dressing up to be killed. It came swinging, just like that, a war handed down now to be owned. I wonder if they could see the war for what it was— not this energy, these wide eyed chants, not even the brief madness of a military badge. Did they ever know? Air raids will come & so will bombs. Someone will kneel beside a lifeless friend & beg him to wake. Beg him to quiver even if for once. However, for now, let us pretend that martyrdom is only a synonym for strength. Let us pretend that this moment, photographed, will not hack them open like a cake. In far away Britain, prime minister Harold Wilson accuses Biafra of trying to garner sympathy by exploring (images of) the casualties of war — & I take more photos of blown out skulls. Of starving kids. Of imported guns. Of landmines & each British tank. I call their weapon by its white name. Deep in the bush, another boy is readying— makeshift soldier— armed only with a rosary his mother gave. Look at him. All of his childhood is already vanishing. In the past, “War” was only a kind of play— they did it around the house, water guns in hand, all of the children refusing to die. Now the real thing happens before his eyes. Blood & more blood where ordinary water would have been.

• The statement by Harold Wilson was obtained from There was a Country by Chinua Achebe.