When home became a memory.(Creative nonfiction promp 45)

Sometimes, everything seems to be okay. Life feels peaceful, ordinary, and predictable. Then, without warning, life changes, and some of the joys that were once shared among people slowly fade away.

I come from a small community that was once a home to many people, a place where children were raised without fear and families lived peacefully. My village is mostly made up of farmers, of which farming serving as the major source of income. Despite the simplicity of life, people were happy. They worked hard, provided for their families, and were able to send their children to school. Life was not perfect, but for me I will say it was peaceful.

Then, everything started to fall apart in December 2021.I had just finished my Senior Secondary School examination (SS3), and my family and I travelled back to the village to spend the Christmas holidays with my grandmother and cousins. The days passed peacefully. We enjoyed the usual village life, surrounded by family and familiar faces.

Until one fateful day,rumours began spreading about an ongoing quarrel between my village and the neighbouring village that had once lived like brothers. At first, we did not take it seriously. We thought it was nothing more than an exchange of words that would soon be resolved but we were wrong. The following day, a heavy fight broke out. We were asked to leave our home for a few days. "A few days" because we believed the situation would be settled within weeks, or at most, a month.

My family and I left and sought refuge in my maternal home. But only a few days after leaving, we received a more devastating news that houses were being burnt down, in my village. It was a terrible experience. We called on the government and village leaders to intervene, hoping someone would step in and restore peace, but no help came.

My grandmother's house was burnt down. Our house was burnt down too. Everything we had known as home was suddenly reduced to ashes.

We became refugees in a place where we had once lived freely. Many people left their homes believing they would return after the conflict ended. They left behind their belongings, farmlands, animals, and the lives they had built over the years. While some never returned because they lost their lives.

For my family, life became increasingly difficult. Some chapters of our lives were forced to close. One of them was the simple tradition of returning to the village during holidays. A place that once represented home felt distance.

Years have passed, yet the conflict continues, something we thought won't last to a month has lasted up to five years.
Those who fled have been forced to accept their fate and embrace a new way of life, holding on to the hope that one day the violence will end and they will be able to return.

But sometimes I wonder, if the conflict eventually ends, what will remain?
Can an end to the fighting restore the lives that were lost? Can it rebuild the homes that were burnt down? Can it return the farmlands, animals, childhood memories, and years that disappeared in the flames?

Even when the fighting stops, the wounds may remain. The land may no longer feel the same. The homes may be rebuilt, but the memories of what happened will remain in the hearts of those who experienced it. It will take years for the land to heal, perhaps even longer for the people.

Image: Meta AI generated