https://www.inkitt.com/stories/adventure/166556

The present political tension in Nigeria call to mind the sufferings of the past, especially the Biafran war that claimed millions of lives. Perhaps we still have a lot to learn from the mistakes of the past. Childhood account of that war is one that touches on realities.

Free copies of the script are available for free download on the website. You are free to comment your feelings after having a bite. I also welcome critical analysis of the write-up for a possible publication.

Thanks.

Reggie2:
https://www.inkitt.com/stories/adventure/166556

The present political tension in Nigeria call to mind the sufferings of the past, especially the Biafran war that claimed millions of lives. Perhaps we still have a lot to learn from the mistakes of the past. Childhood account of that war is one that touches on realities.

Free copies of the script are available for free download on the website. You are free to comment your feelings after having a bite. I also welcome critical analysis of the write-up for a possible publication.

Thanks.

Chapter Two


Life in The Jungle

My name is Odili.
I was about ten years old when the Biafran war started. I want to share with you the memories of my wartime experiences and how I was affected by that crises.
My adventure will begin with the screaming voice of my dear mother as she shouts my name to the high heavens:

‘Odili! Odili! Where is this boy for Christ sake?’ Mama Emeka

was directing the question at everyone that was around her. ‘Eme-

ka, have you seen your brother?’

‘No, ma.’ Emeka showed no interest to look for me.

When I wanted to be mischievous, playing hide and seek, it is pointless asking anyone to search for me.

‘You must look for him immediately.’ My mother insisted.‘There are many things to be done this morning! We have no fire-

wood and there is not a drop of water left in the pot.’

‘Yes, ma.’ Emeka answered, actually meaning to say No. ‘O-di-li! Odi- li-e-e!‘

Other children have now joined the manhunt for me, and the shouts of Odili echoed through the entire village. The shrill voice of my mum rang out loudest like the annoying sound of the early morning school bell.

I detested going to school. And I had already made more enemy than friends since coming back from the city because of my fighting habits. I had no intention to bathe cold water that Saturday morning. I was usually reluctant to wash my two feet, two ankles, even my face, before going to school. I was one of those pupils that give up bathing when schools go on vacation.

It was part of my morning chores to fetch water from the artificial lake at the neighbouring umu-onyike village. The distance from my father’s house to the pond was about two kilometres. Most communities dug artificial ponds meant to collect rainwater during the rainy season. The ponds are usually located downhills in sloping areas and the water that accumulates in them remained for weeks and even months. In this way, the rainwater rushing down a pond also gathered dirt along its channel. The water drawn from the artificial lakes was, therefore, the colour of red earth. A white substance called Alum was usually adopted to treat the water. After a few hours of introducing the solid chemical, the dirty particles settled at the bottom of the pot. The colourless part of the water was then sieved and boiled for use.

In our compound, there were extra zinc sheets which my dad intended to use for the completion of the toilet building. The proposed toilet was a separate structure from the main house and situated in the backyard. A huge water pot which was strategically positioned to collect rainwater from the cascading roof was always covered with the zinc layer. But insects still found their way around the pot and mosquitoes deposited eggs inside. I enjoyed seeing mosquito larvae swim downwards each time I opened the water jar. I would take water from the top of the container making sure that mosquito larvae did not get into the cup.

Firewood and water fetching chores awaited me most of the time, yet, there were no streams in the immediate vicinity. An alternative source of clean water was the Deep Well that served the eight constituent villages of Nnorie town. I was not old enough to draw water from the central borehole, but I would still go to the Well with my bucket hoping to be assisted by charitable persons. Once I get to the Well, I usually meet people willing to help me because my mum was very sociable and friendly to all. Some ladies even volunteered free buckets of water to my mother and some who could not redeem the cost of dresses sewn for them would also fetch several buckets of water in lieu of monies owed her.

Emeka was now a college stuff and virtually exempt from partaking in menial chores. He was permitted to entertain friends, both male and female friends. My protests about his privileges earned me more reprimand from my mother. I became envious of him, especially about his right to entertain female visitors. My mum further entreated me to buy my brother’s guests groundnuts whenever they gathered, this aspect aggravated my jealousy towards Emeka.

Emeka and his visitors no longer spoke in vernacular but the Queen’s English. In a somewhat vaunted style, they talked about College Prospectus and ballroom dance. My enviousness drove me to seek a ‘protest refuge’ in a hideout. And due to my accumulated jealousy, I was unwilling to undertake any more errands that Saturday morning!
Meanwhile, the children continued their manhunt for me while I enjoyed my mischief relaxing in my new abode known only to me.

Mama Emeka constructed her workshop on the left side of my father’s building facing the main road. She received professional training as a seamstress in Lagos. Because of her expertise, she enjoyed high patronage from both far and near and was always in the company of many people. With the sewing enterprise going well for her, she could sustain us her three children without much difficulty.


Behind Mama Emeka’s store was a botanic garden that hosted several trees. The trees included mango, pawpaw, pear, guava, cashew, coconut, breadfruit, and pepper fruit, among many others. This garden may be compared to the biblical Eden because of the many edible fruits. I found a spot on a tree branch and made it my abode from where I could see happenings without being noticed. From my hideout, I could hear all the gossip that went on in Mama Emeka’s shop. War trends and all other gossip reached me through this channel. I would sit on the trunk of a cashew tree and be shaded from public view.

