My father stayed in Enugu at the onset of the civil war where he commuted with his black Morris Minor and mother and her kids stayed back somewhere in a peaceful village. Or so it seemed. He was normally sending money, smoked Barracuda fish and other presents home whenever the chance occurs and we would relish over them. If you do anything wrong and mother wants to punish you, you will be told that your name has been removed from the list of those who will visit our father at Enugu and you will sob for days before the ban is lifted.
My father stayed in Enugu at the onset of the civil war where he commuted with his black Morris Minor and mother and her kids stayed back somewhere in a peaceful village. Or so it seemed. He was normally sending money, smoked Barracuda fish and other presents home whenever the chance occurs and we would relish over them. If you do anything wrong and mother wants to punish you, you will be told that your name has been removed from the list of those who will visit our father at Enugu and you will sob for days before the ban is lifted.
So the civil caught my father while commuting at Enugu. He did not believe that Enugu will fall so early and he was busy taxiing with his Morris Minor
Igbos all over the country were returning home to the East and people who refused to come home did not live to regret their action. Stories have it that they were camped together and burnt alive while some were made into minced meat. They paid the supreme price. At Onitsha Head Bridge, late returnees were whipped mercilessly by youths who have now found jobs for themselves by manning illegal check points.
Some humanitarian organizations such as Caritas Italy, ICRC Geneva, Red Cross featured prominently in food distribution and feeding centers. People wondered if the funds used in buying 4 + 4 jeeps by INGOs could be prudently utilized. In 1997, I met one man in Sarajevo who told me that he drove a food truck for Caritas during 1967-1970 into the Biafran territory. He knew I was from Nigeria and wanted to know if I hailed from Biafra.
"Some humanitarian organizations such as Caritas Italy, ICRC Geneva, Red Cross featured prominently in food distribution and feeding centers. People wondered if the funds used in buying 4 + 4 jeeps by INGOs could be prudently utilized."
People cowered under all kinds of militias. It is either you were with them or you are against them. We have found our enemies and it is us, the saying goes. There is no family that did not loose 3-4 people either to hunger, Kwashiorkor or direct hit from the war. Anybody born before or during the civil war knows the difference between the good and the evil, because they can clearly remember the face of evil if they see one.
The bombs were dropped from the lethal birds flown by heartless mercenaries, the Biafran victims ran around like chickens with severed heads while the federal foot soldiers binged around like sewage rats in a feeding frenzy.
We ate lizards, snakes, and wall gecko, still born from goats and sheep and dead chicks and chickens. You name it. As a war child, you must be a hunter and be able to dig up rodents from their burrows and ensure that the emergency exit door is blocked. It must not escape. You use fire and smoke it out from the hole after having ensured that the place is cordoned off. You must also know how to shoot with catapult without missing but some people were blessed to have Dane guns. Goats, sheep, and chickens were missing on daily basis. People plucked unripe plantains, bananas and other kinds of fruits prematurely to keep in their house in a conscious effort to prevent them from being stolen by thieves or people who needed them more. I know the easiest shortcut to the river, the names of popular snakes, the market days, how to play hide-and-seek in the bush, how to harvest pears but not how to make traps or raffia palms for roofing. The spikes turned me off.
The bombs were dropped from the lethal birds flown by heartless mercenaries, the Biafran victims ran around like chickens with severed heads while the federal foot soldiers binged around like sewage rats in a feeding frenzy.
People had their planted yam tubers uprooted from the farmlands by the fly-by-night thieves. Of course why planting while human beings are all hungry. Besides there was no guarantee of being alive to the next harvesting season.
There were war songs and propaganda broadcast by Radio Biafra and some of the newsmen of the moment were the indomitable Okoko Ndem, Uche Chukwumereije, and COD Ekwensi. They were all holding out in the only secondary school called St Saviors which was founded in 1958. I met a guy at Kinshasa DRC Congo, a senior staff of UN who told me that he was accompanying COD Ekwensi as office assistant to conduct interviews at Owerri in COD's long American car.
One village never-do-well was notorious for bringing soldiers to conscript villagers, but he refused to go to war front. He benefited from the war and wished that it continued. Entertainers cannot dance alone; the drummers are nearby as they say. He conspired with army deserters and terrorized the village. The bird does not perch on the roof for nothing; it is there for gathering information. He visits your household prior to his nefarious activities disguising as a concerned relation. He can also arrange for deserters to take away your bicycle and beat the hell out of you. One day, he brought these vermin to our place to "catch" my father. We were outside, playing quite un-oblivious of the raging war and the lurking danger. My senior brother burst into a thunder of lei, lei!! Lei!!! which was a password for alerting folks that the disciples of forced conscriptions are around? These are people who were present the night Jesus was traded for 30 pieces of silver, people who openly admire Hitler and his methods. The society was deeply fragmented and people depraved.
