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 MEDICAL PERSONEL

Love in a time of war.

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“I was already working at Aba General Hospital by the time the war started. They used to bring wounded soldiers, both dead and alive. One faithful day, the Nigeria soldiers threw a bomb at Eke Oha market. That day, I saw something! Many people were buried alive. When the Napalm bomb meets somebody, the person will burn and shrink. The whole body of the person will be like a goat that was burnt inside fire. The leg, the hand, all the body parts will gum together. One of my friends, also a nurse, she identified her sister among the corpses with the cutex on her toe nails. Everybody was stitching. Blood everywhere… They [corpses] were heaped like you are heaping fire wood…It was a horrible experience…That day, the thing was terrible.” – Georgina Nwangwu.

                                                                         ———-

To get my wedding cake was a miracle. My Sister-in-law, the one that saw me and told my husband about me, she met somebody who made my wedding cake. There were things in the market, not that you can’t get them, but you know they had changed the currency from Nigerian to Biafra money, so it wasn’t easy to plan and purchase anything. But I bought satin and lace, and made my wedding gown and that of my Chief Bridesmaid.

That time, whatever you want to do, you will hurry up and do it because of the flying of the planes. When we hear the sound, people will start shouting, “A biala h’o! A biala h’o!” [They have come o! They have come o!] It is because the planes are hovering. You don’t gather much in groups because it is easy to see people in groups. But we still did our wedding and reception. We did everything. It was at St. Barnabas Anglican Church, Omoba, Isiala Ngwa, on 29th of June, 1968. The reverend was Reverend Asiegbu. The church was a bit hidden where the planes cannot see people. Many people came. We ate. We also danced. The house where we cut the cake was covered with palm fronds and we had a [high] table as it is done today.

GEORGINA NWANGWU PHOTO 1
Georgina and Athanasius Nwangwu cutting their wedding cake.
GEORGINA NWANGWU PHOTO 3
Georgina and her Chief-Bridesmaid in their lace-and-satin dresses.

I was already working at Aba General Hospital before the war started. They used to bring wounded soldiers, both dead and alive. One faithful day, the Nigeria soldiers threw a bomb at Eke Oha market. That day, I saw something! Many people were buried alive. As I was running for my dear life, I was near to the wall of the ward. A bullet came and pierced the wall and I was near it. It did not touch me but if it had touched me that would have been the end. People in their shop, selling, their shops were burnt, everything. They were packing all the dead people from Ekeoha and bringing to us. When the Napalm bomb meets somebody, the person will burn and shrink. The whole body of the person will be like a goat that was burnt in a fire. The leg, the hand, all the body parts will gum together. One of my friends, also a nurse, she identified her sister among the corpses with the cutex on her toe nails. Everybody was stitching. Blood everywhere. So that was the horrible experience I had during the war.

GEORGINA NWANGWU PHOTO 4
Georgina as a young nurse

After, Ojukwu came to see the dead people in the mortuary. They were heaped like you are heaping fire wood. They were carrying the dead people on top of each other. It was a horrible experience for me. That day, the thing was horrible.

Some people came and identified their own and took them away. The rest were buried in a mass grave. The ones that survived were kept in the hospital and we started treating them till Aba fell. The government took care of them. That was the last bomb attack that was done in Aba. When Aba fell, we didn’t know what to do. No telephone connection. I was carrying my first pregnancy. I was afraid something will happen and my husband will not be nearby. They were evacuating the soldiers in Aba General Hospital and I was among the people that were evacuated because of my pregnancy. I went to Umuahia because that was where my husband was staying. He said he’s not sure of my safety, that I should go to my people in Amaimo, Ikeduru. So I went there. I was there until Ogochukwu was born.

It was during that time that Caritas was working in our place. We were like auxiliary nurses in the refugee camp at Baptist Church, Amaimo. They were supplying us things. People that were sick, that are not able to do anything, they come there in the morning. We recruit the villagers that are strong to do the cooking, then we dish out to them. The World Council of Churches, they give us stock fish, Ghana beans, Ivory Coast beans and other things to cook. That was one of the good things Biafra government did. Some people that would have died of kwashiorkor did not die. They distribute the egg yolk and prepared soup in a tin. They warm it and give people. When we make the milk we give them in cups; they bring their cups and we pour for them. That is how we served the public during the war. The white people tried so much. They were bringing cooked rice, canned food and giving to the people to eat. You will see a child like this – very puffy. That is kwashiorkor. No blood. After the feeding we give them drugs, we de-worm them because a lot of them are sick and inhabiting worms and other bad diseases. They also brought a lot of multivitamins.

