MY CHILDREN MUST PLAY FOOTBALL —A Soldier’s Lament

MY CHILDREN MUST PLAY FOOTBALL

—A Soldier’s Lament

I joined the military with no illusions of riches.
I joined not for wealth, but for something far more fragile—hope.
Like Christ at Calvary, I chose the cross of service.
A quiet, thankless sacrifice for a country that forgets too quickly.

I serve with honour—yes.
But honour is a poor substitute for a warm bed or a child’s smile.
I have shared my sleep with reptiles in the harsh deserts of the North,
And bathed in the oil-slicked waters of the Delta.
No comfort. No applause. Just duty.

I do not live—I exist.
Each breath is a borrowed moment.
A pawn on a bloodied chessboard, waiting for the hand of death.
No warning. No glory.
Just the soft thud of a bullet, the scream of shrapnel,
A name whispered in silence and forgotten before dawn.

If fate spares me death,
It may grant me a wheelchair.
A shattered spine, a missing limb, an eye lost to a grenade.
And if I return broken, I return to a family that must now carry me.
My wife, once full of laughter, is now full of worry.
My children are learning the weight of sorrow too soon.

And when I am gone?
What is left of me?
A folded flag. A bugle’s wail. A wife now prey to wolves in human skin.
My comrades offer “help”—but at a cost.
“Madam, let’s meet at Chodak Hotel. We can talk there.”

My daughter—freshly out of school—
A job within reach, but at the gate stands my old colleague:
“Tell her to come see me… in private.”
And even if she goes, there are no guarantees.
He may steal her dignity, and still slam the door in her face.

I gave 35 years to my nation.
I retire with “honour” and nothing more.
No house. No land. Just a certificate and a prayer.
I squat in the barracks, waiting for my meagre gratuity.
When it comes, I rent a house and squeeze my children into corners.
Before long, the money dries up like harmattan wells.
The landlord tosses us out.
I cough through sleepless nights… and then I die.

No obituary. No statue. No song.
Just another ghost in faded camouflage.

But if my children… if they play football—
Ah, if they play football!
In one tournament, they will do what 35 years of service could not.

A medal around their neck and they are heroes.
$100,000 from the President.
N10 million from every governor.
A 3-bedroom house with satin sheets and imported tiles.
Brand-new cars. Endorsements. Recognition.
Even the enemies I fought never gave me that.

That is why—my children must play football.
Not because it is noble.
But because it is the only way this nation listens.
I don’t speak for doctors, teachers, or police officers.
Their suffering is another tale.

I speak as a soldier.
There is no dignity left in this uniform.
Only dust. Only debt.
Only silence.

So go.
Go and play football.
And maybe—just maybe—
You will survive what this country does to its sons.

Nigerian Soldier.