Even as a seven-year-old when Civil War visited Nigeria, I still retain sharp memories of the unwanted guest that trespassed into Nigeria and refused to leave until after 30 long months and millions of deaths later.
Today, allow me to share only two of these memories. They stand out not only because they were funny but also for the lessons that my father drew from them in his usual homilies about life. They remain indelible in my mind not only because my father connected them for me but also for the lessons they hold today.
The first was when the old men of my village agreed to secure the community from potential invaders after our youths went off to war. They put up a security post, complete with a bamboo crossing on the road to stop and screen pedestrians coming into or passing through our village. They subsequently drew a guard duty roster.
One fine day, when it was my father’s turn to do guard duty, he sent me to stand in for him instead. He could get away with drafting a seven-year-old for this duty simply because his partner for the day was a bosom friend. His friend covered for him as he went into the jungle to hunt for meat and forage for whatever else could serve as food for his family.
My father’s friend laughed out loud when I showed up with a stick that I would use to knock sense into anyone who tried to mess up with me at the duty post. My father’s friend was also something of a practical joker; he immediately pushed me forward to accost and interrogate the first man that was then approaching our post.
“Stop right there!” I barked. Or so I thought.
“Eh-henn? Who are you and where are you going to?” I looked the stranger straight in the eye, trying to muster the severest expression that my face could contrive. I could see that the man wanted to laugh out loud. But he looked beyond me to see that I had a powerful backup that was taking a keen interest in my awesome interrogation tactic.
The stranger smiled instead and gave me the information I wanted.
“OK. Stay right there. I’ll be back to tell you what to do,” I commanded him as I turned back and smartly marched forward to relay the trespasser’s explanation to my “partner.”
“Allow him to go,” he advised and patted me approvingly on the back.
This encounter must have made the stranger’s day; he left with a happy look on his face. I couldn’t understand why the trespasser looked so happy, especially after the very harsh drilling that I subjected him to. And for the rest of that day, my father’s buddy, for some curious reason, also kept a happy face all through our allotted watch hours.
My second experience was when everyone in our family compound suddenly became refugees in a place that was three communities away from our hometown. I vividly recall the day that all of our family members abandoned our home and fled. Without thinking, I had dashed off in hot pursuit of an uncle who was first to bolt from the compound. It started off when a young lady taking refuge in our home got hit in her forehead by a stray bullet. No one heard the shot. Fortunately, the bullet did not penetrate the bones but it pierced the skin and blood sprouted from it like a shaken champagne bottle.
My uncle had a wife and children but he didn’t stop to wait for anyone. He simply took off and I immediately followed. We must have covered close to five kilometres before he stopped suddenly, looked for a nearby yam ridge to sit, brought out his snuff bottle and then proceeded to unwind. I looked at him, looked at the unfamiliar surroundings and then, for the first time, realised how foolish I had been. In all of this time, he and I did not exchange any words. As he filled each nostril with the stuff he scooped from his left palm with fingernails of his right thumb, he kept casting furtive glances ahead. I followed his gaze and saw what looked like a dead elephant up ahead, covered with palm fronds. I found out later that it was this sight that made my uncle stop, sit down and ask himself where he was running to.
Out of curiosity I started towards the “elephant” and my uncle now uttered his first words to me since our race, a sharp rebuke and an order to step back immediately. But it was too late; I had seen that this was no elephant. Instead, it was a giant of a man lying face-up on the dirt track, very still as if he was having a peaceful afternoon nap. I didn’t know how to process what I saw. I had never seen a dead body before then.
In shock, I drew back, turned and questioned my uncle with my eyes. But he did not budge. He returned to silent mode. It was two days later that my father told me that this body, and the three other “elephants” we passed on our way to our refugee village, could have been civilians. They could also have been Biafran or Nigerian soldiers killed in battle. They were not sleeping but dead, he explained.
This was my first encounter with death and, as can be imagined, the images remain with me to this day.
Meanwhile, my uncle and I could hear the distant din of excited chatter as the rest of our family members swept along, lugging whatever property they could carry on their heads. They noisily approached, like a herd of elephants. About 15 minutes later, when the first set of women arrived, their conversation changed. The women looked at themselves and wondered aloud at the foolishness of married men who do not think of their families when faced with danger. Someone then asked what about young men, especially the only sons among them, who try very hard to do things that break their poor mother’s hearts. My mind told me these wicked women may be referring to my uncle and I. But was it possible that the women could be talking about the two fastest runners the entire extended family could boast of, I wondered.
I didn’t have much time to consider the question fully because at the same time, we all heard my mother wailing as she approached. The women began to shout that they had found him.
She detached from the pack and ran to me. Relief, anguish and anger played on her face. I was sure that she would give me the first beating that I would ever receive from my parents. She raised her hand quite all right only to lower it when she reached where I was. Instead, she used both hands to scoop me up and clasp me tightly to her bosom. I saw the tears streaming down my mother’s face, and I began to flash my eyes from one woman to another, wondering what the excited chatter around me was all about. My father, God bless his soul, was the most patient man I ever met. He was also an unflappable fellow. Above all, he believed in me, that I was a good and obedient lad. He always spoke to me as if I was his equal, which probably explains why I am able to recall most of the things he said to me before he passed when I was only 13.
The day we had our conversation about the elephants on the road, he began by apologising for putting me in harm’s way when he sent me to cover his village guard duty for him.
This happened, he said, because, to us in the village, the Biafran War (as we called it) was a distant echo in the void. Radio Biafra propaganda helped diffuse its deathly significance and impact. However, after the “enemy” soldiers came to the town and proceeded to plunder what was left in our farmlands, seize domestic animals for their lunch and dinner, and launch intermittent raids for young and middle-age married women that they carried off to rape in their camp, everyone knew that we were in for the long haul. War is not moin-moin.
My father summarised the lessons by leaving me with a proverb and a local saw. Translated, they go something like this: “The bull without a strong cranium does not charge into every fight.” And: “Impetuous lads rush into war without planning because they never stop to consider that war is death.”