William Saliba returned to Douala during his summer break to spend time with his extended maternal family. 🇨🇲
The Arsenal defender visited his grandmother, met with local personalities including Ayi Ventilateur and Ali Hob, and gifted Arsenal shirts during the gathering. ❤️🤍
🎥 Credits: @willy_state • @aloch123 • @ayi_ventilateur
@alexAFC__ I cried..... Footballers must really have strong hearts right? To be able to pack your bag and move on after building bonds with teammates...... Anyway, welcome to the Emirates Tzolis. Wishing you the very best.
The Soldier Who Learned to Put Down His Rifle
Staff Sergeant Chinedu Okeke could strip and reassemble an AK-47 blindfolded in 42 seconds. He could navigate 20km through Sambisa with only stars and gut instinct. He could sleep through mortar fire.
What he couldn’t do was talk to Zara.
He met her in Maiduguri. Not on a patrol, not during a firefight. At the hospital.
Chinedu was there with a graze from a ricochet nothing serious, just enough to get him off the line for two days. She was Nurse Zara Mohammed, ward 3, night shift. She changed his dressing with hands that were quick, gentle, and absolutely done with soldiers who acted tough.
“You winced,” she said, tying the bandage. “So stop pretending it doesn’t hurt.”
He opened his mouth. No words came. First time in 26 years of service that Chinedu Okeke, 73 Battalion, had been disarmed without a weapon in sight.
After that, he found reasons to visit the hospital. Brought mangoes for the kids in the pediatric ward. “For morale,” he told his lieutenant. Fixed a broken wheelchair. “Force protection,” he told himself.
Zara saw through it. “You’re not here for the mangoes, Sergeant.”
“Staff Sergeant,” he corrected automatically. Then winced again. “And… maybe not.”
Loving her was different from combat. In combat, you knew the rules. Enemy there. Friendlies here. Shoot, move, communicate. With Zara, the rules changed every day.
She hated that he left for weeks without warning. He hated that she worried. She asked him to promise he’d be careful. He could not and do his job.
The breaking point came after Konduga. His unit was ambushed. Two men died. Chinedu came back with a limp and eyes that looked 40 years older. He didn’t go to the hospital.
Zara found him at the mammy market, staring into a bottle of beer he wasn’t drinking.
“If you die out there,” she said, sitting across from him, “don’t you dare do it thinking I didn’t say this: I love you. But I won’t love a ghost. Come back to me, Chinedu. All of you.”
He looked at her hijab, tired eyes, hands that smelled like antiseptic and still felt like home. For the first time, the war didn’t feel like the most important thing in the room.
“I don’t know how to be soft,” he admitted. “I only know how to be ready.”
“Then be ready for me,” she said. “That’s an order, Staff Sergeant.”
He smiled. First real one in months. “Yes, ma.”
They got married six months later. Small ceremony, Bama LGA, with half his unit standing guard and the other half crying into their agbadas. He still deploys. She still works night shift.
But now, before every patrol, Chinedu tucks a folded piece of paper into his chest rig. Not a prayer. Not orders.
Just fiur words, in Zara’s handwriting: COME BACK TO ME.
And he does. Every time.
Because the hardest mission he ever took was learning to put down his rifle when he got home and pick up
Just a story thank you 🙏🏻