It was a commercial vehicle carrying about ten to twelve passengers. With just one glance at them, you could easily understand that they were travelers from the city of Zaria on their way to Abuja. Everyone’s attention was fixed on the road except for one woman, who since they boarded had tears flowing from her eyes. Beside her was a little girl, barely a year and a half old. She kept feeling sympathy for the child, her heart grieving deeply.
She turned and looked at her husband, who himself was filled with worry and fear.
“Hajara, do you think if we return now, your relatives will accept us? Will they approve of our marriage now? Or should we just go back…?”
She quickly raised her hand and grasped his, replying in a weak voice, “No, Salihu! Don’t you ever say that again. The way we resolved to bring Zahra today to meet my parents and grandparents—nothing will stop it, except destiny itself. Put away your fears and forget everything. I know by now they too have forgotten and everyone will forgive me, God willing. Our only hope is that Allah grants us a safe arrival.”
“Hmmm.”
Salihu sighed deeply and then reached out, lifting their little daughter and placing her on his lap. He gazed into her eyes before speaking:
“They told me your birth brought misfortune into my life, Zahra. But I know Allah is the One who decrees all things, not man. Whether I live or die, I pray Allah protects you with His divine protection.”
Hajara fell silent, watching her husband and child, wishing she could merge them into one and shield them from all harm. She smiled faintly, then turned her gaze to the forest passing by.
Suddenly, it felt as if the vehicle had been lifted into the air. The front tire burst with a loud bang, screeching painfully against the tar. The car jerked, flipped violently, and crashed over like they were being hammered down. At that lonely spot, with no houses in sight—only the vast forest of God—the vehicle shattered, blood gushed across the highway, and smoke rose as if petrol had been set ablaze. The place turned pitch black. From that crash, not a single soul inside the vehicle survived. We can only pray, “May Allah have mercy on those who have gone before us to the Hereafter.” 😢
Nigerian Defence Academy (NDA) – ND1
The parade ground was filled with a battalion of soldier cadets, standing still under the scorching sun. The silence was such that one might think they had been swallowed by water. From afar, no one would guess that there were over a hundred soldiers lined in rows.
Being ND1 (first-year cadets), most of them were young, fresh from secondary school. Not one among them was above 18; many were as young as 15. These were children of senior officers, enrolled into the Academy from a young age.
The commanding voice of their Major cut through the air:
“Hand salute!”
The entire group responded sharply, their boots hitting the ground in unison as they turned to face him and raised their hands in salute. All were dressed in military t-shirts and trousers bearing their insignia.
Major Jibril’s eyes settled on one smart-looking boy in the middle of the line. While everyone else stood rigid, this boy was busy pressing his phone and whispering quietly, “Mami… hello.”
The Major roared furiously, his voice shaking the ground. Shock spread among the cadets—yet the boy, Aliyu Haidar, did not flinch or drop his phone. Instead, he pressed it closer to his ear and said, “Mami, I’m in trouble. Major Jibril is talking to me, bye bye.” Then he quickly ended the call and slid the phone into his pocket.
“Who are you?!” the Major barked.
With boldness, the boy replied, “ALI HAIDAR!” snapping back to salute.
The Major summoned him out of line. He marched briskly and stood tall before him. When asked who in his family was a soldier, Aliyu responded without hesitation: “My Dad, General Saleh Yelwa.”
Major Jibril froze for a moment—he knew General Yelwa well, a man who had once trained him.
“Show them how a hand salute is done,” the Major ordered.
Aliyu demonstrated confidently, repeating what the Major himself had taught them the previous day. Impressed yet firm, the Major ordered him to do frog jumps across the field as punishment, so he would not repeat his mistake.
Aliyu obeyed, starting his frog jumps, yet he smiled in the direction of his younger brother, Khaleel, who was watching with red, worried eyes. Khaleel glared back, muttering in his heart, “When will Haidar stop being stubborn? Today he’ll learn his lesson.” But Aliyu simply thought to himself, “So what? This is nothing. I can handle it.”
For over an hour he continued, but he showed no sign of exhaustion—it felt like normal training at home. Their father was a soldier, their mother, Hajiya Nafisat Yelwa, a Deputy Commissioner of Police. Their youngest sister, Jidderh, was studying architecture at a children’s academy.