No sooner that he started his shout of lei! Lei!! than he received barrage of slaps from angry militia and run-away soldiers intent on colonizing the village. He started crying and my father came out only to be caught by these people. They asked him for money. He has none. It is only retarded pawns that ask snake for a handshake.
They asked him to bring the clothes of his late brother, my uncle named Emmanuel Ikeaka, a popular village wrestler who died due to lack of care occasioned by war. He told them he has sold them. And they demanded for the money as if it will be kept for them. Father said that he had about 8 children and that the money has been used up to buy food and medicine. They all pounced on him as if they have been rehearsing it, kicking him and using rifle butts to hit him repeatedly. My mother charged and started crying that they will kill her husband and soon other women joined. The wailings and shouts did not sway them.
Strangely, the beating was over as soon as his bicycle changed hands. The biting insect gets nothing by alighting at the back of the tortoise. People who are stronger than them will in turn wrestle this bicycle from them. He mustered the last energy he had to hold the bicycle. A soldier gave him a kick and the marauding felons fled with the bicycle. Father lay sick for days and weeks to come due to injuries sustained especially the open wound he had on his right elbow. I think one of the felons used the rifle sword –dagger to stab him. Mother had to massage with hot water in addition to other domestic needs that waited for her already. The groans and mourning of a painful father was to become a familiar tune in the days to come.
Mother had to look after the family in addition to going to sick bay to wash clothes in exchange for food, fetching fire wood and water, taking us to the feeding centre where we will join the food lines that snaked through one kilometer. And what do you see from the food lines- Severely malnourished men and women, barely alive, ageing with the last tinge of hope just to get hand outs. Children with running noses, protruding bellies, swollen legs, scorched and wrinkled and rusted foot all struggling to make it. Stunted and haggard looking elders that looked as if they were cloned from the same source all clinging to the last bastion of hope. Half of the handouts were spilled due to rushing and the inherent food fights. And you know food fight can only occur when there are more mouths to feed with less food. She was the bread winner and as well in charge of the home front.
And what do you see from the food lines- Severely malnourished men and women, barely alive, ageing with the last tinge of hope just to get hand outs. Children with running noses, protruding bellies, swollen legs, scorched and wrinkled and rusted foot all struggling to make it. Stunted and haggard looking elders that looked as if they were cloned from the same source all clinging to the last bastion of hope
I never knew aero planes could be used for any other thing except wrenching out man's inhumanity to man. Almost on daily basis, we were treated to a theatre of aerial bombardment. We knew the familiar entrance roars and themes, the staccato that followed soon after the explosions that followed the drops. One day, an enemy aircraft wanted to bomb the market and selected the Afor day which was the official market day. By sheer luck and magical hand of God, the pilot missed by whiskers the market and dropped its deadly cargo about 500 meters, very close to the Rev. Father's house. We heard two simultaneous explosions and the lethal bird disappeared into the sky thumbing up hoping that he has made a kill. For few days, people thronged the Catholic mission house at Afor Umuaka where the two bombs dropped just to see the awe inspiring craters it caused. The two bombs that went off almost immediately; to my consternation fell about 300 meters apart.
We used to have all sorts of stories that flew around; of one man's majestic power to down aero planes by pointing his fingers to it and raining some incoherent words. One day, we were playing outside in this man's compound and the deadly birds roared. We have the rehearsals, on how to discern the sounds, how to alert others and how to take cover. From our vantage positions, we watched as this man abused, cursed and yelled to the intimidating predator but it refused to fall down. Noticing that we were watching him, he transferred his frustration to us accusing us of disrupting his aero plane downing process and we fled home.
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The villagers covered the roof tops with green leaves to conceal the identity of the zinc sheets. These green leaves were to be changed periodically. Music must not be played aloud during funerals because it will give us out and expose us to the enemies. Run-away soldiers and enemy forces will always break off any of such social gathering if you do not soften them with drinks, food and cash gifts. Talking about funerals and death, many men returned home after their burials and rites of passage were carried out.
Death stared at every family, either from disease or from bullets. There was no medicine, no salt, sugar or cooking oil. Kids were not attending schools and you know why. They are talking about the Reverend father who got consumed in a blaze and you are asking about his beards. Worse still, officials at feeding centers were helping themselves with the food and selling them afterwards in the market with the logo and insignia of donor agencies clearly written on them. It is not only the hare; the tortoise will also arrive to his destination. People recoiled to their shells when officials steal food and put them up for sale.
