Category Archives: THE CHILDREN

THE CHILDREN

The many difficulties of war – Part 1

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“Another thing that added to the difficulties of life for us was our menstruation. When your period was coming you’d be dreading it because there were no sanitary pads. What I did was cut up old wrappers and sew the pieces together. I made up to ten of them. We either put them in our pants or made a loop in them and tied them with a rope around our waist. They would soak so much with blood before I washed them. I had a particular place where I used to dry them so people wouldn’t see them. After the four or five-day cycle I’d keep them neatly until the next one.” – Akachi Adimora-Ezeigbo.

                                                                     ———-

When the war started, I was a school girl at Archdeacon Crowther Memorial Girls’ School, near Port Harcourt, so I was already knowledgeable about life. There was so much deprivation, and life became cheap and meaningless. I must describe myself as one of the people who were traumatized by that war because I lost a number of relations and classmates, young boys of eighteen – nineteen years who went to fight in that war and died.

AKACHI EZEIGBO PHOTO 3
Professor Akachi Adimora-Ezeigbo in her library

Roses and Bullets, my war novel, is dedicated to them: my brother, Joseph Adimora; my cousin, Samuel Ogbuefi; my husband’s elder brother, Nathan Ezeigbo; and other close relatives.

We moved from Port Harcourt to Aba, to Mbano, and finally to our home town, Uga. There was constant displacement and in each place we lost something. When we got to Uga, the Biafran had built an airport there. The one at Ulli was for relief materials while the one in my place was purely for military purposes, where they kept all those Biafran Babies. Because of it, the Nigerian government raided Uga airport and the surrounding villages virtually every day and at nights.

Those air raids were particularly traumatic for me. They were terrible! The sounds would make you urinate in your pants, if you had pants to wear at all. The sound would strike you and paralyze you and leave you almost dead because when it came it would screech and then you had to run to the bunker. I’m sure people who had weak hearts died but we were young so we could withstand the shock. We had a permanent bunker and in the morning when you got up, you ate, if there was food, and then headed for the bunker. My father, who was a District Officer at some point, had a storey building, one of the few in my home town. But we were advised not to stay in the building because Nigeria Air Force was bombing anything they saw. We covered the roof with palm fronds but could not cover it completely. Biafra didn’t have effective air defense so sometimes when the Nigerian planes came for raids they would descend extremely low. In fact, one day, I looked up and saw the figure of the pilot. In the night you didn’t use any light so they wouldn’t see you. There was one woman who lived in the next village who was moving about in the night with a naked light. Immediately they saw the light, they rocketed the place and the woman died.

Uga was never evacuated because it was in the heartland of Biafra adjoining Akokwa and Akpulu. But as Biafra shrank, refugees from Awka, Abagana and other places came crowding into Uga, so the air raids now concentrated in the area and the surrounding towns such as Ekwulobia, Ezinifite, Amesi and Nkpologwu. Markets were now in the forests and were held at night because people were advised not to gather in groups in the day time.

During one particular raid, we ran out of the house and lay flat on the ground because there was no time to run into the bunker. The planes, which used to come in pairs, were releasing canon fire, shooting, rocketing. At the end of it, when I got up, the first thing I saw was eke [python] close to where I was taking cover. I wasn’t so scared because in Uga pythons do not bite. The locals treat them gently and with respect. Then, I saw a severed leg and an arm lying close by. People were groaning. It was horrible the way those planes killed people. It could just chop off the head or the whole trunk of a person. If you witnessed that war you would understand the reality of the fictional accounts in Half of a Yellow Sun, where the body of one of the characters kept running even after his head was cut off.

Then, there was the hunger. Sometimes there was nothing to eat. Most times we didn’t bother to go to the relief centers because one could stay there for a whole day without receiving anything. Some centers didn’t have enough supplies. Reverend Fathers were even accused of using the relief materials to lure girls. Some were accused of selling them to traders, for in the markets traders were selling stock fish, salt and other items. Some were using them politically – giving to certain people and not to others. One or two times I went begging but got nothing. After that I didn’t go again. Perhaps they didn’t want to give the locals, preferring to send the supplies to the refugee camps. Inevitably, people became more resourceful, trying to look for anything edible to assuage the hunger pangs. They would come out en masse to look for Aku – termites – in the early hours of the morning or at night. My family started eating the things we had never eaten before, like Uchakiri. I didn’t know those things were edible but when you see others eating them, you’d do the same. We cooked cassava leaves in soups and ate them with yam or cocoyam. We ate mpoto ede, cocoyam leaves. We dried the pink layer under the outer peel of cassava tubers and use it as food. My mother was making ogbono and okro soup with the tender leaves of the hibiscus flower. People who lived near small streams ate crabs. We would turn the manure in the goat pen and roast the lava we found crawling underneath. People ate rats and lizards. Now I can’t imagine myself eating these things but we relished them then. But many people still died. There was a massive continuous dying of young Children, especially from kwashiorkor. In my mother’s kindred some of the old men died because there was nothing to eat. Younger people survived because they managed to scrounge whatever they could for food.

They were also conscripting children as young as fifteen and sixteen years. My brother was fifteen when they conscripted him. He came back alive because there was a battle in the forest and they dispersed. My frightened brother ran away and came home as an Atimgbo, one suffering from shell shock. The military police was on the lookout for those who went on AWOL, so when he saw a Mami Wagon he would hail the occupant and say, “Driver give me smoke. Carry me. I’m going to Akokwa.” When he returned home, people were trooping in to sympathize with us. Women were exclaiming, “Ewuu, nwa m’o! Agha Biafra.” [Oh, poor child! This Biafra war.] After my mother gave him water to take a bath, she cooked his clothes in an iron pot for twenty four hours even though firewood was scarce. He had kwarikwata [body lice] and that was my first time of seeing them. They’re so flat it was difficult to pick them out from the fabric, so we dumped his clothes inside the pot. I don’t think he even had shoes because when they conscripted him my mum gave me, as young as I was, shoes to take to him. By the time I got there they had moved him to the war front, less than two weeks after they conscripted him. He couldn’t have had more than one week’s training. I wept so much and dropped the shoes with somebody who promised to send them to him. About five months after he came back the war ended.

