"Press the trigger or you are dead" was echoed in my ears. I had the weapon tightly clasped in between my arms. Dread, at that time, abandoned me for a bit. I could not specify the size or kind of the gun, but I hadn't seen such a thing before that time.
I was advised to pull the trigger by one of the Biafran troops who gave it to me. I could not. I looked all over the world to see if I could secure a rescue, but to no effect. Bullets were flying all over the place where I was. I could hear Army officials shouting and generating all sorts of military chants that I could neither explain nor grasp.
As we lay on our tummies, crawling for a great distance, attempting to position ourselves and frightened to push the trigger, the next thing I heard was a horrific noise near to my ears. I was dead momentarily. The firearm accidently left my hands. The commander beside me gave me a fatal knock out of the blues. That was when I recognized myself again.
All the while, I prayed in my thoughts and heart—" God, remember me, maintain and keep me for my mom; Oh, my mom!"
When I had that knock, I was obligated to press the trigger, and I did.