28/09/2026
The Last Parade: A Story of Love, Betrayal, and a Service Pistol
Makurdi, Benue State. The morning was still dark when Aircraftman Kalu stepped out of the guard post, tired but happy. His night duty had ended, and all he wanted was to crawl into bed beside the woman he loved. Aircraftwoman Oladipupo. Fiyin, as he called her. The woman he had met at a parade months earlier, when the drums were loud and the uniforms were crisp, and she had smiled at him across the tarmac.
They had begun dating quietly. In the barracks, love is never entirely private. People notice. They talk. But Kalu and Oladipupo did not care. They were young, proud, and in love. He was Igbo, she was Yoruba. He was a soldier, she was a soldier. They joked that they were already a familyâtwo uniforms, one future.
That Sunday, Kalu returned home around 5 a.m. He had bought two sachets of suya on his way back, wrapped in old newspaper. He wanted to surprise her. He entered the small apartment they shared, expecting to see her curled up under the blanket. Instead, he heard whispers. Then laughter. A manâs voice.
He stopped. His heart began to pound. He pushed the bedroom door open.
There she was. Oladipupo. In bed with a civilian man. A man Kalu knew. Terver, a trader from Wurukum Market, someone he had once bought phone chargers from. Someone he had even greeted with respect.
For a moment, Kalu could not speak. The suya fell from his hand. Oladipupo sat up, her eyes wide. âKalu, it is not what you think,â she stammered. Terver reached for his trousers. The room smelled of perfume and betrayal.
Kalu did not remember pulling out his service pistol. He only remembered the sound. One shot. Then another. Oladipupo fell back on the bed. Terver screamed and ran, naked, through the window. Bullets chased him, chipping the wall. He landed hard on the ground outside, cut his arm, and kept running, shouting, âHelp! He wants to kill me! Help!â
Neighbours woke. Doors opened. People poured out in wrappers and pyjamas. The quarter guard was called. By the time the soldiers arrived, Kalu was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, the pistol still in his hand. He was weeping. Not shouting. Not fighting. Just weeping.
âTake me,â he said. âBut tell me why. Tell me why, Fiyin.â
Oladipupo was rushed to the NAF Hospital in Makurdi. The doctors tried. They failed. She was pronounced dead on arrival.
Terver was found hiding behind a block of flats, trembling, bleeding from his arm. He was treated and later taken to the provost for questioning. The story spread through the barracks like harmattan fire. Some said Kalu was a murderer. Others said he was a victim of a cheating woman. A few said both things were true at the same time.
The military police arrested Kalu. He did not resist. He was stripped of his weapon, his beret, and his dignity. He was placed in the guardroom, then moved to the provost cell. The case was taken over by the authorities. A service weapon had been used in a personal dispute. A woman was dead. A civilian had been shot at. There was no way to bury it.
The investigation revealed that Oladipupo and Terver had been friends for years. Some said they were more than friends. Some said she had been planning to end things with Kalu. Some said Kalu had been controlling. Some said she had been careless. The truth, as always, was messy and human.
Kaluâs court martial began weeks later. The courtroom was tense. Soldiers sat in rows, their faces blank. Oladipupoâs family travelled from Lagos, weeping and demanding justice. Terver testified, his arm still bandaged. Kaluâs lawyer argued provocation. The prosecution argued that no betrayal, however painful, justified the use of a service weapon.
Kalu was found guilty. He was dismissed from service and sentenced to prison. The barracks never remained the same. The parade ground where they met became a place people avoided. The apartment was reassigned. The story became a warning.
Aircraftman Kalu and Aircraftwoman Oladipupo met at a parade. They fell in love. They dreamed of a future. But on a Sunday morning in Makurdi, love turned into suspicion, suspicion into rage, and rage into a gunshot. One life ended. Another was ruined. And a love story that began with smiles on a parade ground ended with tears in a guardroom.
In the barracks, they still tell the story. They call it a tragedy. They call it a lesson. They call it P***C VS NDA.
Credit: P***C VS NDA