Another thing that added to the difficulties of life for us was our menstruation. When your period was coming you’d be dreading it because there were no sanitary pads. What I did was cut up old wrappers and sewed the pieces together. I made up to ten of them. We either put them in our pants or made a loop in them and tied them with a rope around our waist. They would soak so much with blood before I washed them. I had a particular place where I used to dry them so people wouldn’t see them. After the four or five-day cycle I’d keep them neatly until the next one.

We had access to water because our house had a gutted roof which filled up our big underground tank during the rainy season. In the dry season we’d be hoarding the water. We also had a well called Umi. That was where we drew water for house hold chores. It was not always clear so we put alum in it. But the well water didn’t last till the next season so we went to streams like Ochi, Agwazi and Obizi. They had their source from the ground so they were there all the year round. It’s from Obizi spring in Uga that the Government provided running water to Aguata Local Government area in the present Anambra State, so you can imagine the size of this beautiful body of water.

It was even risky to be a young girl or woman during that time. After the war, the soldiers invaded everywhere. They came to my village too. They took many girls by force. Some went willingly. Others were enticed with food. They even took away people’s wives and the poor men were helpless. When you’re dealing with a man with a gun, what do you do?

AKACHI EZEIGBO PHOTO 1
Professor Akachi Adimora-Ezeigbo

                                                                     ——————-

Akachi Ezeigbo, PhD, FNAL, FLSN, FESAN is a Professor of English, Department of Languages, Linguistics, Literary Studies & Theatre Arts, Federal University Ndufu-Alike, Ikwo, Abakaliki, Ebonyi State, Nigeria.

 

THE CHILDREN

Immune to horror.

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“We were eventually called back to school…Our school field was littered with corpses at different stages of bloating and decomposition – both adults and children. We had to clean the compound so we started digging shallow graves to bury the bodies. The ones that were completely decayed, we rake them over the soil and use them as manure. Then we bury their skeletons. When we started our school farm again, we were marking the position of the ridges with skulls – we push a stick into the soil and hang a skull on top of it. Sometimes we use the skulls to play hand ball – you throw to me, I throw to you.” – Okenwa Enyeribe

                                                                         ———-

I was in primary two at St. Mary’s primary school, Umuopara, Nguru, Mbaise when the war started. Fighter jets were flying over our school and when it became unbearable, we had to go into the bush to continue studying. I was only eight years but I started to see emergency platoons. I don’t know who summoned them but I started to see traders, secondary school leavers, tailors, in their work dresses, coming together and chanting war songs, “Nzogbu, enyimba enyi, nzogbu enyimba enyi!” After hearing of the pogroms in Lagos, Kano and how Igbo soldiers were massacred in barracks, people were saying, “We’re ready, enough is enough.” They absorbed them into the army and they started forming sectors all over Igbo land.

You can’t imagine that we’ll be in our compound and air raid will come and give us the first sign. We’ll go and enter the bunker. The next time it comes, it is bombing. Behind our house there was an arsenal where Biafra was manufacturing equipment but the Nigerian soldiers couldn’t locate it. Very heavy machines and trucks were going to that place to transport materials and equipment, roaring day and night. It was protected by palm trees so the Nigerian soldiers continued looking for that arsenal. Everyday. Woooo! Woooo! Woooo! We couldn’t sleep. They bombed many places but they couldn’t find that one.

With all that bombing going on, we ran into the bush. It was filled with human beings and our only cover was palm trees. Right inside that bush, markets started springing up. It was trade by barter so if you have garden eggs or chicken you can exchange them for yams or another thing.

As the war went on, the hunger, starvation and attendant issues became worse. We were blocked from Northern Nigeria so there was nothing like cattle or goats. We were blocked from Lagos so anything imported could not get to us. What we had to do was manage whatever we laid our hands on. For starch we were eating cassava, rice, maize, yams. For vegetables, anything that could be eaten, like cassava leaves, hibiscus leaves, paw-paw leaves, we were eating them, mixing them with starchy foods in a porridge. There was little protein that is why there was kwashiorkor. The only source of meat was rats, snakes, lizards. But they were correct meat at that time. If you climb a tree and see a lizard jump down from there, you follow it and jump down. If it escapes, where will you see another one? We used to dig holes in the ground to look for rats then we put our hand inside the hole not caring whether snakes live there.

We were getting relief from international organisations like Red Cross, World Council of Churches, Caritas. They brought Garri Gabon, corn meal, milk. In the morning we carry our plates and go to the relief centre at Ogbo, Nguru. The kwashiorkor place, that’s what we call it. We stay in line but when people get tired of waiting they will start dragging the food from the sharers. Sometimes the food will pour on the ground and some people will scoop it from there. Do you blame them? Sandy food was better than no food.

There was stock fish but it was stock fish soaked in salt – double action. We soak it in water for one week and use the salt water to cook. Other times we trek to Rivers State to fetch salt water in twenty litres jerry cans. We pour the water into a big drum and cook that drum of water from morning to evening. By the time it dries up what you get will be one cigarette cup of salt.

Same thing applied to soap. We made Ncha Obo by coupling dry female inflorescence of oil palm, which acted as source of potash, with oil palm in water. We can use it for two or three weeks. Necessity is the mother of invention and there’s what you call AAD – Adversity Activated Development. This is when people cultivate methods to overcome adverse conditions around them. I never knew about cassava leaves and hibiscus leaves. I never knew that tender cocoa fruits – the unripe ones – could be eaten like okro. It was very sweet.

