It was Diambu’s understanding that his voyage would begin the following day, which meant his training would begin very soon.
Mboso nodded to one of his two armed soldiers keeping loose guard on the interior of the room. One guard was looking out the dirty front window. The other was standing with his back to the garage doors watching the two men with the missile. The guard by the door was dressed in jungle fatigues. He turned and pulled the bar from its anchors on the door, opening one of the doors wide enough to allow a person to enter. A tall, stocky white man with blond hair entered the dank room. He walked over to Mboso and Diambu and stood quietly, awaiting his introduction.
“This man’s name is Kornev,” Mboso told Diambu in English. “He is an expert in using this weapon. He will teach you everything you need to know to fulfill Allah’s divine will.”
Kornev held out his hand and said in Ibibio, “Nice to meet you.”
Diambu was impressed that the white man spoke his native language so fluently and answered in Ibibio as well, “The pleasure is all mine,” and he added, “As-salamu alaykum.”
The white man responded with the customary, “Alaykum As-Salaam.”
With pleasantries out of the way, Mboso said, “I will leave you to your work. My men will get you anything you need. Just let them know.”
Addressing Kornev, Mboso added, “Please make sure that my man, Afua, understands all the workings of this weapon before you leave.”
“It is very simple to operate,” Kornev assured him. “Of course, I will explain everything, as I always do.”
Mboso nodded and then exited the warehouse from the door Kornev had entered. The guard closed the door and sealed it with the bar.
Kornev turned to look at Diambu. The African was still holding the missile launcher in both hands which had sunk down to his waist level.
“Have you ever fired one of these?” Kornev asked the lanky man with skin black as coal.
“No,” said Diambu without further elaboration.
“Do you have experience killing people?” the arms dealer asked.
Diambu was shocked by the bluntness of the question. He wondered what significance it made if he had or hadn’t killed someone.
“Of course,” Afua responded.
“Good. Because with one squeeze of this trigger you will kill hundreds. Make sure you have your mind in the right place.”
Diambu didn’t understand what the white man was talking about. As far back as he could recall, he had been killing people. His mind had never been in the right place. Did a place such as this even exist?
Afua Diambu was unlucky enough to be born on a Friday. Afua means Friday-born child in his native tongue. He was born in Katsina State of Nigeria in a dirty little town named Batagarawa. Luck didn’t come easy to those born in the northern part of Nigeria. Whereas, most of the country was covered by a thick mass of green vegetation, Batagarawa and the Katsina areas were located on the outskirts of the Sahara Desert. The State of Katsina, located in north central Nigeria had the highest poverty rate among all States within that region.
Little could be grown in the arid climate and lifeless sand, and, therefore the sensation of hunger was something Afua had grown up knowing. Thus, as a child, his friends and family had gone hungry. That wasn’t to say he enjoyed having an empty belly.
At the age of twelve, Afua Diambu began making trips into southern Nigeria. He walked to the Kano-Kankia-Katsina road, where he would catch a ride on any truck or vehicle that would stop for him. He was always amazed to see the land change as each mile clicked by. At first, there would be a green bush here and a healthy green tree there. But the further they distanced themselves from the harsh Sahara, the greener vegetation became more abundant. Afua always knew this was the best time to get off the truck. He waited until everything around him was green to disembark at the next town to seek work.
Green was Diambu’s favorite color. It was the color of sustenance; it was the color of life. Green meant people could plant seeds in the ground and eat whatever wonderful edible crops sprouted from the rich soil. Green symbolized to Afua a full belly and work for those who didn’t mind helping the farmers rid the ground of all those tasty plants. He would work and steal until he had enough food to provide for his family in Batagarawa. That cycle continued for years and had become Afua’s way of life. That is until his nineteenth year when he met Mohammed Mboso, better known as Iniabasi.
Afua had been young and naive, but still old and wise enough to know right from wrong. Although his family had been very poor, his mother had taught Afua and his siblings the difference between right and wrong. “It is wrong to steal,” she had told them. And Afua thought that made sense, unless you were starving to death. Since his family was always on the verge of starvation, stealing became a way of life. Food could be acquired through work, begging or thievery. But thievery was always easiest, and it certainly was the fastest. Begging took less energy than stealing, and when one lacked food, it took more energy. Then stealing trumped begging. At first, Afua didn’t steal huge amounts, just an apple or a potato. But when he was harvesting the farmer’s crops, Afua would hide food in the jungle. He would then return at night to fill his sacks and drag them to the road headed north. He never told his mother that he had stolen the food. He told her he had worked for it and he had. Just not all of it. A little white lie. Who could it hurt?
He could still remember the day he had met Mohammed Mboso. Afua had been stealing food at the time. He had worked his way to the end of a large cassava field. Afua would periodically look up to see if he was being watched by the farmer or any of the other workers. When the farmer was far enough away, the Nigerian took his huge bag of cassava and emptied it a few steps into the thick jungle. As he was admiring his haul, he was startled by several guns racking shells into their chambers. He looked up to see a group of men brandishing AK-47s. The black guns were all pointed at him. The men were dressed in clothing the color of the jungle, and their faces were obscured by scarves tied behind their heads.
The only man that did not have a gun or a mask smiled at him. Afua did not know what to do so he nervously smiled back at the man.
“Do not be afraid,” he told Afua in his native Ibibio language. “We are not here to hurt you. We are here to help you.”
But the man Afua was looking at was scary looking, and Afua was afraid. He knew about the group known as the Boko Haram. He had never known anyone who belonged to the organization. Considering the number of guns pointed at him, he immediately assumed the man smiling at him was the leader. After all, they certainly wouldn’t have sent this number of officers to arrest him for stealing food. “My name is Mohammed Mboso,” the large man told him, “but everyone calls me Iniabasi.”
Afua nodded his head, smiling graciously back at the dangerous-looking man. In his native Ibibio language, Afua knew the name Iniabasi meant in God's time.
Iniabasi was older and his skin was marbled with large white and pink patches. The man’s hair grew in patches as well. There were crusted areas of curly gray hair that sprouted like tortured weeds from atop his scarred head. Afua had seen black skin badly burnt before, and this man was covered with it. Afua thought he looked like a monster.
The burned man took a moment to look over the pile of cassava Afua had harvested. He looked back up at Afua and asked, “Do you believe in God?”
It was a simple question, but for some reason, Afua felt any answer he offered would be the wrong one, so he said nothing. His mother had raised him as a Christian although most of their neighbors in northern Nigeria were Muslims. Little known fact, but sixty percent of all Nigerians are Christian. But religion didn’t take a front seat to starvation, and religion was not the center of his family’s universe. God had never showed up to their dinner table to bring them a chicken, goat or even a large bag of cassava.