The supplies were enough and anybody that comes will get. But some will not come because they prefer dying in their house. Maybe they don’t trust the refugee camp. There was a maternity ward where we refer the pregnant women for proper treatment and delivery. Some nurses even worked at the war front so when the war is tough they will bring any wounded soldier to them. But I was never posted there because I was nursing a baby.

The war did not touch Amaimo. Owerri people ran to us but war didn’t touch us. I was there till after the war. Ogochukwu was about six months when the war ended and we came back to Enugu.

GEORGINA NWANGWU PHOTO 10
The Nwangwus

Apart from one of my uncles, nobody in my family died. He was a sea man and sometimes he will go on the ship and stay for six months. He died because he was blind not because of the war. He had an operation abroad and he came back blind from Britain. When the war started he couldn’t contain it and he died.

Let us not fight again. War is bad. It is painful. You will not have rest of mind. You’ll be afraid all the time. All those that want to fight again should go and prepare, but I am not among those who will support them. Ojukwu didn’t get it. Is it you who will get it?

GEORGINA NWANGWU PHOTO 7
Mrs. Georgina Nwangwu

———-

Mrs. Georgina Nwangwu retired as a Chief Nursing Officer from the Anambra State Ministry of Health, on April 1, 1995. She and her husband are parents and grandparents. They live in Enugu, Enugu State, Nigeria.

 

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 SOLDIERS

For the love of family – Part 1.

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*Some names have been changed to protect the identities of the people concerned.*

“I started seeing changes in my little cousins, nephews, nieces. Their hairs were changing colour and they started getting big stomachs. One day, I saw eke [python]. I didn’t know what to do because in my place it’s a taboo to kill it. But I said to myself, “My younger ones are dying and this should be a good source of protein.” I killed it with the help of one other boy. We did it at night. I told the boy we have to throw away the skin because if they see it, they’ll know it’s eke. We made them drink the water because that’s where the nutrient is. And nothing has happened to any of us till date.” – Ben Onwuka

                                                                      ———-

I was working with the Sports Commission in Lagos when the problem started. I had to leave Lagos and go to my brother’s house at Ibadan. I was there when they killed Aguiyi Ironsi at Fajuyi’s house. Ogundipe made a statement first, asking the whole country to be calm. Within twelve hours, Gowon made his own statement saying that God in His infinite mercies has given the leadership of Nigeria into the hands of a northerner. But Ojukwu said Ogundipe should be the next in line because he’s next to Aguiyi ironsi.

They started killing a lot of Igbo officers in 4th battalion and we were also hearing about the killings in the north. My brother was at Ijebu Ode at that time but I told his wife that we have to leave. We moved back to Enugu and I started teaching at Salvation Army Primary School, Ogbete. I was also doing sport because my aim was to represent Biafra in the Commonwealth Games which was about to hold in Kingston, Jamaica. I was already the Nigerian champion in 400 yards, 1964-65.

BEN ONWUKA 19
Ben with his coach, Chief Dickson Esema, at Salvation Army Secondary School, Akai Ubium, Eket.

The war was raging. The school where I was teaching became a sort of camp. Some people who came back from the front lost their eyes, some were mutilated. They were telling us the stories, the reality of the war, that it was terrible. In spite of it, a lot of boys wanted to join and it became a sort of fashion to be in the Biafran army. I started asking myself, “What am I doing in the classroom when B54 is bombing Enugu, bombing a lot of places?” So I decided to go for selection as an ordinary soldier. It was at Enugu Garrison and there were hundreds of boys, rows and rows of people. Everybody was struggling to be in the line and when I tried to push myself in, one of the military police flogged me because they said I was causing confusion. It was so funny. He started pursuing me but ran through the elephant grass and disappeared.