There was also something called Emergency Rations. It came in cartons and each one contained a collapsible aluminium tripod stand where you can cook and boil water. The fuel came in the form of slices of cardboard immersed in paraffin, like laminated hydro carbon. Each slice could be used once. It also contained beverage cake, like Bournvita or Ovaltine, and protein cake, which we add to our soup to make it nutritional. We also had biscuits inside the pack and egg yoke in powdered form. Yes, relief was coming in but the people for whom it was made, were they accessing it? The secondary and primary school teachers, who were the elites at the time and who these things were entrusted to, they were selling some of them or giving to their friends and families. One day I found heaps of blankets, emergency rations, bags of corn meal and other things in the bush behind our house. This was something made for the wretched, poor and hungry people but people convert it to a business venture.

Sometimes people died not because of hunger, but because they didn’t receive help on time. One of my uncles had his ankle cut by shrapnel and we only had a dispensary in the village; no place to give him ambulatory treatment. He died of hypovolemic shock due to blood loss. Another person was my uncle, Romanus. He was with the Board of Internal Revenue in Port Harcourt before he joined the army and was made a captain. A bomb cut his ankle and he bled to death. The day the Biafrans brought him home, his parents fainted and never recovered from the trauma until they died.

Some never came back. Before they go, the elders will bless them traditionally but they didn’t return.

We almost lost my mother too. One day, she went to her farm to harvest cassava and Nigerian soldiers surrounded her. When they asked, “Are you Gowon or Ojukwu?” she said she was Gowon. They took her to a camp at Umuopara, Nguru, where they were holding other people captured from the places they invaded.

Towards the end of the war the Nigerians were firing warning bullets; noisy bullets that were giving us warning but not attacking us. One day we started hearing noise from up to 10 miles away. The thing was echoing, “One Nigeria, one Nigeria,” and people in the bush started rejoicing, “One Nigeria, One Nigeria.” I looked for my dad and my senior brother but I didn’t them. So, I set out for my village alone.

Meanwhile, five days before then, we had escaped to my aunt’s place in Ekwerazu. I went with my dog, Dandy. Very loving dog with variegated skin like a hyena. But my aunt and her family were not comfortable with Dandy. She was defecating all over the place so they kept throwing stones at her until she ran away. I cried. But when I was returning home that day, I saw Dandy about one and half kilometres to our house. I don’t know how she managed to trace her way through the bush. She was doing strange movements on the road, running forwards and backwards, sniffing. I shouted, “Dandy” and she looked at me as if to say, “I’m so disappointed in you.” But she ran to me, wagging her tail. I lifted her up and we headed home.

On the way, behold, gory images. Cadavers! Corpses! Some were slumped over their steering wheels. Some were entangled around their bicycles. Many were in different stages of decomposition, stinking. And me, a child of about ten years, this was the sight that was welcoming me as I was returning home.

When I eventually walked into our large compound, I saw my mother and she grabbed me. She managed to escape the camp where the Nigerian soldiers were holding her, passing from one bush to another until she got home. Other people were also there, rejoicing. They decided to cook a type of soup called mgbugbu. We also called it Win the War. Mgbugbu connotes an emergency meal, a way of saying, “Let us eat and keep mind and soul together until we win the war.” They put a pot on the fire and people start throwing in different things – snake, rat, lizard, cocoyam, cassava leaves, hibiscus leaves, palm oil, anything they have. When it was ready, everybody came together and shared the meal.

We were eventually called back to school but most of our classrooms had been destroyed. We had to sit on the floor until UNICEF started bringing desks and other items. Our school field was littered with corpses at different stages of bloating and decomposition – both adults and children. We had to clean the compound so we started digging shallow graves to bury the bodies. The ones that were completely decayed, we rake them over the soil and use them as manure. Then we bury their skeletons. When we started our school farm again, we were marking the position of our ridges with skulls. We drive a stick into the soil and put a skull on top of it. Sometimes we used the skulls to play hand ball – you throw to me, I throw to you. I was only ten years old but we had become desensitized and immune to horrors.

By this time the soldiers were camped at Eke Nguru. They were vicious, wicked and rode rough shod on the people. They’ll buy things from Nkwogwu market and refuse to pay. If you challenge them, it will get you a head butting or they lock you up. They chase women into their fathers’ bedrooms, shouting, “Come out. Come out.” One lady, Maria, practically lived in the bush. One captain was so intoxicated with her beauty and wanted to marry her by force. He would land in the compound ten times a day with his vehicle, so her parents hid her away.

There was a time that two soldiers on foot were knocked down by a vehicle along Eke Nguru. They commanded all vehicles, bicycles and motor cycles to park on one side. They searched everywhere for those who knocked them down till late at night. Another day, one photographer called OC Photos took pictures of one Nigerian captain but the soldier refused to pay. Instead, he started giving OC Photos head-butts and blows until his nose started bleeding. As this was going on, one man came and pleaded with him to leave OC Photos. This captain left OC and started head-butting the person who tried to intervene.

We started life afresh. They opened the roads leading to Port Harcourt, Aba and Enugu and Hausa traders started bringing grains and onions to Umuahia. People will even trek to Umuahia to buy pepper and onions to sell. We started eating those things again.

But I noticed that after the war there was economic boom and enjoyment throughout Igbo land. Government was pumping money into states so economic activity flourished. Foreigners started coming to invest. Local labour was employed and whatever you could do to make a living, you were free to do. Up to the extent that every weekend people will organise what we used to call ‘Hall.’ Primary and secondary school halls were converted to dancing halls and every weekend – Saturday and Sunday – there will be dancing and enjoyment. People were happy, trying to forget the horrors they experienced.

                                                                       ———-

Okenwa Enyeribe is a Pharmacist, author, poet and humanitarian. He is the Head of the Revolutionary Council of the Nigerian People. His novel, Win The War, is a personal account of the Nigeria-Biafra war.

 

THE CHILDREN

Accused!