Some well-to-do families had big radios and people used to go to them to listen to the news. Radio Biafra was the favorite channel. Or sometimes, sensing that there could be item seven in your house, they will bring the big radios by themselves and stay as long as the cooking lasts. Radio was the only source of news; the rest was grapevine, listening posts and plain rumors. I still know the people who had radios in my village and how they manipulated us with it. Sometimes you have to bring fruits before they switch on their radios. I don't know what the news was but father will always shout at us to keep quiet so that he can listen. Later he regaled with news of Ojukwu bunker, radio Biafra, Catholic Broadcasting Service, Rafio Moscow, Radio Netherlands, BBC and Radio Deutsche Welle and the latest military gain Biafra has made.
I recall that we ran or relocated as often as I can remember. But the elders refused to move an inch. They said that they cannot change the walking gait they learnt from their fore fathers just because the bush is on fire. The evacuation could make a rich source of raw material for the academe. Long lines of haggard, tired and frustrated looking women with children each with what she can carry snaking through the dark and unlit landscape, fleeing the village they have known all their life at night to another village they considered safe.
One night, my mother woke us up and without notice conscripted us to the evacuation line. I protested and could not hold anything because I was too small. I heard something that suggested that I should choose between life and death. I was only crying and refused to go. My older ones carried goats, mattress, cooking pot, buckets etc and the bigger items were tied to the bicycle (that remained after the villains took one earlier), while I refused to be handed over anything. I got very tired as we were going and refused to walk further. By now my mother was tired of beating me. They left me behind. I thought I was dead already as I could not see or hear any of them. It was as if I was thrown into the darkest part of hell. Not knowing what to do and dazed by some strange noise, I sat terrified at the roadside and started crying only for my mother to return from the advanced line to snatch me with one hand amidst slaps and knocks.
The evacuation could make a rich source of raw material for the academe. Long lines of haggard, tired and frustrated looking women with children each with what she can carry snaking through the dark and unlit landscape, fleeing the village they have known all their life at night to another village they considered safe.
We eventually arrived at Ekwe before sunset located about 1okms away, the supposedly promised land into a makeshift camp that was made of palm fronds. We lacked food, water and any other thing that can sustain or promote life. Still brooding over this and regretting why we left our villages, another problem came up-we have to leave as there are rumors of impending attacks by Federal side. Another relocation was conducted barely hours after our arrival.
Villages were abandoned, houses burned and razed to the ground and crops destroyed and water sources polluted. It was like a village I visited in the Balkans where rampaging Serb genocidiers after killing human beings, resorted to killing the livestock and setting ablaze grasses that were harvested for livestock.
And the soldiers clearly represented the evil. Federal soldiers destroyed everything and left sorrow and horror in their wake. I have not seen this kind of senseless destruction ever in my life on this earth except in Srebrenica ex-Yugoslavia where invading Serbs soldiers destroyed live stock feeds after burning everything is sight. Another example of this was in East Mostar South Sarajevo where Croats retaliated the Srebrenica attack. The play laid waste, in ruins and you would think that an atomic bomb made of Plutonium 21o was thrown or warhead made of raisin. Some villages had no house standing except trees and some old monuments, the type of destruction we see in North, East and West Darfur Africa's latest killing filed at the moment. The rampaging Federal soldiers feasted everything on its way and destroyed our present and future.
It was like a prelude to hell. Day after day, vultures the dragons hovered over us wanting to prey and decimate us. We were dying by minutes and we didn't believe that we will see tomorrow. Bombs were raining and federal forces were helped by some foreign countries pounded us. Foreign collaborators who probably placed Biafra high in the international nuisance list without seeking to understand the finer details of the conflagration.
I recall but not quite vividly the day I died and woke up the following morning at the feeding centre. The family had gone without food for many days. There was no hope of getting food because the feeding centers were dry or looted. Father was in hiding to evade drafting and cannot provide. Mother was over worked and overwhelmed with works. I had complained in the afternoon that my stomach was empty and I was feeling dizzy. My sight was blurred and I cannot see anything clearly. No body took note. Of course going hungry for days without food during Biafra was a familiar tune. It was before 20h00 in the night while going to the kitchen to scavenge that I fell flat with my forehead hitting directly to the dilapidated shaky door. I passed out, became void and disoriented. I heard wailing in the background that immediately ceased afterwards. I never recalled anything until the following day when I woke up at the feeding centre. I think my mother had taken me there after forcing some volume of red oil into my mouth I recall that when I woke up maybe half alive (or half dead) I noticed that she was crying as she was bathing me. My two younger siblings and my immediate older brother were worse off in terms of hunger, starvation and disease. They all had aliases on account of their ill health.