I went back to teaching. But I saw an advert that Biafra wanted to recruit their first officers. The qualifications were Credit in Maths, English and so on, and I had all of them, so I went for recruitment again. This one was based on ability to run and they took us in about five buses and dropped us twelve kilometres away. We had to run back and I was the second to come into the garrison. The first person was one Mr. Onu, who was a marathon runner. After the obstacle tests and interviews I was selected. We then went for our military training at Enugu Hilltop. Three months later Ojukwu came and commissioned us. We were the first Biafran officers and I was the first army officer from Achina. Because of it, other boys from my town got interested and joined the army.

BEN ONWUKA 10
Ben as a Biafran soldier.

After the training, I went to Afo Ugiri in Mbano to pick my boys because they train the boys elsewhere. When I was inspecting the boys they assigned to me, who did I see standing there? My brother, my immediate seniour brother. That moment, I was almost mentally devastated but I didn’t act as if I knew him. I was saying to myself, “God, how can I take my brother to the war front. Suppose we enter an ambush?” This my brother had been a driver and was not in regular contact with the family so we didn’t know his whereabouts until that day.

Later, I called him and asked what motivated him to join the army. He said the boys who joined earlier were always pushing him around and maltreating him as if he’s nothing. That was the first time I regretted entering the army. I called Bernard, my fellow officer, and said to him, “Do you know this man is my brother? Nya nwa soro mu.” [“He’s directly older than me.”] Bernard couldn’t believe it. I told him, “We have to swap. Take him and give me one of your boys.” Bernard took my brother, Isaiah, and I took another boy from Bernard. I didn’t want two of us to die at the same place. And I didn’t want him to influence me.

At first, I fought at Ugwu Oba, near Enugu, before I was posted to Port Harcourt under Achuzia. He was a no-nonsense soldier. With him, it’s either you die fighting or you survive. If you show signs of laziness, he’ll shoot you in the leg and tell you to go home and rest. But he was a good fighter and a great leader. He was in charge of Otuocha Brigade and the 18 Battalion, which I fought in, was part of it.

The war didn’t get to my village but the effect was still there. I was fighting at Abagana but whenever things were quiet I was seize the opportunity and my driver will drive me home at night. I started seeing changes in my little cousins, nephews, nieces. Their hairs were changing colour and they started getting big stomachs. Sometimes I come with food, but after a day or two it will be finished. One day, I saw eke [python]. I didn’t know what to do because in my place it’s a taboo to kill python. But I said to myself, “My younger ones are dying and this should be a good source of protein.” I killed it with the help of one other boy. We did it at night. My people didn’t know it was eke because I skinned it; you know eke has nice colour – black and white. I told the boy we have to throw away the skin because if they see it, they’ll know it’s eke. We made them drink the stock because that’s where the nutrient is. And nothing has happened to any of us till date. I don’t believe in all those rubbish superstitions.

It was at Abagana I sustained this wound. [Indicating his right arm]. We infiltrated their media and got information they were going to attack that day, so we were ready. I went from trench to trench to give orders to my boys. One of them was killed some days before and another was shot at the neck when he was eating, so I knew the person shooting is not far. I called my batman and told him, “Stay here. I want to find out what is happening.” I wanted him to stay at a particular place so that if the guns get stuck he could open and repair them. I had my grenade and my gun and I entered into the front line, gradually…creeping…going. I heard the shooting again and I saw the smoke – whitish. This was the first time I was coming face to face with a Nigerian soldier. When I got to where I knew was a good position, I got up on my hands a bit, the way lizards do. As soon as I lopped, shots burst out. The place was a cassava farm so he must have heard sounds and knew somebody was around. One of the bullets got my hand. I felt a sensation and knew something has happened to my hand. I waited for a while and then my grenade exploded – Gbrrrrrrrrrrr! There was smoke. If I didn’t throw it out it could have exploded and killed me. I waited for a while and when I didn’t hear the gun shots any more I started creeping back. I was using one hand because I thought the other was gone. When I got to where I told my batsman to stay, he wasn’t there. My Second-in-Command appeared immediately. “Oga! Oga! What happened? Look at! Your hands and clothes are full of blood.” As he was tearing my shirt, it became completely dark and that was the last thing I knew.

