I Dreamt of Biafra

My contention is that we went to war to keep Nigeria one and to us there was no Biafra and therefore we cannot talk of the leader of the rebellion as the Head of State of Biafra (1967-1970).

[African Concord, 1992]

Growing up in the Enugu, capital of Eastern Nigeria, and later of breakaway Biafra, a vivid image of airplanes was etched on my mind. We lived in a nice family house in the New Haven area of Enugu. The sound of civil-aviation activities and occasional military planes landing and taking off from the nearby Emene Airport was part of the hustle and bustle of the Coal City life.

The civil crises changed all that. Very few planes landed or took off from the airport. I became more accustomed to the incessant one-way train traffic bringing home Easterners fleeing from the so-called “disturbances” in the predominantly Muslim far North. The colonial, single, narrow-gauge rail track -- which ran from Port Harcourt on the Atlantic coast to cities on the fringes of the Savannah-Sahara belt -- demarcated New Haven and the Army Barracks. Whenever we looked out of our first-floor lounge window as these trains rattled and rolled by, we saw the abject misery of man’s inhumanity to his fellow man at its lowest.

When finally the war broke out, no one believed it would culminate in a 30-month savagery and suffering of unimaginable proportions. Lt. Col. Yakubu Gowon, probably the most hated man in Biafra, had termed the initial skirmishes at Obollo-Afor a police action. To Biafrans, it was the real thing; the initial success recorded by our gallant forces against the invading vandals, a sign of better things to come. I never reckoned that the war would come closer. In fact, I reckoned nothing: I was just ten.

The propaganda machinery was simply out of this world. Nobody asked which side you were on but, rather, what effort you were making to keep “The Rising Sun” rising. Everybody struggled to surpass each other in supporting Lieutenant-Colonel Chukwuemeka Odumegwu-Ojukwu. He was Onunaekwuruoha, the mouth that speaketh for the masses. Men and women, old and young, threw in whatever they could afford, or so we were told. Dissenting voices were unheard of. There was no room for debates.

Young men, university undergraduates, and secondary school students streamed into town to join the army. Those who could not make it joined the Civil Defense League or the rag-tag Militia, a bunch of daredevil volunteers who wanted to wrench the neck of Federal soldiers with bare hands. Tough girls, who suddenly found out that what a man could do a woman was equal to the task, were not left out. The pretty ones joined the Red Cross, and later fanned out to such sectarian relief agencies as Caritas or WCC.

My senior brother Michael gave up after one week of trying to get to the end of the mile-long queues. My mother was inwardly thrilled: the army was not a profession any mother wished on his son. It was neither glamorous nor financially rewarding. Mothers aspired to be “Mama Lawyer,” “Nne Doctor” or “Mama Engineer” or “Nne Fada.” “The mother of a soldier has no child” is a popular Igbo saying. On my own part, there was little choice. If I had managed to get to the selection board, they would have flogged me, and told my mum to lock me up until the war ended.

But I wanted to participate, be part of the winning team ^__ the only side to be in, come to think of it. While my father would have preferred that I stick to helping the Irish Fathers at our local church save souls as a mass server, he had no objections when I started participating in military drills at the playground. Religion became a boring, weekend affair. Radio Biafra was more fun. In fact, I had joined the Biafran Boys Brigade, Boys Company.

My days there were eventful. No bloody civilian dared to argue with a bad bunch of stick-wielding, mutant monsters out to do anything in support of His Excellency. He who had written his suicide note would prefer a more painless exit than mess around with rottweilers on rampage.

Nobody was coerced into joining BBB. Numerous nippers were sent scouring back to the warmth of their mothers’ bosoms. Only the tough got through, and got going. Many dropped out along the way either due to subtly passed-on parental objections or inability to absorb the “disciplinary” punishments meted out. The “frog jump” followed by an “aeroplane turner” was guaranteed to induce instant but temporary amnesia—the lasting effects of which no one knew—and a certain loss of equilibrium within a minute.

Aggression, I found out, was instinctive and easily conjured. The war provided an agreeable ambience that nurtured the primitive instinct that ought to have been evolution-suppressed. The idea of shooting at enemies, real or imagined, was exciting. It allowed the freedom that one craved for from the day parents started laying down daily rules with punishments which varied as a function of many factors that defied logical pediatric analyses.

Nobody told us what role we were supposed to play, but I believed we were helping. A junior reserve team? Whatever, we were in it, an élite group, unlike the “ordinary, bloody civilians.” We reckoned without the huge Federal might; it was on the move. “Brigadier” Amaechi Odumodu (OC), “Major” Ossie Nwokedi (adjutant) “Captain” Kyrian Enebinagu (Military Police) and others left with their parents.

