Blast from the Past: Aftershocks of the Nigeria Civil War

By Ukoha Kalu

Whats the fuss about Gobos - a Haven in the Wilderness? It is, in part, the story of a seven year old boy: Gobo Kanyas recollection of his own Nigeria civil war experiences; an odyssey which he paints as a budding writer; he struggles through to tell a story stemming entirely from his richly poignant, insightful and very revealing and awesome introspective perspective. Reminiscent of atypical and a bit of that common but lost childhood experiences, Gobo pens a story of a cherished nostalgia tinged with satire. The story he tells, again, is uncannily contemporary. But then its a blast, and its from the past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Apr 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493193981

Ukoha Kalu

Ukoha Kalu is a journalist, writer and advertising practitioner specializing in media strategy and publicity. Until recently, Kalu, has held several senior editorial positions in some of the major Nigerian newspapers including Champion, Post Express, The National Interest, Daily Times and Sun Newspapers. He served as Chief Press Secretary and Special Assistant to the Abia State Governor (2007-2009). He’s currently a contributing editor of Houston-based USAfrica and USAfricaonline.com. He runs Imagine Enterprise and is Chairman, April, Benjamin and Dawn Communications, a media service and content providing organization. Kalu’s married with four children and lives in Abuja, Nigeria.

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Copyright © 2014 by Ukoha Kalu.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2014906753

ISBN:      Hardcover   978-1-4931-9399-8

      Softcover   978-1-4931-9397-4

      eBook      978-1-4931-9398-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Cover Design:

Chidinma Nwankwo, Lopez Awa and Ukoha Kalu

Rev. date: 04/10/2014

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris LLC

0-800-056-3182

www.xlibrispublishing.co.uk

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Contents

Prologue

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Inspiration

The Novel

Chapter one

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Epilogue

About the Author

Prologue

L ong after the Nigeria civil war ended in 1970, the aftershocks were still reverberating; and they were in fact pounding, and rippling steadily, like sea shore waves, especially in the mind, and as well as in the life of Gobo Kanya. In the present scheme of things as it pertains to the Nigerian circumstance, Gobo is someone who, when it appeared propitious for him, secretly liked to describe himself as a former Biafran. But contrary to what one would have expected of someone like that, who passionately believed in the idea of a Biafra, he does not really flaunt his own Biafranism as would some of his kith and kin who belong to the Movement for the Actualization of the Sovereign State Of Biafra (MASSOB), the somewhat amorphous group which still tries to keep the Biafra spirit alive.

But even as Gobo consciously downplays his veiled proclivity and fervor for his ethnic nationality, he’s perturbed about a different challenge. Despite the cataclysms of what remains of the Nigerian state where all kinds of agitations, resistance and interests are being expressed, leading to the speculation that the country may break-up, he’s currently under-employed as an Industrial Chemist. He is struggling, working as a temporary staff in one of the oil service companies in the frequently volatile Niger Delta area of Nigeria.

As a temp, Gobo’s job is everything but fulfilling… barely helping to sustain him and his family. In spite of that, he’s also someone who sees himself as a budding writer. And at the moment, and even years after, his experiences about the civil war and the aftershocks are still rippling and manifesting in ways he never imagined… affecting and leading him up to exploring part of his innermost desires… He has always had a burning passion to write, a compelling stirring in him, which he wants now to explore and take advantage of its currency, and seizes the urgency, as it’s impacting on him, to tell his own stories!

The story Gobo is struggling to tell, is candidly, a gripping story of a seven year old boy, who tells his story as an adult in a flux. His life, after the civil war, had been like a yo-yo; a bumpy ride and a tough journey, traversing the wilderness called Nigeria.