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*The names of individuals and places have been changed to protect the identities of the people concerned.*

“To make our pain worse, my family was accused of being saboteurs and my parents were taken away. I became separated from my siblings and was detained in several places. In the first [detention] center, one Sergeant Major was always threatening to kill me. But luck smiled on me when one Captain *Nwogu came to see the people detained…I was taken away to another center where I also found favour with the Commanding Officer. He said he would have made me his Batsman if I wasn’t so young. From there, I was taken to the place where I’d be court – marshaled. I was thrown into an underground bunker…” – Dr. C.C.A.

                                                                       ———-

As a kid, I had a privileged life. We had a fleet of cars in our garage – Cortina, Beetle and others. My mother drove me to school every day and by the age of four I was already answering phone calls. But the war shattered it all.

When the tensions started to build up in 1966, I was almost twelve years old and because we could read the papers, we were fairly engaged in national issues and knew what was happening in the country. The first and second coups had happened and it was exciting as young people like us looked forward to more action. We were reading about Major Nzeogwu, the counter coup, and how Ironsi was abducted, this Major General JT Ironsi, who could fight in the Congo without getting a scratch on his body as long as he held that insignia of a crocodile. It was all very exciting.

By 1967, I was in Class One when we heard Ironsi’s body had been found. Even as children we could feel the clouds gathering. In May, it became inevitable that there’d be war. Eventually, we were asked to go home because Biafra had been declared. Our parents could pretend that everything was okay but if you were a little discerning you could feel the mood of uncertainty. The story continued to evolve aided by the propaganda machinery. In the newspapers we’d see mutilated bodies and read headlines that said, ‘2,000 corpses dumped in the train that came from Markurdi and kano.’

As a Boy’s Scout, I was among those drafted into the Rehabilitation Commission to help in documenting the displaced – those who had escaped the genocide in the north. They needed to be put in IDPs and rehabilitated, and the government of Eastern Nigeria was overstretched. Even as a child, I could discern a spirit of unity and self-help among the people who were involved. They were trying to solve problems and not looking at what they could gain. I didn’t see the walls we now have where a particular person will occupy a position and become a law unto himself.

Eventually, when the first shot was fired at Gakem, people rejoiced. The mood was like, let this thing come, let us fight it and get it over with. We thought it was an event or a contest that would last a few days. Unfortunately, it wasn’t.

I didn’t join the army but my brother, *KK, did. He was about twenty two years old at the time. He was our hero, everybody’s darling. He was precocious both in education and by the force of his character. If he told you, “Stay here,” you’ll have no choice but to stay. He was a John F.K. Kennedy Essay winner and at twenty years old had passed his A-levels with A’s in all the subjects and was to study medicine. He was always the champion during the television program, Telequiz or Telechance, which is similar to ‘Who Wants To Be A Millionaire’ that we have today. His brilliance was remarkable.

My father didn’t want to lose such an exceptional son, so he went to get him out. On seeing him, *KK shouted, “Why should you come here and throw your weight around? What about these other people? Don’t they have fathers?” My father was a sad man when he left. *KK eventually trained with the First Officer Cadet. He fought with the courage of a lion, believing that if he died for the cause the Biafran dream would still be realised. He wrote me every few days from the war front and in one of his letters, he said, “Dearest Emmy, you know where I am? I’m teaching these people some lessons.”

We knew my brother had died because Christmas was by the corner and we hadn’t received the money he used to send every month to relatives and widows in our village. Some of them would get as much as two pounds. By the 28th of December, my mum knew that something had happened to him, especially because she had had premonitions of his death. In a dream, she had seen somebody who looked like my father lying in state. She hit the person and said, “Stand up, it’s not your turn. Let me lie down.” She had another dream where *KK was riding a silver Raleigh bicycle and holding a cock. Symbolically, it is a farewell. *KK had also had his own premonitions. In one of his letters to me, he’d written, “Dearest Emmy, I have played my role. Two kings cannot stay in the same kingdom.” He said he was leaving the stage for me and was sure I’d step into his shoes if he didn’t come back. At the time, those words were like fairy tales to me.

Immediately, my parents started pressing buttons and, after three days, received news that he was in Awgwu, wounded. They left for Awgwu accompanied by one of my sisters who would donate blood to him if he needed it. It was a tortuous journey and when they arrived, the commander wasn’t forthcoming with the truth. Finally he said, “Your worst fear is confirmed. Your son was killed on the 26th of December 1967.” When his death was announced mid-January 1968, my village was like a carnival. He was honoured as a Biafran hero. A small contingent of soldiers stayed with us for one week and every day they’d have a parade in his honour. But after about a week my mother sent them away so we could grieve in peace.

I later asked his friends how he died. They told me the previous day, after smashing their ferret and blocking their progress, he got intoxicated and told his men, “Let’s go and finish it up.” They regrouped to take the airport, which was strategic, but the fire power was overwhelming. His boys abandoned him and he didn’t have any backup. My worst fear was that the Nigerians captured him. But Biafra said they recaptured his corpse. However, when they were leaving, the fight was still heavy so they dug a grave and buried him.

My brother’s death broke everybody and my parents never recovered from it. To make our pain worse, my family was accused of being saboteurs and my parents were taken away. I became separated from my siblings and was detained in several places. In the first [detention] centre, one Sergeant Major was always threatening to kill me. But luck smiled on me when one Captain *Nwogu came to see the people detained. He said I looked familiar and asked if I was *KK’s brother. When I said I was, he was overcome with emotion and pleaded with the Commanding Officer to release me because of the sacrifices my brother had made for the cause. I was taken away to another center where I also found favour with the Commanding Officer. He said he would have made me his Batsman if I wasn’t so young. From there, I was taken to the place where I’d be court – marshaled. I was thrown into an underground bunker but my former French teacher, Dr. *Abel, who was by this time a captain and administrative officer, discovered me there. There was another man, one Captain *Nduka, who was being very overzealous but unknown to him, his wife had been our neighbour at Enugu. When he found out I knew his wife, he softened towards me and after my trial they put me in a hostel.

