By Cyril U. Orji
It was about 10:30 p.m. My wife and I were flipping through the channels, searching for news we could stomach. We had viewed every video by the “OBIdient” online warriors in Nigeria. We scanned the videos from Channels and Arise TV stations. But our channel choices were diminishing.
“Don’t turn it off,” I told my wife as she pressed the off button of the TV remote control.
“There’s nothing to watch,” she said almost resignedly as she lobbed the control, aiming for the small table a few feet away. Her throw was as bad as an NBA center attempting a free throw under pressure at a critical moment in a game. The control dropped on the table, slid off it, and fell on the floor, luckily close enough to me that I could pick it up without leaving my couch.
My wife believed in MSNBC, where she never missed “Last Word with Lawrence O’Donnell.” Since I explained to her that Lawrence was an ex-Senate staffer and understood how the government worked, he became for her a sort of Bible for all things politics. But recently, just before she started doing only Monday shows, Rachel Maddow became another favorite because “she goes way back to give you a complete picture of the background to a story.”
But no TV tonight. She’s bored with all the wars.
“There’s nothing on TV but wars,” she told me. “Can you imagine that Ukraine is no longer the lead news story? I don’t care again.”
“Hamas thought they were forgotten, so they have to do something.”
“It’s crazy,” she said as she moved to a lying position on the couch. “How do they think they can just go into Israel and kill over a thousand Israelis without paying for it a million times?”
“True,” I said somehow under my breadth.
She looked at me funnily. “What’s wrong? Why are you speaking that way?”
“Nothing,” I responded. ” I don’t know if I can safely say anything about the Israeli-Hamas war.”
“Like what?”
“Well, as much as one must unconditionally condemn Hamas, my dad taught me about talking in pairs because a pair brought him to the world.”
“That’s your problem,” she said angrily. “I never follow your logic. We’re talking about Hamas and Israel, and you’re going to what your father told you when he was alive.”
“Deal with it,” I sneered at her. “My dad remains my best teacher. There are always two sides to every conflict, he would tell me. But I’m unsure if the Israelis and the American government will allow me to entertain that thought.”
My wife pretended to ignore my comment and instead looked suspiciously at the television set as if it were a recording device installed by the CIA. Looking away from the set and in a hushed tone, she said: “These people have suffered, and with this attack by Hamas on Israel, they are losing whatever few friends they have.”
“Friends?” I asked sarcastically. “Maybe friends in Tanzania, Zambia, Gabon, and Haiti.”
“Biafra’s friends?” she asked with a smile.
My mind raced like a sportscar as I tried to find a parallel between the bombs on Gaza and the bombs on Biafra. There’s no doubt that any mention of Biafra brings sad and sorrowful memories to anybody who lived through the Nigerian Civil War. My wife and I lived through it.
“I was thinking about the bombs Israel is dropping on Gaza and reflexively reliving the horror of the bombs the Egyptians who piloted Russian MiG fighters for Nigeria dropped on us in Biafra. No difference, except that ours in Biafra wasn’t on live television.”
“War is bad,” she told me.
“True, and I recall vividly that particular air raid at Awgu during the Nigeria-Biafra war.”
“The one you described in your book, First Is Last?”
“Yes.”
“You told that story many times, even before your book. I believe it’s one of those sad experiences one has to live with forever.”
“True,” I said. “Enugu, the capital of Biafra, had just fallen to the Nigerians, and just as the Palestinians were being forced out of their homes, we were forced out of Enugu with our life belongings in head bundles. After trekking for about two days, we ended up in a refugee camp in Awgu, some miles from Enugu. We were in this refugee camp when the Nigerian planes came. What happened that day, as you already noted, will live with me forever.”
“… the air raid siren went off. The siren was by now a familiar sound. With lightning speed, everybody dashed into the well-known bushes to take cover. But this was an air raid that would forever live with Chinedu. The bombers flew low, dropping bombs randomly over the city of Awgu. The Biafran divisions defending Enugu had retreated to Awgu.
Ka, ka, ka, gbim, gbim, gbim.
That was the familiar sound of the fighter bomber. From where he took cover under a tree, Chinedu observed a vast smoke screen from a crate that formed about 50 yards away. There was blood all over the place. Limbs, legs, arms, and other human body parts littered the field like garbage. A bomb had directly hit a poorly constructed bunker, where scores of people had taken cover. This war was getting worse by the day. Chinedu had never seen human body parts littered in this manner, and he, too, could have been a casualty. His father, taking cover about ten trees away, had been refused entry into the bunker because the bunker had no space by the time he arrived.
After an hour of sustained attack, the air raid ended. The air raid killed everybody in the bunker instantly. Although properly camouflaged, the bunker sustained a direct hit. Were the enemy bombers targeting civilians, or did they think the camp housed soldiers? The dropped bombs wiped off families instantly, leaving those alive in shock and disbelief. No one could identify many of the dead. There was wailing and crying, and people were desperate, with a sense of hopelessness in the air.
But many had also lost the will or ability to cry. The tragedy and loss were beyond their comprehension. Mazi Iloka, a man Mazi Nwafor and his family met in the camp, sat numb, his elbows anchored on his thigh, supporting both palms carrying his chin. His appearance indicated his hopelessness, and he looked feeble as a child. Everybody in the camp knew him; the Nigerians killed his son Chukwuma recently in the Nsukka sector. Chukwuma was an Engineering senior at the University of Nigeria Nsukka before the outbreak of the war. Mazi Iloka’s wife, Maria, and her other four children died in the bunker. Mazi Iloka was left alone. A family of seven only two weeks ago was now a family of one. The world had collapsed under Mazi Iloka’s feet. His life was finished and was no longer worth living. He sat numb and dumb, unable to accept condolences. The following morning, Mazi Iloka was hanging from a tree. He had committed suicide. Among the Igbo, suicide was taboo. They buried those who committed suicide after some atonement to the gods. But this was war. Everyone in the camp knew Mazi Iloka’s story, so no one commented on the taboo associated with suicide. Finally, some courageous men came together, brought down the hanging body, and buried it in a grave they hurriedly dug. Biafra was at war, and everyone knew that the future looked bleak for Biafra.”
(Excerpted from “First Is Last,” Chapter 11)
Dr. Cyril Orji is retired after many years as a College Professor and in industry as a Research Scientist. His most recent book, “First Is Last,” is Dr. Orji’s adolescent recollection of the Nigerian Civil War (1967-1970).
He can be reached by email: [email protected] OR [email protected]
He can also be reached by text or WhatsApp: +1 732.674.8790
