The Last Orange!

They said the war would last only a week.

When the first planes flew over our village, my little brother, Abel, thought they were birds made of silver. He stood on the roof of our home, arms stretched wide, laughing like it was a game. Mama screamed so loud that even the planes seemed to pause. She pulled him down by his shirt, clutching both of us close, trembling.

The bombs came three days later.

Our father died trying to shield us with his body, his arms stretched just like Abel's had been. All we found was his wedding ring in the ashes. Mama didn't cry that day. Not because she was strong, but because grief requires a kind of peace, and there was none.

We fled with what we could carry—three blankets, some dried cassava, and one perfect orange Mama had hidden deep in her bag. She said it was for a day we needed hope.

Abel called it our “magic orange."

At the camp, there was no school, no home, no quiet. Just rows of tents, coughing children, and people who forgot how to smile. Every day, Mama lined up for water while I watched Abel. His cough got worse. I gave him my bread. I told him stories at night, the ones Papa used to tell, about brave lions and rivers that sang.

One morning, Abel couldn’t wake up. His skin was hot, his breathing shallow.

Mama took out the orange.

Her hands shook as she peeled it.

The scent filled our tent like sunlight.

She broke it into pieces, placed one on his lips. “This is your hope,” she whispered. “You’re going to eat this, and then you’ll run again. You’ll laugh again.”

He managed a smile. His last.

Mama buried the rest of the orange beside him. Weeks passed. The war moved on, but we remained—ghosts among the living. Mama stopped speaking. I started writing letters to Abel, folding them into little birds and leaving them by his grave.

Then, one day, I found Mama slicing another orange. I stared at her, angry. How could she eat one when he never finished his?

She placed a piece on my tongue.

“I saved it,” she said. “For the day you needed hope.”

It tasted like memory. Like sunlight. Like goodbye.

I cried for the first time.

To be continued.........................