From there, a staff of the Research and Production Unit took me to my uncle at Umuahia, from where I went to Uzuakoli. I returned to Umuahia to stay with my cousin, *Nancy, who had just got married. When Umuahia fell, I was bundled away to stay with some family friends, the *Onyemas. Some of my mother’s relations, the *Okwuchis, were living with the *Onyemas at the time and they showed me much kindness. But my ordeals were far from over. I had to eat foods I didn’t like and was not allowed to go to school. Instead, I was forced to go to the farm every morning, something I had never done before. Eventually, another of my cousins, *Nma, traced me to the *Onyemas and took me back to her house where she gave me the treat of my life. Mrs. *Onyema wasn’t happy about this and complained that I was being spoiled. So, to avoid friction, *Nma asked me to return to them. I took my bag and trekked in the bush paths back to the *Onyemas, 14 km away. My hosts were still determined to make me proficient in farm work, so they sent me back to the farm. There, I saw a python and, overcome with fear, I ran home, packed my clothes in a raffia bag and sneaked away at about 5.00 am.

During this time I had become wealthy selling cigarettes. *Nma had a friend called *Buster, who was a big boy in Ahia Attack. He sold cigarettes, salt, canned foods, milk and other scarce commodities and would often give me cigarettes to sell for him. But I became envious of his relationship with *Nma who was my world. I stopped speaking to her and *Buster assumed I was missing my parents. I insisted on returning to Owerri which had just been liberated, so *Nma found people who were going there. We all set off, walking from Umuaku through Umunze to Ekwulobia and finally, to Orlu, where my sister was. Immediately she saw me she declared the war would soon end.

One of my uncles was less than pleased to see me but when I offered to give him money, he was curious about the source. I told him I was selling cigarettes and he would always ask me to give him some. Other times, he’d say I should lend him fifty pounds or such amounts. I would give him and his attitude towards me started changing. So did the dynamics of our relationship because we started discussing issues and taking decisions about the family. He would even lavish praise on me. But I saw through him and never failed to remind him of his debts.

I became wealthy again at the end of the war when people broke into the Central Bank of Biafra. I had so much money on me – from sales of cigarettes and the one carted from the Central Bank. We bought fuel from the black market and headed to Enugu where many houses had ‘OCUPID’ wrongly spelt on them. People hadn’t returned fully so we found an empty house and moved in for the night. With the money in my hands, my sisters cooked the next day and we ate like we hadn’t done in a long while. Overstuffed, we fell asleep. There was electricity but there was no water. I then remembered a stream at Agbani and went to search for it. It eventually became the source of water for us and other returnees.

We were happy to be together – me, my sisters and uncle. We started to settle in. But one day, I left again. I went to look for my parents.

                                                                        ———-

The contributor of this story is an Academic and Public Office Holder. He wishes to remain anonymous.

 

THE CHILDREN

It wasn’t Indians and Cowboys.

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“A significant outcome of the war is the foundation it laid for the further liberation of the Igbo woman. Before the war, Igbo women were generally laid back because our patriarchal society ensured that men undertook most financial responsibilities in the home and society. But when conscription was at its peak, men would disappear into the bush to avoid being signed on. Women, therefore, became the bread winners of their respective families, crossing Biafran and Nigerian lines to buy food and other supplies so their families would survive. In the process of these interactions, the Igbo woman started to became more exposed, assertive and confident and that is the essence of what the modern Igbo woman has inherited.”  – Patrick Amanze Njoku

                                                                      ———-

I was a teenager at the time so the war was a threshold into my twenties. That is the most impressionable time in the life of a child and the trauma hits you. You realize it’s not Indians and Cowboys. It’s for real. As a soldier, the first taste of fire fight causes panic in you. Most soldiers pee on their pants because they’re looking at death. You get used to it after a while but no previous experience prepares you enough for the real incidents.

I remember the day the first bomb was dropped in Owerri, next to us at Mere Street. It was either late 1967 or early 1968, at the start of the war. There weren’t jets at the time because they hadn’t purchased any bombers so they were using propeller jets and this one was a Nigerian Airways passenger plane. We heard the sound – Whooo! Whooo, Whooo! Whooo! – and came out to the junction of Ihugba and Ejiaku Street. In something like slow motion we watched as a bomb dropped out of a window. Usually a bomb would have an ejector so you don’t see it until it lands but we actually saw this one fall and land on the house next to ours. It crippled the whole damn thing and left a big hole. We actually saw flesh because we were not even up to a hundred yards away from the place. This drummed it in that hey, this was not a football match; this was serious business.

Throughout the crisis we never lived more than three to four miles away from the war front. When Owerri fell to the federal troops, my father moved us to Ubowala in Emekuku, where we got accommodation in the primary school compound which had been turned into a relief center. From there we moved to Owala, where we were till the war ended.

My father had been a minister during the British rule and the First Republic. He could have moved away to safety but he didn’t. After the war, we asked him why and he said it would have appeared like a betrayal if he had abandoned the people who had elected him into the Owerri constituency and sent him to the House of Representatives three times. The only times my father left was when he had to go on foreign missions on behalf of the Biafran cause. He went to Ireland and raised money with the Red Cross and Caritas. He also went to the Vatican because, being a knight of the Catholic Church, he knew members of the College of Cardinals and had a voice in the Vatican. He was able to raise about three hundred to four hundred thousand dollars and that was a lot of money in those days. He made a total of three trips. Sir Akanu Ibiam, who was then the Vice President of the World Council of Churches, worked more than any other person I know to raise funds for the cause. At a time, he was living permanently abroad and I remember a very moving story told to me by a young lady who worked with him. They had just raised almost two hundred thousand dollars when the war ended. So, what to do with the money? His team was astonished when he sat down and starting writing cheques to return every penny of the money to the donors.

