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<p>By Martin Yakwo</p><div class="i5Gnd8od" style="clear:both;float:left;width:100%;margin:0 0 20px 0;"><script async src="https://pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js"></script>

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<p>The humid air of Benisheikh felt heavy yesterday, not with rain, but with the silence of a trap. Brigadier General Oseni Braimah stood in the center of the 29 Task Force Brigade’s perimeter, his thumb tracing the jagged edge of a radio that hadn’t caught a clear signal in three days.</p>
<p>He had surely sent five memos to Abuja in a month. He’d asked for the T-72 tanks promised in the quarterly budget and the thermal optics needed to see through the encroaching Sahel dust. After all the general in his youth was trained in the annals of red house aka octopus house..where being on point was a religion? Sharp thinking was necessary to survive and being resourceful was mandatory.</p>
<p>But alas, The replies from the High Command via the buffoons in the villa were always the same: “Resources are being deployed. Maintain your position.” But Braimah knew where the resources were. He had seen the photos of the new mansions in Lakeview, Abuja, owned by men who had never heard a shot fired in anger. He knew the “superior firepower” touted in the morning press releases was sitting in a shipping container in Lagos, held up by a kickback dispute between greedy politically inclined morons and the compromised analogue generals who have become their partners in crime and corruption.</p><div class="atqQEPXK" style="clear:both;float:left;width:100%;margin:0 0 20px 0;"><script async src="https://pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js"></script>

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<p>“General,” his adjutant whispered, pointing toward the tree line. “The scouts didn’t return.” how could they have returned? They had already been betrayed by some rehabilitated sons and daughters of Satan with the blessing of the NSA and his clowns in control of the nations security apparatus a long time ago.</p>
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<p>Braimah reached for his rifle. It was a decades-old weapon, the ubiquitous AK 47? its barrel worn smooth. He knew the political will to end this war didn&#8217;t exist; a forever war was too profitable for the men/agbayas in flowing agbadas, multi million naira watches and their paramilitary gang members in well starched khakis who the general answered to. If the insurgency died, the &#8220;security votes&#8221;—those unvetted billions—would vanish. After all, the dirty, stinky, drug addled vermin known as Boko Haram are the prodigal sons of some of the hierarchy as well as the politicians. These boys are cash in the bank as it is and so must be protected and supplied more than the military itself.</p>
<p>Then, the darkness erupted.<br />
The terrorists didn&#8217;t come with swords; they came with brand-new technicals and night-vision goggles—gear better than anything Braimah’s men possessed. The General sprinted toward the front trench, shouting orders that were drowned out by the screams of boys holding jammed rifles.<br />
He picked up a Light Machine Gun from a fallen soldier, but after three bursts, it seized.</p>
<p>The procurement officers had bought &#8220;refurbished&#8221; ammunition that was actually decades-old surplus. “Request air support!” Braimah roared over the thunder of RPGs.<br />
“The jets are grounded in Maiduguri, sir!” the comms officer yelled back, tears streaking his dusty face. “They say there’s no fuel budget cleared for night Sorties!”</p>
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<p>Braimah looked at the sky, vast and empty. No air support? No night time drones? It wasn&#8217;t the enemy that had defeated him. It was the ink on the diverted contracts and the shrugs in the air-conditioned boardrooms of the capital. He stood tall, a silhouette of defiance against the muzzle flashes. He was a lion led by sheep, a guardian sold for a percentage. As the perimeter collapsed, he didn&#8217;t retreat. He fired his sidearm until the slide locked back. By then the scene must have looked like a scorched earth with bodies strewn across each other, blood and dust mixing with bullets and shrapnel as the constant staccato of gunfire mixed with Islamic chants by the evil killers of his colleagues rent the air, getting closer, and closer by the mili second?</p>
<p>The last thing Oseni Braimah felt wasn&#8217;t the sting of the bullet, but the &#8220;cold weight of a betrayal that started a thousand miles away from the battlefield in an air conditioned suite in the villa and freezing office in the MOD.&#8221; The desire to gaze upon the faces of his beautiful wife and kids once more must have driven him to jump into the last remaining MRAP vehicle in order to save himself and the wounded left alive to try to salvage their dire situation and protect us the citizens who slept underneath the covers while simultaneously living in order to fight another day?</p>
<p>But alas&#8230;.it wasn&#8217;t meant to be&#8230;&#8221;oga the MRAP has no fuel and the engine is faulty?&#8221; What manner of government allows a red neck to be in charge of a command with such a logistical nightmare? The Nigerian government of course. Better to turn our brightest and bravest into sitting ducks in borno for the bandits as long as the allowances can be exchanged in zone 4 for dollars but not sense!</p>
<p>The next morning, the DHQ would release a statement praising his &#8220;heroism&#8221; and &#8220;the military&#8217;s successful repelling of the attack.&#8221; The mansions in Abuja would remain quiet, their walls thick enough to drown out the sound of the desert wind while also buck passing in order to avoid any form of official scrutiny. Maybe tomorrow morning the mong from bourdillion would hurriedly fly into an airfield in Maiduguri for 10 minutes to extol the virtues of my red house brother and his fallen comrades in arms as he did in jos? He would make his usual regurgitated speech about &#8220;never again or we will crush these bandits?&#8221; He may also demand that they bring omos twin brother and his grieving wife and kids for a photo op? To show that he cares? Typical.</p>
<p>Mr President , your high command and your useless Boko Haram trainee ministers and the safari suit wearing boy scout from kaduna . You have all sacrificed an innocent man&#8217;s life and that of his brave platoon with your incompetence, blinding stupidity and lack of political will to face this menace head on. Nigerians are now on par with somalians as regards to insecurity and it is all happening under your bleary-eyed watch.</p>
<p>The betrayal of all the remaining red necks and their subordinates rests on your shoulders. May all of you responsible for the current state of this nations capitulation choke on your wealth and die off in penury after being haunted by the visions of all those who have been sent to the upper room by your inaction greed and lack of foresight.</p>
<p>As for &#8220;Le deux, tallest, Omo bee and the general?&#8221;&#8230;..I wish you a peaceful journey<br />
I will see you when it&#8217;s my turn . Rest in peace&#8230;&#8230;Salute.</p>
<p>[&#8220;The final betrayal of a red neck&#8221; is a SEMI BIOGRAPHICAL EPITAPH written by me based on the events of the last 24 hours of oseni braimahs life, as a dedication to his bravery and that of his men, the current inefficiency affecting our nations military offensive against terrorists in nigeria, the debilitating federal corruption as well as our 32 year association via our journey through the hallowed halls of CSSKD&#8221;]</p>
<p>© God of words productions. 2026</p>
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