The existence of the two brothers across the country was like the sovereignty of the sun by day, and the moon by night. Different courses, undeniable relevance. But when they clash, an eclipse occurs.

The year 1967 witnesed an eclipse whose walk in history will never be forgotten.

My father was a little more than a boy in swaddling bands when he heard the first blast. In his account, the shelling landed in the market on a bustling day. Its ring, a harbinger of the destruction that followed.

It wasn't the collapse of years of hard work and collectively built structures that numbed the ears. The sight of men, formerly agile in intertribal wars, scurrying to safety with their wives and children was a memory that would not be erased. Before the roaring voices of cannons and shelling, they were like helpless children in the cradle.

Surprisingly, at the end of an attempted genocide, the military head of state declared: no winner, no vanquisher. A strike for a peace that should have returned from Aburi.

Presently, the tension has not disappeared. I feel it in the political space. Like a festering zit, it reminds us that there was a country.

I said my prayers and prepared for school. Amina was waiting for me in front of her hostel. She, a sister from the north, and I, the offspring of the men in the east.

Our friendship was a bloom that wasn't anticipated. Thinking about the bad blood between our tribes, I wouldn't imagine this day.

" My parents are visiting today. I told them about you." She giggled like a newborn.

" Neighbour," her father called me, his voice thick with the Hausa accent.

For the first time, I was a wrap of joy. The nervousness I felt at their coming was gone. It felt like we had known each other for ages.

So, it wasn't a surprise when Amina's brother asked for my hand in marriage.

The wedding rites saw the binding of two worlds, and customs. But most importantly, two bitter brothers. 

" In-law," my father spoke in Igbo, and my father-in-law responded in Hausa. It was a blend of harmony that distilled years of silently brewing acrimony. It was the fragrance of peace. The peace that we failed to honour at Aburi.

Our dance was a cultural blend. Distinct, yet colourful. The sun didn't need to change for the moon, neither the moon for the sun. A new dawn was coming. In it a greater chance to remedy the past.