Father had escape/emergency hatch that off let him straight into the bush through the back yard. Whether inside the house or outside the room, he has perfected a plan that will see him escaping through the window, if indoors and through the hole in between a small compound fence. You can never notice him moving but you will know that somebody passed due to his speed. He knew what doing. He wasn't doing so because he never wanted to go to war front but if conscripted, you are given either one or two weeks training and sent to the war front for your early death. People who were conscripted were almost certain that they will never return back alive. Folks slept in the bush because soldiers will swoop and raid the house in the dead of the night.
People merely existed while other parts of Nigeria lived. A place you cannot live or leave is hell. The only option available was death and people were praying for death to snatch them. Worse still, the death option was costlier. It was a scene shot in hell. Soldiers mounted road blocks along the route to the river and manned the river itself. You cannot get food to eat and you cannot see water to drink. Only kids and the elderly fetched water. If a soldier comes to your house, he is either going back with a bicycle or a domestic animal. If you resist, your goat will be taken and the owner will still be beaten into pulp. So it was better to let them go with your livestock and spare yourself of agony in the hands of Biafran militia.
Some housewives and young ladies followed the federal soldiers and till date never returned. Some of them who returned have been ostracized and have no relationship either with their family or where they were formerly married to.
He wasn't doing so because he never wanted to go to war front but if conscripted, you are given either one or two weeks training and sent to the war front for your early death. People who were conscripted were almost certain that they will never return back alive. Folks slept in the bush because soldiers will swoop and raid the house in the dead of the night.
Life is like a tide, always turning, situations change and even though the sun sets, it will rise again. When times are hard, hope is man best companion and closeness to God; after all, what else is there to see? A man's response to failure has a lot to do with his success and the way he will manage it. We were praying because nobody could pray for us or help us. International community, if any recoiled into their cocoon and watched from safe distance as the pogrom went on unabated. At the end, about three million souls were sent to their early grave because squabbling politicians could not agree.
I remember that Tanzania, Ivory Coast and Italy recognized Biafra and do recall that some of my play mates who were orphans were shipped to Fernanda Po where they were catered for until after the war. Till date, Tanzanians still view people from the East as partners and they will gladly tell you that they supported Biafra's course.
Now the immediate Biafran crisis is over but what of its aftermath? Everyone is a victim of post war violence. People who were forcefully recruited to fight the war are now idle because the war is over. The war child must finally look for other things to be preoccupied once the war is over and that they are doing pretty well. They are now turning the guns towards each other in a killing frenzy.
Well to do families who planned ahead have since fled the country and have adopted their current countries of abode as their permanent residence visiting Nigeria once in a while. Ours is a country of brain drain to the brain gain of others. What happened to the bright folks that refined oil in the next village? Or the smart chaps that manufactured ogbunigwe bomb?
Nothing changed much after more than 30 yrs of the gruesome and needless war. As they say, rot starts at the head, impunity starts at home. We are a terribly short-changed people, and burning our candles from both ends. The better end of the stick is held by another people. Every adult or a lettered man in the conquered territory is an intellectual claiming to be at home with any issue mentioned and claims to understand issues better than the other. Every grown up man with a red cap is an acclaimed Igbo leader. We wriggle our waist and jump like antelopes in the midst of debt, hunger, want and filth and we think that nothing is wrong. As part of the country adjudged the happiest people in the world, we may be enjoying. The one who tries to suggest solutions or ask questions is looked at as a stray cat in a mad dog city. MASSOB is filling the void left by Biafra.
The cock is crowing in other lands; in Nigeria especially in the East, it is silent. Of course these are people defeated in war and must be treated as POWs. Going on a road trip from Lagos to the East of Nigeria is like taking a trip to hell. You will need to book a mass for thanks giving on completion of the journey. The pity!
Every grown up man with a red cap is an acclaimed Igbo leader. We wriggle our waist and jump like antelopes in the midst of debt, hunger, want and filth and we think that nothing is wrong. As part of the country adjudged the happiest people in the world, we may be enjoying
Food blockade, scarcity of medicine and starvation as instruments of war was what won the war and not from direct bullets from the war. We were not felled by bullets alone!
The danger of writing on this topic is the temptation of saying it as it and thus being labeled. Of course I am a war child and that is why my pen is smoking.
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