When I opened my eyes it was at Iyienu hospital. I was so thirsty and was asking for water. “Please. Water, water, water.” The nurses got me infused and gave me a sedative and I went to bed again. When I opened my eyes it was at the hospital at Ihiala. I had no feelings in my arm. The nurse sitting near me was my classmate – Caroline. I was looking at her and she looked like an angel. When she saw my eyes open she exclaimed, “Hei! They’re killing all our boys o!” The ward was filled with people, wounded boys, most of them from Abagana. If you go to the mortuary, a lot of dead people. A boy was brought that evening but he died in the night. They left him there till morning. It was normal that people die around you and you stay with them. You don’t feel it. You’re not afraid of it.

My hand almost developed gangrene. The doctors carried out three to four operations and each time it will open again and I lose a lot of blood. They wanted to amputate it but Caroline kept pleading that they shouldn’t. The doctors told her to choose one – losing me or me losing my hand. But Caro said they should try one more time. They took me to the theatre again and I slept till 12.00 o’clock the next day. After a week, two weeks, three weeks, one month, there was no bleeding. The wound was healed. I was lucky to have her.

I was discharged but I didn’t go back to the army. Instead, I was visiting wounded soldiers in hospitals, to encourage them. My younger brother had a bicycle so he was taking me from Achina to Nkwerre and other hospitals. I was also going to Umuahia to see my girlfriend, *Ruth. I met her when I was a teacher at Enugu. She was really very good to me and I wanted to marry her. When I am going, I buy things for her and the fact that we managed to come on a bicycle to see her, she’ll be so happy. Her family approved of our friendship and the first place I entered when I got my pip as a second Lieutenant was their house. After Umuahia fell, I arranged for her family to move to Achina, so she could be close to me. I was being paid about fifteen pounds and I knew that if Biafra wins  the war, I will have a nice position in the army and can start a family.

On one of my visits to St. Augustine’s, Nkwerre, I was told that some Red Cross doctors were selecting wounded soldiers for evacuation. I didn’t have my hospital card but one nurse who was a girlfriend to one of my friends told me to try and see the doctors.  When it came to my turn, Dr. Jaja, who was a colonel at that time, told the white doctors, “This is one of the cases. We have done our best but we think it’s possible to make the hand to bend.” After examining me, they asked me to come back in two weeks’ time. From there we left for Umuahia to see *Ruth. On our way we saw a lot – dead people, hungry people, those deserting the front, no more very willing to fight.

Two weeks later I went back to St. Augustine’s but the lieutenant in charge told me my name was not on the list. But my name was actually there. What happened was that, on one of my visits, I saw a lot of wounded soldiers in front of his office, waiting for him to sign their papers so they can go home. But he was gisting with his girlfriend, so I confronted him. After he gave me the sad news, I left. At Umuahia, a Red Cross car stopped us and a white man came down. He recognized me by my sportswear and said I should have been in Italy for medical treatment. He was surprised when I told him my name wasn’t on the list but he said I should keep reporting at their office. My brother and I went back after a week and met two doctors – Dr. Bakker and Dr. Middlekoop. They said that one patient had died after an amputation, so I would take his place. Then, they asked me what I knew about Holland. I remembered my Geography and told them that the Dutch live under sea level, their farmers wear clogs and the capital is Amsterdam. They were impressed and said I was going to see all those things in reality. Somehow I was sad because of the guy who died but I was also happy. It was providence.

When I told *Ruth I was selected, she was very happy but she was worried that when I go abroad I will meet a white lady and forget her. But that wasn’t my intention. A gba nye go m’ ya ola. [I had already given her a ring.] I even bought a fake one for myself and was telling people I was married.

The next day I went to Ekwerazu, Mbaise to join other selected soldiers. We were many but eleven of us went to Holland. Some went to Germany, Austria, Denmark, and others a bit further north. We are still in touch, all of us who are alive.

Holland was a different environment – from war front to silence and peace. We went straight to the hospital. Everything in the ward was white and clean and I was thinking, “Is this paradise? Am I dead?” It was just like a dream. The following morning, instead of hearing air raids we saw people going about their businesses, riding their bicycles everywhere. From the window, we were just looking.

My plan was to go back to the army, not as a combatant, but to join the administration and training. So, after my treatment, I prepared to go back. But the war became very intense and no plane could land at Ulli. They told me to wait. I kept on waiting, till the news came that the war had ended.