Before enlisting in the army, I served with the Military Intelligence. We operated under Colonel Bernard Odogwu with the late Dan Njemanze as his deputy. One night we heard the ra-ta-ta-ta of small fire arms. We assumed our boys were testing new arms because the rumour around the time was that we’d gotten a new shipment of small weapons – Maddisons and Uzi riffles. But the shooting persisted all day and into the night and was even getting closer. Late into the night we started hearing vehicles, heavy duty jeeps and trucks coming from the state house. All night long they were moving so we knew something had gone wrong. What we didn’t know was that the State House was being evacuated to Madonna School in the Okigwe area. You know, human beings are very intuitive and intelligent. The fire was coming closer and closer, so people in town had sensed there was trouble. The next morning, we saw a line of human beings streaming into the road leading to the Aba Express road, some carrying children and others, a few clothes. We rushed off to Umudike where we started to evacuate some of our equipment. The Research and Production section was loading up her chemicals and equipment. The DMI was also loading up her sensitive documents. Before night we were on the Low Bed truck out of Umuahia. Most of the roads in the new republic were already occupied by Nigerians so it took us the whole day to manoeuvre through path ways and bridges, all the way to Liilu somewhere in the heart of Aguata area. We finished unpacking about 9.00 pm and I just called my friend and said, “I’ve seen enough. I’m heading to the School of Infantry now.” That’s how I joined the army; another significant moment for me.

One of the most telling moments for me was when I saw children dying of hunger and the times I happened to be at a bomb scene. Being almost a child myself those were traumatic experiences and that is why it is said, in a sense, that war changes people. On one level, a soldier learns to places little worth to his life because you know you could lose it at any moment and become a statistic. War brings out the worst in people. The survival instinct in every human being means that when faced with hunger and starvation, people react in selfish ways. For example, if food was given to you and others and you had the opportunity to take it all for yourself, you’d do so whether the other person was your sibling or parent, or not. War also brings out all manners of outrage in people. I remember an incident that happened when I was at a refugee camp with one of my cousins. He was annoyed because the Reverend Father in charge of the rations seemed to be favouring the ladies rather than soldiers who had just returned from the war front. His reason was that the rations were meant for civilians and not the military. The Reverend Father refused to give in to my cousin’s pleas so my cousin kidnapped him and conscripted him into the army. The reverend gentleman served gallantly and even attained the rank of captain. These kind of human reactions to trauma and misery, and the fact that you lose your values and everything you hold dear, informed the title of my book – The Wrath of War. It’s really terrible. One would never wish for it to happen again and anytime people are propagating war, you try to dissuade them.

This takes me back to something that happened when I was at Stella Maris College, Port Harcourt. The war was heating up so my family left Lagos, where I was schooling at St. Gregory’s College, and relocated to the east. Our principal at Stella Maris was Father Maher, an Irish priest. He was also a veteran of the Second World War, as we found out later on. Occasionally, he would try to acquaint us with world and local politics and he told us he foresaw there’d be a conflict. He said he wished it would be avoided through concessions and forgiveness on both sides. But we were all bristling with youthful enthusiasm. We thought it would be a football match and everybody would play for an hour and go home and take a bath. Some of our boys reported him to the military in Port Harcourt and he was accused of being a saboteur. Two days later, they whisked the Reverend Father away and deported him.

On the other hand, war situations can also bring out the best in human nature. You will see a woman putting her life at risk just to save her children, or any child, even if it entails taking a bullet. Magnanimity and our extended family system were taxed to the limit. I remember returning with other soldiers from Onitsha sector. It was a two-day trek and wherever the night met us we were welcomed by families. They treated us as their sons, gave us food, water to bathe and accommodation for the night. In the morning they fed us with coco-yam and palm oil before we set off. Till today, I’m yet to see that sense of selfless service by people who had so little to offer yet did so without counting the cost.

A significant outcome of the war is the foundation it laid for the further liberation of the Igbo woman. Before the war, Igbo women were generally laid back because our patriarchal society ensured that men undertook most financial responsibilities in the home and society. But when conscription was at its peak, men would disappear into the bush to avoid being signed on. Women, therefore, became the bread winners of their respective families, crossing Biafran and Nigerian lines to buy food and other supplies so their families would survive. In the process of these interactions, the Igbo woman started to became more exposed, assertive and confident and that is the essence of what the modern Igbo woman has inherited.

I remember an aunt of mine who was very dynamic and business minded even before the war and whose daughter, Josephine, inherited these traits. We were at Ubowala at the time and Josephine used to go as far as Aguleri to trade because that was the easiest path to get into Nigeria. A lot of the food coming into Biafra was coming from there so she’d go with herbs and vegetables and sell them for Nigerian currency with which she’d buy salt and other items and bring in to Biafra. At that time salt had become as valuable as crude oil. Gradually, she built up her capital and started trading on a larger scale. Most of these women were first daughters – Adas – and very much revered in Igbo land. This was the genesis of women being called Okpataku [she who gathers wealth] rather than Odiziaku [she who manages wealth] the sobriquet with which women were formerly known.

This assertiveness that started with commerce has also translated into education because there seems to be more women in schools today than men. Now Igbo women are expressing themselves more by saying, “I am a human being, I have a right to be heard and I have a right to everything just like the man.” Another thing I like about the new Igbo woman is they’re now self-educating rather than waiting for their parents. A university degree is the new benchmark for the Igbo girl and this is all a fall out of that liberation that started with commerce during the war. It’s a good thing in the sense that – like it is usually said – children are trained by their mothers even though they bear their fathers’ names and so every educated Igbo woman insists on educating her children.

                                                                          ———-

Patrick Amanze Njoku is a Journalist and the author of The Wrath of War. He was the Treasurer and Vice Chairman of the Association of Nigerian Authors, Imo State branch.

THE CHILDREN

Memories that live forever.

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“One day, directly opposite our house at Number 62, St. Michael’s Road, Aba, there was an attack. One woman was walking past with a child on her back. The blast cut off her head but she kept moving and walked for a short distance, then fell face down. When the smoke cleared, we saw her child. He was crying, saying, “Mama, kunie k’anyi na.” [“Mama, get up, let us go home.”] – F.N.N.