I, “Colonel” Chrys Chike Chime (2-i/c), stayed on. My folks hailed from a nearby town, just over the Udi Hills. We could move at a short notice. When we wanted or were to flee, our escape route west was cut off. There was another route south, off the road to Umuahia at Ozala. It was a rough ride, but what could surpass sheer survival instinct in man. “Oso ndu agwu ike!”

In the village, life took a different dimension, a rustic level that didn’t appeal. I rejoined the Company at Udi town. The unit was attached to the 19 Battalion. We began waking up as bugles sounded morning reveille. Ranking favored friends and cousins. At such a tender age, nepotism was apparent, almost inherent. My “colonel” rank was not in dispute: I knew more about the war than many of the “officers.” The time, however, was not for popular political indoctrination. Everybody knew, or appeared to know, what was happening. The farce of boys trying to play in the big league was further re-enacted with the battalion’s administration nodding.

The bold Biafran attempt to reach Lagos after the ill-fated Midwest campaign stung the Feds into action. For them, time to finish it; for us, time to move on. My folks stayed put. I was not having any of it: It was a fight for freedom and a fight to finish. I thought only old men died, if people died. I was on the move, on a freedom trail. I “mobilized” myself months later into the Biafran army, a true ambassador of the family. Michael made it to behind-the-line rebel resistance. Many of my mates never touched a gun, let alone fire a gun at a rifle range. I was it; I was happening.

Many lost battles followed. I missed growing-up in my family, the parental love kids my age got, but I grew up faster and painfully too. Killing another human being can be terribly traumatic. No one deserved to die, not ever. We were the children of a living God, or so the Church told me to believe.

“Let it be said that my dog bit the neighbor’s dog to death, instead of, ‘his dog savaged mine.’ ” Grandpa’s words taken out of context, but it helped me to come to terms with the wasting of lives like putrid, past-sell-by-date palmwine.

It was sheer madness. It took three years for the top dogs to agree it was an expensive mistake, a callous calculation made to look good. Game over. It was time to go home to Mum and Dad: no ceremonies, no discharge papers, no thank you, no handshakes, and no passing out parades. Indeed, I was civilianized unceremoniously. I hitched a ride, ran, and walked home a hero.

It was not all war in Biafra. I had my fair share of the available fun. Sex. Palm spirit, kaikai. Wee-wee (hemp). Local, cheap fags (cigarettes) and smuggled stuff ^__Mars. I drove cars. I commandeered cars from bloody civilians to win the war. I beat up people for fun, a feel for raw power. In Biafra, boys became men. And, as in my case, there was no guardian to instill and enforce rudiments of good social norms.

I sustained my premature adulthood for a while, until I went back to school. In December 1969, I was still singing with all my heart:

The English translation follows in the same mellow mood as if we were Gowon actually pleading with Ojukwu to spare him further fights. This is ironic though because Ojukwu was not fighting Gowon; Biafrans were merely defending them. Some shed tears; crocodile or real, I never asked. We always flashed smirks for effect. I still wonder why.

Then, as if something suddenly possessed the choristers extraodinaire, we would bust out in jubilation:

Months later in 1970, General Yakubu Gowon finally visited his ex-Biafran compatriots. One teacher wanted us to sing:

It sounded daft. We tied the old man up and nearly choked him to death. I was singled out and expelled. Tough! I chucked in schooling altogether, but Dad could reach many strings. I had my first all-night birthday party months later. We smoked, drank, danced, and did whatever came most naturally when boy meets girl, a still strong hangover of war-years immorality and habits from my Biafran experiment.

The next morning, I was summoned to Dad’s studio. Court! Smoking was banned, no alcohol, except a glass of Sunday palmwine. Holy Mass, wash my plates, make my bed, early bed, prayers, block rosary, and the whole shebang were now compulsory. A long, long list, it covered everything. I protested that I went through Biafra without these rules and regulations.

“We thank God for that. If this is what Biafra could do to a child, I'm glad it’s over.”

“What do you people know about anything. We risked our lives fighting.” I would not let anybody put me down, but Dad was not going to be drawn into a fighting talk with an apparently misguided miscreant.

“Good. When Boys Company was disbanded, you were told to stay back. No, you wanted to be free. You left with the FREEDOM train. I prayed everyday. I had sleepless nights. I nearly died before my time. I thank God you came home. I’m proud of you. Okay, it didn’t work out... I never thought it would anyway, but nobody would say we didn’t try.

“Unfortunately, you are still living that experience. You passed from boyhood into adulthood. I understand what you missed growing up, but freedom ^__economic, sexual, or political ^__come with certain conditionalities. They are collectively called “responsibility.” You earn money; you pay tax. You impregnate a woman; you marry her. To win an election, you campaign and take insults from riffraff and idiots. Any freedom without corresponding responsibility breeds anarchy.