Aliyu’s fellow cadets marveled. “Ali, aren’t you tired? Aren’t you exhausted?” asked Areef. But Aliyu, with a boss-like frown, replied, “I’ve been used to every kind of military training long before I came here. This frog jump is nothing.”
“Well done,” Major Jibril’s voice cut in from behind them. He had been observing silently. He admired Aliyu’s resilience, thinking to himself, “This is exactly how a soldier should be.”
He then turned to the senior officers behind him and ordered, “Follow Ali Haidar Yelwa. Let him run from here in Kaduna, Jaji, all the way to Zaria and back—without stopping or drinking water. That’s his punishment now.”
Aliyu quickly saluted, then asked boldly, “Major, permission to carry my helmet, armor, and water?”
All eyes turned on him in shock. With a thunderous voice the Major shouted, “This is punishment, not war! You dare ask for helmet and armor? As for water—you won’t drink a drop until you return!”
Author’s Note
My beloved fans 💃ðŸ», I know your numbers have already crossed billions 😹. Please share this page with your people. Even if I have billions of readers, I still want millions more 😹. For those interested in adverts, the door is open—just reach out to me on WhatsApp, and with a small fee, I’ll help you get customers.
This story “RAINON SOJA” is not free. Please don’t start reading it if you know you won’t buy the next part. Book 1 is free, but Book 2 and beyond are paid. There are three groups: the Regular group (₦500), the VIP group (₦1000), and the Special group (₦1500). Payment can be made to account number 6037312299, Mohammed A’isha, Keystone Bank. Or through MTN recharge card/VTU transfer to these numbers: 08081202932 or 09061466409. Once you pay, you’ll be added to the group immediately before it gets filled up. You know I have a lot of responsibilities, so don’t be left behind. This is a story full of lessons 😹💃ðŸ»âœ¨. As it comes at the end of the year, its sweetness is truly special. Remember, the Golden Pen never writes meaningless stories.
Description
The Journey and the Tragedy
It was a commercial vehicle carrying about ten to twelve passengers. With just one glance at them, you could easily understand that they were travelers from the city of Zaria on their way to Abuja. Everyone’s attention was fixed on the road except for one woman, who since they boarded had tears flowing from her eyes. Beside her was a little girl, barely a year and a half old. She kept feeling sympathy for the child, her heart grieving deeply.
She turned and looked at her husband, who himself was filled with worry and fear.
“Hajara, do you think if we return now, your relatives will accept us? Will they approve of our marriage now? Or should we just go back…?”
She quickly raised her hand and grasped his, replying in a weak voice, “No, Salihu! Don’t you ever say that again. The way we resolved to bring Zahra today to meet my parents and grandparents—nothing will stop it, except destiny itself. Put away your fears and forget everything. I know by now they too have forgotten and everyone will forgive me, God willing. Our only hope is that Allah grants us a safe arrival.”
“Hmmm.”
Salihu sighed deeply and then reached out, lifting their little daughter and placing her on his lap. He gazed into her eyes before speaking:
“They told me your birth brought misfortune into my life, Zahra. But I know Allah is the One who decrees all things, not man. Whether I live or die, I pray Allah protects you with His divine protection.”
Hajara fell silent, watching her husband and child, wishing she could merge them into one and shield them from all harm. She smiled faintly, then turned her gaze to the forest passing by.
Suddenly, it felt as if the vehicle had been lifted into the air. The front tire burst with a loud bang, screeching painfully against the tar. The car jerked, flipped violently, and crashed over like they were being hammered down. At that lonely spot, with no houses in sight—only the vast forest of God—the vehicle shattered, blood gushed across the highway, and smoke rose as if petrol had been set ablaze. The place turned pitch black. From that crash, not a single soul inside the vehicle survived. We can only pray, “May Allah have mercy on those who have gone before us to the Hereafter.” 😢
Nigerian Defence Academy (NDA) – ND1
The parade ground was filled with a battalion of soldier cadets, standing still under the scorching sun. The silence was such that one might think they had been swallowed by water. From afar, no one would guess that there were over a hundred soldiers lined in rows.