                                                                        ———-

The experience of the war was terrible. I doubt if there’s any emotional clinic one can go to wipe away those effects. No. I think we’ll live with it for the rest of our lives. We can’t escape it. As I’m sitting down here what are you going to tell me to erase that experience from my mind?

One day, directly opposite our house at Number 62 St. Michael’s Road, Aba, there was an attack. One woman was walking past with a child on her back. The blast cut off her head but she kept moving and walked for a short distance, then fell face down. When the smoke cleared, we saw the child. He was crying, saying, “Mama kunie k’anyi na.” [“Mama, get up, let us go.”] It was just opposite our house. I saw it life. I can still visualize it. We were by the door watching everything. You know, once the air craft dives in and bombs, it takes off. There was smoke. Very thick black smoke took over the entire place. The woman was a passer-by. Her son could have been five or six but he may have been looking smaller than his actual age due to malnutrition. We ran inside when the attack started. Normally, you run under the bed, the spring bed, so that even if blocks start falling they will fall on the mattress and cushion the effect.

Another day we were playing outside, far away from the house, when an aircraft started attacking. We took off and ran behind the Iroko tree. The bunker where we normally run into was far off from where we were, so we were now revolving round the Iroko tree. If the aircraft is coming from the right we go to the opposite side of the tree and hold onto ourselves till it zooms past.  If it’s coming from the left we run to the other side. We didn’t lie flat or go into the bunker because if it’s a bomber, dropping bombs and moving, it will bury the person alive so it was a nightmare. It was a nightmare.

At that age my mind was not fully developed so I was not really scared because we’ve been seeing a lot. I had seen soldiers, naval people, they pass through the front of our house in Orlu. So many will pass but few will return. Those that come back will have a lot of injuries. But with the bombings of buildings, smoke, people running helter-skelter, when you see people hysterical, running as if they want to disappear into thin air, then the fear started coming and it’s not good for a child. The images I saw as a child during that war, I still have them. Anything that can affect the psyche of a child is something very serious. Now if I hear the sound of a serious gun I feel uncomfortable. If I hear the sound of a machine gun now I know it’s a machine gun and my mind goes back. During one of my visits abroad, they were celebrating their Air Force day and I didn’t know. If you saw the way fighters and bombers were moving, I think my heart stopped beating for some time until I got myself back. My friend said, “No cause for alarm. It is Air Force day.” The sounds brought back memories of what I knew.

At Orlu and Aba, myself and my cousins were just living in the open. That was when I learned how to tap wine. It was not because I wanted something to eat. It’s just that we were not busy. Before we started having lessons, everybody was free. There was confusion and idleness. But I used to see palm wine tappers up there so I went up like them and, using iron and hammer, I drill a hole towards the top of the palm tree and fluid will start coming out and I will use calabash and hold the liquid. I will tie it the way palm wine tappers will tie it and leave it there. By watching people climb I got expertise in climbing. Even after the war, if I’m climbing I can move from one tree to another tree expertly and very high up.

In Aba, there were no trees to climb but the house where we were living in has a decking so I will climb to the decking and jump from there into a trip of sand. It was a very rough life. To jump over a fence was nothing for me. I was obviously reacting to the trauma I experienced. Before the war I was riding tricycles and such things but one became hardened during the war and you begin to see things you’re not supposed to see as a child. You see soldiers marching to war carrying guns but when they’re returning you’ll see real injuries. Some can no longer walk. They’ll be carried, then you’ll understand the seriousness of it.

After that Aba incident I became withdrawn. Even with my rough nature, once my father was not at home I don’t step outside. My natural self that lives outside and feels very free became withdrawn. I am always by the edge, my ears always very sharp, listening for the sound of air craft. So if an air craft is far away I will pick the sound and inform people and they will begin to take position. To the extent that if I’m inside here blindfolded, if a fighter passes, I will know the sound. I also know the sound of a bomber. I could tell the difference even with the eyes of a child. Those fighters that shoot are not very massive. They’re small and very swift. They manoeuvre easily. The bombers are slow and as they’re passing, they’re dropping [bombs] and they’ll continue on their way. By the time you turn around again everywhere is in darkness, dust, everything. If there was a tree here you won’t see that tree anymore. The tree would have been uprooted and buried.

People were short of medication, so once you fall sick and drugs are not available, you’ll just die. One of my cousins who was a sickler died in Azia because his father who donates blood for transfusion was killed in the Asaba massacre He just died. A brilliant young boy. My relations in Asaba died. The ones that ran away survived. Families were separated. In those days it is mostly the men who work while the women are house wives. During the holidays, the women travel with the children and after the holidays they will take the children back to their base but the war came and separated everybody. Some of my cousins found themselves in a refugee camp. Everybody was sharing a common toilet and a common bathroom. People use wrapper to demarcate their rooms. Those mothers suffered. That war was something else. You can imagine where there is an attack and a child is separated from the parents permanently, for ever. That child becomes anybody’s child. For people who are still living, if they start searching for their children some of them will find them provided they are still alive.

After the war, we went back to Asaba because there was nowhere else for us to go. We were not living in our own house but in my father’s uncle’s house. That was the only house in the family not affected by the war so the whole extended family was there. Everywhere was jam packed. We sleep in the parlour and everybody has a corner. At night you just go to your corner and sleep. It was terrible – that war.

My dad went back to Enugu and was visiting us from Enugu. He registered us in a public school in Asaba but when we went back to Enugu we continued with Santa Maria where we were schooling before the war. But it was no longer the Santa Maria we knew. All the missionaries were gone.

Later on when I went to Asaba for my secondary school, we used to see skeletons when we’re digging the ground. You can imagine seeing skeletons. We just cover them and move on. Now I know what a skeleton is. But seeing it then during the war you may not fully understand that this was a human being.

The suffering was much. That’s why when I see people agitating, making noise, trying to demonstrate, Pro-Biafra this and that, I know those people did not see the war. Anybody who saw the war will not attempt anything that will bring back the memories not to talk about the real thing.