Now, boxed into a corner in a conflict stricken area like the Niger-Delta region where his job is constantly threatened, he finds himself doing little; idling away most of the time, forcing and making him to remember similar experiences and the trauma he and his family went through during the civil war… For example, even while he escapes the country, temporarily, and spends time abroad, in places like Paris, New York, Houston and Dallas, his story has this familiar ring about it, and appears to have been no different from what he’d already been going through while he struggled to pen his first ever novel, as a budding writer, and which is about this same civil war experiences, and his many other stories which he stitches together and tentatively calls ‘A Haven in the Wilderness!’ One might then want to ask: what’s really the fuss about Gobo’s—a haven in the wilderness?

Acknowledgements

A nd now, it’s appropriate for me to seize this opportunity to express my gratitude to a number of persons without whose encouragement, love and support, this work would have still remained largely unaccomplished, and a pipe dream, so to speak.

To my family, especially my lovely wife, Urionu and my lovely and very sweet children; Yadi, Jaya, Dabere and Chidinma, you all have been so wonderful. Without all of you, this wouldn’t have become a reality. I deeply appreciate your understanding and sacrifices especially regarding my long absences away from our home and the country in the course of writing this novel.

A special thank you goes to Dr. Chidi Amuta, one of my senior friends and a literary giant, who gladly accepted to read through the manuscript, offering his richly coveted advice. The same sentiment goes to Mr. Tony Iyare, my brother, colleague and friend. To my brothers and friends in Diaspora; Ciba Awa, Eke and his wife, Nikola Oka, all of you are the kind and stuff of what true friendship and brotherliness is all about. To my long standing friends, Barr. and Mrs. Sonny and Lara Ebube, it’s a big thank you to both of you for your love and support. To Chief Ukpai Agwu, and his ‘twin,’ Chief Charles Ogbonna (Evulogu Ibeku), Captain Awa Agwu (Rtd.), Mr. Agbo Agara, Chief Phil Uche, whom I fondly call ‘Prince’, Chiedu R. Ofodile, Ms. Nnenna Kalu Anya, Mrs. Ngozi U. Onwuka, Mrs. Ody Ezigbo-Okoro, my Scrabble sparring partner, Uzoma Kalu and Maria Onuoha, Barr. Dan Elekwachi, Dr. Chido Nwangwu, Dr. Kunle Lawore and Dr. and Mrs. Kalu Onwuchekwa, all of you are truly friends I can always count and depend on.

Dr. Ibe and Mrs. Ngozi O. Ibe, you offered to shelter me in the US as long as I desired . . . For the kind thoughts, it’s a big thank you to both of you and your family. To Mr. and Mrs. Agwu ANSI, what can I say to you? Both of you are wonderful and this is to say a big thank you to both of you and your lovely family. To my brothers and sister-in-law, Chief N.O. Okereke, Chief Ibe Uduma, Chief Acho Ukaha and Chuck and Capt. Samuel Offia, and Elder (Mrs.) O.U. Nze-Dike for urging me on . . . a very big thank you to all of you!

This is a very special appreciation to my people back home, and to my very bubbly and special nuclear family, and to my big brother and his wife, Chief Awa U. Kalu (SAN) and Barr.(Mrs.) Egoro Awa-Kalu, both of you will always have my deep appreciation. To my immediate younger sister and friend, Elder (Mrs.) Nwanne Mbila and husband, Chief Brown Mbila, thank you to both of you. To my other siblings; Mrs. Ogbeyalu Ijere, Mrs. Ojeka Sam-Obu, Elder (Mrs.) Uz. N. Okereke, and Mrs. Utarinma I. Uduma, Mrs. Ijeoma Bulus-Mango and this is not forgetting the baby of the house, Barr. (Mrs.). Elizabeth Acho-Ukaha; all of you are so much appreciated for always being there for me! To Lisa Rivas, Randy Smith and Jean Reeves; all of the Xlibris family, I appreciate you. Again, Mr. Uzo U. Kalu and Ezeogo Jones Udeogu, many thanks! Chinwe Okoli, gratias!

And to crown it all, to you, my God and my father, the Almighty God, of course you know that without you, I couldn’t have done, absolutely, anything. Thank you, Abba father, for your promises which are yes in you and amen in you!