Being ND1 (first-year cadets), most of them were young, fresh from secondary school. Not one among them was above 18; many were as young as 15. These were children of senior officers, enrolled into the Academy from a young age.
The commanding voice of their Major cut through the air:
“Hand salute!”
The entire group responded sharply, their boots hitting the ground in unison as they turned to face him and raised their hands in salute. All were dressed in military t-shirts and trousers bearing their insignia.
Major Jibril’s eyes settled on one smart-looking boy in the middle of the line. While everyone else stood rigid, this boy was busy pressing his phone and whispering quietly, “Mami… hello.”
The Major roared furiously, his voice shaking the ground. Shock spread among the cadets—yet the boy, Aliyu Haidar, did not flinch or drop his phone. Instead, he pressed it closer to his ear and said, “Mami, I’m in trouble. Major Jibril is talking to me, bye bye.” Then he quickly ended the call and slid the phone into his pocket.
“Who are you?!” the Major barked.
With boldness, the boy replied, “ALI HAIDAR!” snapping back to salute.
The Major summoned him out of line. He marched briskly and stood tall before him. When asked who in his family was a soldier, Aliyu responded without hesitation: “My Dad, General Saleh Yelwa.”
Major Jibril froze for a moment—he knew General Yelwa well, a man who had once trained him.
“Show them how a hand salute is done,” the Major ordered.
Aliyu demonstrated confidently, repeating what the Major himself had taught them the previous day. Impressed yet firm, the Major ordered him to do frog jumps across the field as punishment, so he would not repeat his mistake.
Aliyu obeyed, starting his frog jumps, yet he smiled in the direction of his younger brother, Khaleel, who was watching with red, worried eyes. Khaleel glared back, muttering in his heart, “When will Haidar stop being stubborn? Today he’ll learn his lesson.” But Aliyu simply thought to himself, “So what? This is nothing. I can handle it.”
For over an hour he continued, but he showed no sign of exhaustion—it felt like normal training at home. Their father was a soldier, their mother, Hajiya Nafisat Yelwa, a Deputy Commissioner of Police. Their youngest sister, Jidderh, was studying architecture at a children’s academy.
Aliyu’s fellow cadets marveled. “Ali, aren’t you tired? Aren’t you exhausted?” asked Areef. But Aliyu, with a boss-like frown, replied, “I’ve been used to every kind of military training long before I came here. This frog jump is nothing.”
“Well done,” Major Jibril’s voice cut in from behind them. He had been observing silently. He admired Aliyu’s resilience, thinking to himself, “This is exactly how a soldier should be.”
He then turned to the senior officers behind him and ordered, “Follow Ali Haidar Yelwa. Let him run from here in Kaduna, Jaji, all the way to Zaria and back—without stopping or drinking water. That’s his punishment now.”
Aliyu quickly saluted, then asked boldly, “Major, permission to carry my helmet, armor, and water?”
All eyes turned on him in shock. With a thunderous voice the Major shouted, “This is punishment, not war! You dare ask for helmet and armor? As for water—you won’t drink a drop until you return!”
Author’s Note
My beloved fans 💃ðŸ», I know your numbers have already crossed billions 😹. Please share this page with your people. Even if I have billions of readers, I still want millions more 😹. For those interested in adverts, the door is open—just reach out to me on WhatsApp, and with a small fee, I’ll help you get customers.
This story “RAINON SOJA” is not free. Please don’t start reading it if you know you won’t buy the next part. Book 1 is free, but Book 2 and beyond are paid. There are three groups: the Regular group (₦500), the VIP group (₦1000), and the Special group (₦1500). Payment can be made to account number 6037312299, Mohammed A’isha, Keystone Bank. Or through MTN recharge card/VTU transfer to these numbers: 08081202932 or 09061466409. Once you pay, you’ll be added to the group immediately before it gets filled up. You know I have a lot of responsibilities, so don’t be left behind. This is a story full of lessons 😹💃ðŸ»âœ¨. As it comes at the end of the year, its sweetness is truly special. Remember, the Golden Pen never writes meaningless stories.