War is bad.

[The featured image was taken from the internet.]

                                                                        ———-

The contributor of this story wishes to remain anonymous.

 

THE CHILDREN

BIAFRA BLUES

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“The other day I met a 35-year old Nigerian man who told me he had never heard of Biafra. He is Igbo. I was traumatized by this. Hundreds of thousands of Nigerians lost their lives needlessly during this war. How do you forget an annihilation? There are no credible museums to record this collective trauma and no attempt by successive regimes to remind Nigerians of a time when our country went mad. History is important. When Nigeria erased history as a compulsory part of the curriculum in the classrooms, they instituted amnesia in our consciousness. We are a people that have been forced to forget the past. This is why every day is a repeat of the past. Because those who do not know their history always forget their past. Nigerians are in no danger of remembering their past. We have no history, says our rulers. But as we see, Biafra lives in the hearts and minds of the children of those who lived and died for a dream deferred.” – Ikhide Ikheloa

                                                                           ———-

The Nigerian civil war is often looked at through a binary lens: The East versus the rest of Nigeria and good versus evil, depending on who is telling the story. There is hardly ever a dispassionate commentary because it is so emotional and traumatic, and the narrators are invested in their story. There has not been a shortage of narrative; by my own count there are close to one hundred books on the subject of Biafra’s aborted secession.

I was a child when the war broke. I remember the feeling of fear, foreboding and a relentless loneliness. Alone with my little brother in Benin City, I thought of war as the end of the world as I knew it. The headmaster of our primary school called an assembly and told us that we were at war. I wet my shorts because I thought he meant we were all going to die. I did not want to die without seeing my parents again.

The Biafrans were the rebel forces and, believe it or not, they fought with heart. For a period they occupied Benin City where we lived and I remember the sound of gun shots, shuttered houses and the waiting, for what never came for us.

I missed my father. He was a policeman, part of Nigeria’s highly trained elite Mobile Police Force. The job of the force was to occupy “liberated” territories or overwhelm protesters in areas of unrest. The men of this force were very good at what they did. They were trained to maim and kill and saw combat often. As a little boy, I lived in fear of losing my dad during combat. My dad was always leaving and staying away from the home for long stretches of time. This time, during the early stages of the war, my dad and his team mates were in Asaba and the Biafrans ambushed them. They beat him up and broke his bones. But he escaped and lived to tell the story. Up until his death he would always tell that story with respect in his eyes. The Biafrans were feisty fighters.

My mother was also away in the village burying her father when the war came even as my dad was at war. I was left alone with my little brother in the city because we were of school age and our parents did not want us to miss school. So we stayed with a relative. My mother was worried about us. We were caught in the war in this city that had just been occupied by rebel forces and she fretted about seeing us alive again. Our relative smuggled us out of the city in a mammy wagon and we ended up in our village. I remember that day quite vividly because it was a market day. Someone must have spotted us at the motor park and run ahead to tell my mother the good news. We saw her running towards us, running and falling, running and falling. She grabbed us and held on to us without a word. She kept grinning and it is hard to put in words the joy on her face.

Our dad joined us later. One morning he came riding in in his motorcycle using just one good foot. He was so broken he had to be helped out of the motorcycle. My dad was a strong warrior. Like the Biafrans.

Right after the war, I started secondary school. The Red Cross came to our school and determined that we had been traumatized by the war and needed sustenance and support. We had just survived a war, true, it was traumatizing, yes, but nowhere near what children in Eastern Nigeria had endured. I was a child though, always hungry and since there was a promise of food I did not complain that the Red Cross was exaggerating my condition.  They brought us wheat, dried cod aka stock fish, aka oporoko, aka panla, and powdered milk that curiously came in sacks. We tried to do many things with the wheat but it was a poor substitute for garri and yam flour. The dried cod was so hard they ruined our teeth and each time we used the milk we made a mad dash to the latrines. We found out that we were lactose-intolerant. The war ended but the war continued.

When I think of Biafra, I think of the many men of the barracks – Igbo – who went home to the East and never came back. I was particularly close to one as a child and there are days I still wonder whatever happened to him. I remember the bombs and household names like Carl Gustav Von Rosen, Joseph Achuzia, Brigadier Benjamin Adekunle, the Black Scorpion, etc. I remember the songs of the time, especially those of Celestine Ukwu and Rex Jim Lawson. I play the songs and they take me back to an important part of my life and our shared history. The most traumatic images for me are of children like me with distended stomachs. We knew of kwashiorkor before we studied it in the classrooms.

Many unspeakable things happened during the war. It was in many ways a turkey shoot of the Igbo by the Federal side, and women and children bore the brunt of the hell. However, minority ethnic groups like mine got caught in the middle of the fight. Sometimes when we were reluctant to join the fray we caught hell – from either or both sides. I think of the atrocities of the rebel and Federal soldiers in the old Midwest region – from Benin City to Asaba – atrocities that still hurt to this day, especially the massacre of the men of Asaba. Google it. We need a real, well-funded museum dedicated to that war.

The other day I met a 35-year old Nigerian man who told me he had never heard of Biafra. He is Igbo. I was traumatized by this. Hundreds of thousands of Nigerians lost their lives needlessly during this war. How do you forget an annihilation? There are no credible museums to record this collective trauma and no attempt by successive regimes to remind Nigerians of a time when our country went mad. History is important. When Nigeria erased history as a compulsory part of the curriculum in the classrooms, they instituted amnesia in our consciousness. We are a people that have been forced to forget the past. This is why every day is a repeat of the past. Because those who do not know their history always forget their past. Nigerians are in no danger of remembering their past. We have no history, says our rulers. But as we see, Biafra lives in the hearts and minds of the children of those who lived and died for a dream deferred.

                                                                        ———-

IKHIDE IKHELOA PHOTO 2

Ikhide Ikhiloa is a Writer, Critic, Political Analyst and School Administrator. He lives in the United States of America with his family.