We were disappointed to hear that Biafra was no more; doesn’t exist anymore. We couldn’t believe it. We never thought Biafra would lose the war. We so believed in it – the efforts we put in, the determination. Anybody who really fought the war with all his mind was disappointed. We were confused and emotional. After everything, we didn’t have anything to show for it.

I swore I will never live as a Nigerian. I said it and I still stand on it.

BEN ONWUKA 4
Ben Onwuka

                                                                         ———-

Ben Onwuka was the Nigerian champion in the 400 meters race, 1964-1965. He is an Entomologist, and worked with the Institute for Atomic Sciences in Agriculture, Wageningen, Holland. He is the founder of Omenala, a Foundation whose aim was to propagate African cultures [and the Igbo culture in particular] in Holland, through Music. He was also the President and Activity Coordinator for The International Club, Wageningen, where he was a member for 25 years. He lives in Wageningen, Holland with his family.

Read the second part of his story next week.

 

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.

 

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ABOUT MY BIAFRAN STORY

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In May, 2016, on the 49th anniversary of the Nigeria-Biafra War, a Facebook friend posted a tribute to his mother who had been an orphan living in a refugee camp in Gborokiri, Rivers State, Nigeria. He continued this way: “My father, on the other hand, was a remarkable young man who had left a flourishing career as a Sargent Major in the Nigerian police to enlist in the Biafran army. He came regularly into the camp to inspect the condition of things and to report back to his superiors. It was during one of these visits that he chanced upon my mother and, not minding that my mother was still a naive prepubescent girl, a very piquant romance that would later blossom into an unhappy marriage, began. And, that was how I and my five siblings came into a household replete with ghosts and shadows from a bloody past.”

The following month, another friend posted photographs on her timeline to commemorate her parents’ wedding anniversary. The faded, black-and-white pictures showed the couple at their wedding ceremony which had taken place on the 29th of June, 1968, as the war ravaged Aba, in Eastern Nigeria.

A few months later, it was a friend’s birthday and tributes flooded his timeline. One of them read: “Late sixties, the Nigerian civil war was in its early days… a group of persistent young musicians continued to mesmerize our chequered music scene with their witty Afrobeat infused psychedelic funk. The group, The Clusters…were a dominant music group then… As the war raged, the music played on.” 

Before this time, all I knew about the civil war were the events that led to it, the fighting that ensued and the military exploits that quashed the secession. I knew less about the men, women and children who were direct victims of the conflict. This was made worse because members of my family never spoke about their experiences. I was, therefore, intrigued by these Facebook updates that talked about wedding ceremonies, merry making and soldiers falling in love in a time of war. I knew there would be more stories like these waiting to be told – stories about death and suffering interwoven and, perhaps, tempered with those of courage, hope and happy moments. I also realized that the people who bear these stories will not be alive for ever and losing their testimonies will be like losing one’s voice without the chance of finding it again. I decided to look for these survivors and collate their stories into what the scholar and author, Okey Ndibe, calls ‘a database of memories, testimonies, experiences and anecdotes about the war.’

I interviewed my first survivor in January 2017, and this is the first batch of stories in the compendium. While speaking with the contributors I have experienced a mix of emotions – I have been angry, I have cried several times, but I have also laughed. In spite of death and trauma being the common themes in all the accounts, each one is unique and brings a different insight into the conversation.

Apart from three of the contributors who sent in their stories, I spoke to the rest in person or via Skype. While presenting their accounts here, I decided to preserve the authenticity of their narrations, including the flawed grammar, the vernacular, the transliterations, turns of phrases and other quirks that occur in speech.

However, many survivors are still reluctant to tell their stories. For some, the memories are still raw and painful. For others, the tensions caused by the agitations for Biafra has made them wary of being seen as supporters of these agitations. It may also be that some are just as I was – reluctant to confront a bitter past so as to make sense of it.

I thank all the contributors, especially those whose Facebook posts inspired this project. I am grateful to all who have given me leads to pursue, and those who have validated this modest effort. I am also indebted to the International Committee of the Red Cross for their quick responses to my inquiries and for making documents and photographs available to me during my research.

I hope that more survivors will find the courage to speak to the rest of us so we can learn the lessons from their experiences and pass on the memories to future generations.

Vivian Uchechi Ogbonna

"…a data base of memories, testimonies, experiences and anecdotes."