“You have had eleven months to get back on your own steam. You cannot say we haven’t been supportive. You’ve beaten up too many people. You’ve been expelled from two schools already, and you’ve made two good girls come crying to me. Come on, Chike, enough is enough. You cannot eat your cake and have others pick up the crumbs for you to eat. I’m not going to sit and watch a tethered goat deliver its kid. You hear?”

I looked up and shifted toward the center of the leather couch. I knew it was time to delve into Igbo idioms, parables, and proverbs packaged to drive home a simple statement: Behave yourself. The Igbo do not give up easily. They tell stories and expect you to figure out the gist at your own time. I coughed, a prolonged and unnecessary coughing designed to reassure Dad that I was still corpus mentis.

Was that necessary? I was listening. I had not uttered a word since the discussion metamorphosed into a lecture. I let him.

“Hausa people have been using bows and arrows since time immemorial. You shoot an arrow, it hits the bridge; you shoot again, it hits the bridge: were the arrows meant for the bridge.” It was not a question, I knew that much. Without stopping to ask if I got the gist, he continued: “Aba is noted for its hardworking boxers, but Aba boxers are not training so hard to take you on, are they now.” It sounded like a question; again, it was not. I coughed, again. “Look here: He who would trade punches must first practice on a sack of sand.”

Every word sank in. They struck something in me. Suddenly, I felt like a son, not a lodger living on freebies from a benevolent businessman. Chief Patrick C. Chime was not finished: Rebecca his missus -- that’s my mum -- must have passed on a comprehensive report. Some of the things to which he had alluded were cases only Mum knew about. I had confided in her. I did not feel betrayed; Mum was mum. I know.

Before I could decide between feeling betrayed by Mum and betraying Dad’s trust, the lecturer stood up. Suddenly he stopped and, without looking back at me, asked, “By the way, who is this Perpetua girl?”

“Margaret is still at school. What school closed early for Christmas? If she’s a day-student, why is she here everyday?”

“She is not in school. Her father was killed at Awgu Air Raid in 1968. She lives with her mother and siblings. Things are hard. She comes here to read novels.”

“Oh, she is Maazi Dike’s daughter! Tell her to come and see me in the office at noon.”

I left his room and ran down the corridor to my room. “Pepe, snake under the rubble! Get dressed.… You just arrived!”

It took her seconds to pull her baggy dress, which she kept under the pillow, over her head. A barely audible tap at the door: Mum! She didn’t pause to get an answer. We were still trying to look casual.

“Good morning, Chief Chikeluba! Oh, you have company .... Madam Chinenye, you no longer bother to greet me before coming upstairs.” Sarcasm galore: my mother called younger ones by their Christian names; adults, by their Igbo names. The “chief” and “madam” titles drove home the humiliation.

“I'm sorry, Mama,” she said, standing up. “I... I saw Chike from the window and... I didn’t want to disturb....”

Mum looked around and put on a wicked sly smile: “Since you’re ‘dressed,’ go and fetch his breakfast.” Mum twitched her nose as Perpetua held her breath and squeezed her body past Mum’s. Mum would not move out of the door. Perpetua had barely stepped on the staircase when Mum, still looking like a whorehouse madam demanding payment from an uncooperative patron, decided to deliver the coup de grâce: “And, big man, if you must wear bras, buy a decent pair!”

Perpetua, at 16-plus, was an iruka, an amply endowed woman with a voluptuous bosom that would make Miss Marilyn Monroe look ordinary, and she has an azuka, a daring derrière, to match. She emerged from the war fuller and more matured than my slim-fit senior sister Margaret. I later found out why: a married Biafran army officer had made her a woman and a mother. It was okay while the war lasted. The pecks of power and regular visits and promises of marriage were now gone. The man was in Côte d’Ivoire with his oyibo wife. She came back to her mother, a petty trader at Artisan Market in Asata Quarters, the Coal City’s Chinatown.

On the contrary, my senior sister Margaret was anything but a privileged Perpetua. She was still a paragon of puberty and a darling of delayed or rather extended Igbo puberty passage. Dad would have skinned her if she had mentioned “boyfriend,” let alone caught with a boy -- a sacrilege in the Chime household! At 16, she wore bras for the fun of it. She was still changing clothes in my presence; she still covered her hair in public; and she wore no make-ups, except in practice sessions with her mates whenever “the coast is clear.” I used to wonder what any man would ever see in her. Spare a thought for girls my age! I was definitely years ahead of my time. Blame Nigeria, if you must pass it beyond Biafra.

A lot of water has passed under the bridge since I had that DREAM, but the memories still hurt, marvel, and thrill. I lived through 30 months in a dream world of adults. I wonder how many 10-year-old lads in all the world’s troubled lands dream this DREAM. Children are indeed the true victims of the madness of war. Someone please tell me I’m still dreaming; someone tell me to wake up and chew some kolanut.