Dedication

To the Memories of my father, Mr. Uma Kalu and my mother, Elder(Mrs.) Nnennaya Uma Kalu and to the memories of all those who were killed during the Nigeria civil war, and again to all of those, who are yet to recover from the consequences of wars and battles, in whatever ramifications.

Inspiration

We are all victims of unfulfilled passions

—Dr. Myles Munroe

The Novel

A Haven in the Wilderness . . .

. . . Tentatively, ‘a haven in the wilderness,’ is working title of the novel about the Nigeria civil war which Gobo is working on as a budding writer.

*     *     *

A gain and again, he could clearly recall that his father’s house had fittingly been a place of refuge from all the harassments that had been engendered by the outbreak of the Nigerian civil war. One of the fondest memories he still savors is remembering that at sundown, the house had always roused from its deceptive quietness and cracked into full life, playing the role which its owner had magnanimously and in the spirit of the war assigned to it, shielding and giving shelter to so many people and the numerous families that had been uprooted and dislocated by the outbreak of the war in the late 1960s and for all the people, who had sought refuge in their village…

*     *     *

Chapter one

. . . And as at the moment . . .

Sleep eluded him as he lay wide awake thinking aloud . . .

Benin City, Nigeria.

2.11 am

A s an adult, he has had a long, stop-and-go march in keeping up with his obligations especially in matters relating to his finances. To complicate matters for him, doing things quickly, as in responding promptly to the challenges that had confronted them frequently, as a couple and family, to the chagrin of his lovely wife, Gladys, a drop dead, gorgeous beauty, that has never seemed to be his style   .   .   . Instead, she tells him, that he could be bogged down by too much reasoning and rationalizing of almost everything, which to her, is a form of the manifestation of unbelief on his part   .   .   .

In fact there is much about him, since he became an adult that might be described as cockily deliberate: his demeanor they say is always cool, and which sometimes is misinterpreted by some as arrogant, and to cap it all, he could be said to be logical and calculating. To which, he thinks, he has problems interpreting or accepting it as a compliment. But what he knows is that sometimes he could be mischievous and what people misunderstand and call meanness, which translated to him in his own understanding, simply means that he could insist that things be done the proper way. He fails, and he makes both good and bad decisions . . . and sometimes he succeeds in pushing through his numerous challenges, just like any normal person . . .

As have become the pattern for him, for some time now. He has been consumed with the single-minded passion to tell his civil war story even in the face of a raging global economic crisis with the attendant financial difficulties that has continually plagued, crippled and even personally affected his earning capacity . . . How could everyone else be consumed, talking and grappling with how to survive the raging global economic crunch while me of all people, who should have joined the band wagon, on my part, be funnily absorbed in talking about writing what sounds like a ridiculous story about a war that had long been forgotten? He often mulls in his sober moments. Truly, given the way people are even carrying on these days, why wouldn’t he be darn right to say that Nigerians have long forgotten that they ever fought a civil war? Their forgetfulness, he rightly could tell, is one of the reasons behind his very intense commitment to telling his story. What with the Boko Harams nowadays? And more so, he hopefully imagines or rather thinks, that writing his story would help convey to those in positions of authority why there is always the need to avoid wars by staying committed to what is just and equitable for the people and the society. Didn’t Napoleon warn that: For the maintenance of peace, nations should avoid the pin pricks which forerun cannon-shots?

Now, it’s very apparent that he’s neither obsessed with immediacy nor trapped by the daily grind of rushing things, the Nigerian way. Would he rather engage in the pursuit of his dream and the attainment of the things that would seem to promote deeper connections to his core? Or abandon that to join in the rat race, engaged in the endless pursuit of how to make ends meet? Will his venturing into writing this so called novel about a war that only a few people still seem to connect with and recall, at this very moment of his life, be termed foolhardy? Why would he not just forget this and concentrate on putting the proverbial food on the table? Will his opting to pursuing this line of action be one of those silly mistakes that he has already made in his life? And which may be misconstrued by some people as banal? You bet! As one of his senior friends, who sadly is now late, would always chime in when he says something that seems ludicrous. Even then, with or without the interjection of Emma ‘blues,’ as he was fondly called by his close friends when he was still alive; The answer, my friends, according to a song rendered by one very popular singer, whom he cannot readily recall now, "is still blowing in the winds . . ."