The Saturday morning became calmer after the manhunt for me subsided. After my fellow kids gave up hope of the reward that my mum promised anyone that could offer relevant information regarding my whereabouts. I sat dejectedly at my newly discovered hiding place, my face showing worries beyond the petty jealousy towards Emeka. From my hideout, I could observe the happenings around our compound. I was dressed in the Biafran uniform that my friend gave me. While sitting with the monkey’s comfort on the tree branch, I ignored my mum’s summons to go on early morning errands and waited to undertake a programmed mock battle. My friend, Edwin, had given me the army camouflage for temporary use. Contrary to my non-protected situation, Edwin enjoyed the privilege of a serving father who was a top officer in the Biafran army. I had collected the military dress in exchange for a new bicycle that I brought back from the city. I was the proud owner of a fanciful bike among my village peers. Such was my interest to wear the Biafran uniform, and such was my desire to be a kid soldier that I was willing to temporarily part with my treasured bike.

Papa Emeka’s house was built on a major road. Many people transited that path because it was a major route to the neighbouring Mbaise villages. From my garden hideout, I was busy wondering what the new dawn held in stock for everyone. Those who were still alive in Biafra must have shared my frustration.

I was the second child in a family of three children. My elder brother’s name is Emeka – the one that enjoyed the privilege to entertain guests. Indigenous people observed local ethos to call parents the Mama or Papa of their first-born. My mum whose real name is Mary becomes Mama Emeka, and my dad, Papa Emeka. My younger female sibling was named Ada, in the tradition of the first daughter of every Igbo family.
You may call me a destiny child if you wish. My survival from various mishaps will testify to this my assertion as you read my story.

I had so far resisted a total liquidation by the ravaging kwashiorkor! That is why I am still alive to tell my story.
Lack of adequate nutrition was the primary cause of kwashiorkor’s deadly blow on children and even on adults. Kwashiorkor reduces its victims to human skeletons and children were the most affected in Biafra land. I had refused to eat some of the newly discovered vegetables such as cocoa leaves and its pod. I rejected certain species of the grass family including cocoa yam leaves which had become a substitute for the scarce ugu leave. Frog, lizard, snake, and dog, which was not normally consumed as meat in my village had also become rare delicacies. Yet I considered these animals very disgusting to be eaten as meat. What I missed from lack of dreary food, I still did not obtain from the abundant fruits in my garden hideout. This was because I had become very choosy without cultivating the habit of eating fresh fruits.

I remember a meat vendor that resorted to the killing dogs for sale. Each time he passed through my village, the poor dogs smelled his presence from kilometres away and joined in a barking chorus until he was gone. Anytime these dogs began their lamentation, we all knew that Mazi James, the dog butcher was in transit.

I immensely missed the electric light which I enjoyed while in the city, I equally missed the absence of a balanced diet. Although the village moonlight substituted the lack of electricity because we could play outside, there was no replacement to my traditional city dishes. Bread, butter, sugar, milk, and tea were no longer available in the entire Biafra. Food scarcity was, therefore, an added motive for my sadness besides going on early morning errands, beyond the petty jealousy towards my elder brother. I had enough reasons to hide from everyone and keep my forlorn face to myself.

When we relocated to the village, Mama Emeka tried her best to maintain a regular menu. She invested much energy to care for us despite the difficulties in her marriage. She told her willing listeners that she was still in marriage for two reasons: her children and her Catholic faith. She was prepared to go the extra mile to cater for us. However, she seemed to also carry her rebellion against her husband an extra mile by refusing his upkeep.

When Biafra was declared a Republic, the supply of food was grossly limited; limited also was my mum’s struggling capability to feed her three children. Not even her somewhat estranged husband could render any financial assistance in the new circumstances. The reality of Biafra offered no remunerative jobs to most people, returnees inclusive, except that they joined the growing Biafran army. Papa Emeka was, thus, at the mercy of his ‘abandoned wife’ who could still make a living at the early stages of the war especially from her sewing enterprise. This financial downturn in her husband’s disfavour did not help their already estranged marital relationship. However, Papa Emeka managed to put his wife in a family way a couple of times and the number of my siblings increased to four.

My Mum exemplifies the typical Igbo woman: proud, hardworking, and not quick to abandon her children in the face of difficulties. But her unwillingness to completely submit to her husband’s authority continued to be a source of matrimonial conflict. My Dad argued that he had the right to marry more wives. He could not understand why his first wife obstructed his right to marry a second wife whereas his father married seven! If he gave in to the blackmail, he would have lost his masculine firmness to govern a growing household. Mama Emeka on her part wondered why her husband agreed to wed her in the Catholic tradition. Did he not know that the Catholic Church preaches one man, one wife? Why must he serve two masters at the same time? ‘A man has the right to change his mind.’ Papa Emeka always replied to his wife when she insisted on knowing why he had agreed to take her to the church Altar. According to him, the only verses his spouse understood from the Bible are those that favour her. Does she not read the verses where the Bible says that the man is the head of the family? And that a woman must respect and surrender all authority to him? Did she not read the stories of Kings Solomon and David who despite marrying many wives still found favour with God? The bible even supports the Igbo tradition of total female submission to the man! He was convinced that Mama Emeka was being unnecessarily stubborn and quarrelsome…

When we arrived the village from Lagos, Mama Emeka immediately sewed for us the school uniform of blue knickers and white shirts and got us enrolled in the community primary school. The uniform was like Joseph’s biblical coat of many colours! She was constrained by want of capital to seek help from a relative who was the priestess of mammy water shine. In the priestess’s temple were leftover pieces of white fabrics which she uses for sacrifices and spiritual purification. The white materials were of different shades of whiteness. My mother assembled the remaining pieces of blue stuff from her workshop. The combination of these fabrics varied slightly from the standard white and blue uniform worn by other school children.

We began to adapt to our new environment making efforts to adjust to the local language. When the federal army launched a full-scale war on Biafra it also imposed a total economic blockade on the new Republic. It became difficult for Mama Emeka or any other Biafran family to adequately provide food for their children. From this moment, the battle for survival against hunger effectively began! ........