Year: 1885
The drilling squad was halfway through formation practice when it happened.
Fifty-three men stood in precise rows on the parade ground, rifles at shoulder arms. Commander Ezomo Erebo walked the lines, his experienced eyes catching every flaw.
"Present arms!"
The rifles swung up in near-unison. Near, but not perfect.
"RELOAD!"
Hands worked the mechanisms. Cartridges inserted. Breaches closed with metallic clicks.
That was when Private Emeka's rifle discharged.
The shot went wide, missing the man beside him by inches. The crack echoed across the training ground. The bullet punched into a training dummy fifty yards away.
Twenty soldiers broke formation in panic.
Men who had drilled for weeks forgot everything. Training evaporated in the face of sudden terror. Two dropped their weapons entirely. One fled toward the trees. Others scattered in random directions.
"HOLD YOUR POSITIONS!"
They didn't hold.
Only three men remained. Sergeant Okafor. Private Adewale, a farmer's son. And a young recruit named Chukwu whose eyes were wide with fear but whose feet were planted like roots.
---
"Enough."
Akenzua stepped onto the field. He had been observing from the platform.
"Recall them. Assembly in one hour."
One hour later, the entire training company stood in the yard. Fifty-three men who had just proven they weren't ready. The shame was visible in their postures.
Akenzua walked to the center of the formation.
"What happened today was not a failure of equipment. It was not a failure of training. It was a failure of discipline."
"One rifle discharged. One. And twenty of you forgot everything you've learned. You scattered like goats before a dog. You abandoned your weapons. You abandoned the men beside you who were counting on you to hold."
Private Osadolor spoke up. "Respectfully, Oba. The new weapons are dangerous. The old ways of fighting--"
"The old ways are why every kingdom from the coast to the desert is being swallowed by European empires."
Akenzua stopped at the center of the formation.
"You want to fight with spears? The British will shoot you dead before you finish your war song. They don't care about your honor. They care about efficiency. About discipline. About units that function as one."
Ezomo stepped forward. "We can be brave and disciplined. One does not exclude the other."
"Exactly. The three men who held position today--" Akenzua pointed to Okafor, Adewale, and Chukwu--"they were terrified. But they did not run. They trusted their training more than their fear." He paused. "These three are your new squad leaders."
---
The formation shifted uncomfortably. Being led by a farmer's son was humiliation that cut deep.
"Tomorrow, we begin again. Every man who panicked practices until he can stay in formation while the sky falls. You will face your panic until you master it--or until you're removed from this program."
"And if we can't master it?"
"Then you will be removed. A soldier who panics endangers everyone around him. Better a smaller force of reliable men than a larger force that breaks at the first shock."
"Dismissed."
---
That evening, Akenzua met with Ezomo.
"Three held position. Out of fifty-three."
"Better than none," the old general said.
"But not enough. If this is representative of our force as a whole..."
"Then we have a lot of work to do." Ezomo's voice was heavy. "The traditional warriors are brave. But their instincts are wrong for this kind of fighting. They want to charge. To prove themselves in single combat."
"And that gets them killed against disciplined formations."
"How many can learn?"
"Perhaps half. The others have instincts too deeply ingrained."
"Then we use what we have." Akenzua's voice hardened. "The men who held position become instructors. We recruit from different pools. Farmers. Craftsmen. Men who have never thought of themselves as warriors."
"That's unconventional."
"Everything about this war will be unconventional. These soldiers need to be ready for more than just defense. They need to march on Warri. They need to secure Ijaw channels. They need to convince Igala chiefs that resistance is futile."
---
They talked late into the night.
"The panic response is instinctive," Ezomo said. "You can't train it away completely. But you can build habits that override it. Through repetition. Thousands of repetitions. Until the correct response is automatic."
"Can we achieve that in months instead of generations?"
"We can try. But we'll lose some men. The ones who can't adapt."
"Better to lose them in training than in battle."
"Agreed. But it won't be popular. Removing warriors from their positions, promoting farmers over men from fighting families."
"Then they can resist from outside the training program. I'm not here to be popular. I'm here to build an army that can fight. An army that can conquer."
---
The next morning, the new training regime began.
The first exercise was deliberately simple. Stand in formation. Listen to sudden loud noises. Stay in position.
The first time the drums crashed unexpectedly, half the men flinched. Two broke formation entirely.
"Again."
They reformed. The drums crashed.
"Again."
Hours of this. The same shock repeated until it became familiar. By sunset, most could hear the drums without moving.
---
Osadolor found Akenzua on the observation platform after training.
"Today was humiliating. Standing there while farmers learned faster than we did. Having a man who's never seen battle correct my stance."
"Yes. It was humiliating."
"I wanted to leave. To go back to the old ways."
"Why didn't you?"
Osadolor was quiet for a moment. "Because I remembered the river. The raiders we killed. The captives we saved. I didn't feel brave that day. I felt sick. But we won. And those captives went home because we did what needed to be done, not what felt glorious."
"That's what matters."
"So I'll stay. I'll learn. I'll let farmers teach me if that's what it takes." He met Akenzua's eyes. "Because I'd rather be humiliated in training than dead in battle."
"That's the right answer."
"I just wish it felt better."
"It won't. The old ways are gone. We're just the first generation to admit it."
---
The training intensified over the following weeks.
New exercises designed to trigger panic and teach control. Unexpected explosions. Smoke filling the training ground. Confusion and chaos.
Men washed out. Some couldn't adapt. Others chose to leave rather than endure humiliation.
But the ones who remained were becoming something new. By month's end, a full squad could fire three volleys in the time it had taken them to fire one. They could hold formation through explosions, screaming, even simulated casualties.
"Better," Ezemo said during an evening review. "Much better."
"But still not enough."
"No. Still not enough." He paused. "But closer. And these men will be ready when we move on Warri. When we secure the delta. When we march north to the Igala."
That night, Akenzua walked through the sleeping barracks, looking at the exhausted men who were being transformed into something their ancestors would barely recognize.
Progress. At a cost.
But progress nonetheless.