Amaka’s spirit did not depart the day the rough looking men came to her school in their rusted brown trucks and buses, while she and the other girls were writing their final exams, spraying bullets in the air. She had thought the guns looked too sophisticated on them, such guns she saw in the American movies she loved so much. Her American-looking guns in the black, sun-burnt hands of the crude and unrefined attackers, whom she would later discover were terrorists, displeased her. It was such an unbefitting match. It was later,in one of the few buses they had squeezed her and the other girls into, that she…