Blowing in the wind or not . . . The fulfilling of this passion, that is to write, and the attempt at reconciling his past, with his current challenges tie in again to complicate matters for him and his quest to pursue this line of action. For him and possibly for his peers too, the struggle to make it in Nigeria and the sheer chase for money had already assumed such dizzying twists in the country that the garrison—style, crassly partisan call by Nigeria’s former President, Olusegun Obasanjo, to go after power, as ‘a do or die affair,’ which prescription for the thieving politicians, automatically translates, for them, into huge avenues for the accomplishment of their selfish economic and their trans-generational emancipation. Which consequence, of course, has further exacerbated and shortened the methods and the options open to him and his ilk for surviving the harsh economic crunch and even in triumphing over what is left of their already diminished normal, everyday life…

*     *     *

Sitting up in his bed he remembered the agony he’d passed through while pondering the dangerous options to seek a way forward inside Nigeria. And he remembered battling with the same thoughts abroad as he crisscrossed the cities of Paris, Granada, Spotswood, New York, Philadelphia, Richmond, Dallas and Houston. He shifted uncomfortably as he reflected over the disconcerting ghost of his one night stand, a spin-off of one of the biggest mistakes he’d made in his life… While that one was still haunting, he remembered he also had already stretched and knotty matrimonial issues to deal with. And then, the questions that had been popping up, as if they were recurring viral Spam internet pop-ups in his mind, to also resolve:

What if this whole idea about writing this novel flops? And fails to be accepted by publishers? He’d always found himself agonizing over its success or failure. But to Gobo; "that’ll just be it. Would he resort to killing himself? After all, every venture pursued by man has always had its own fair share of moments of doubt. And this one is no exception, really."

Would it have been better for me not trying at all? He tended to rationalize the course of action he’d already taken. However, once he’d made the choice, what he thinks he’ll accomplish, he takes it that he has to accomplish through grit and the strength of his own will and his own ambition to stay focused and committed, especially in attempting at telling the story of his own version of the Nigeria civil war, which after all said and done, would eventually always be seen from his own little perspective! To a certain extent, that’s what he really thinks will resonate throughout the novel he intends to write…

*     *     *

As he still sat up. Now at the edge of his bed, the scenario in his father’s compound in the village flashed again. Bringing back most vividly and powerfully the picture of life in the village as seen from his very innocent, (he chuckled drily at the thought momentarily, considering for a second whether he was really innocent) and then saw in his mind the very vantage position he assumed as a little boy as then Nigeria-Biafra war raged…

He could recall that he was barely seven years old, and his father’s house had been a kind of safe haven . . . in the wilderness of what then was the war ravaged Biafra enclave. And if the truth be told, his father’s house had, indeed, been a place of refuge which had shielded and given shelter to many people and the numerous families that had been caught up, so to speak, in between and betwixt in that milieu that had ended up dislocating all of them in the late 1960s . . .

They had spread and sprawled out in the backyard of his father’s house: Very hungry and tired looking men. Men who were actually considered not quite qualified for recruitment into the Biafra army. Dumped by men whom, by their own estimation and conclusion; they’d perceived as rampaging and mean spirited soldiers, operating from then conscripting unit of the ninety-ninth battalion. The make-shift army battalion had been stationed right on the grounds of the only school built by the singular effort of Nde Hanta village, which, by the way, is the name of his little village. The repeated raiding of the village for recruits by soldiers was typically a daily occurrence given the village’s close proximity to the barracks. For the villagers, the daily hunt for recruits was a nightmarish and haunting experience.

*     *     *

The men lounging at the backyard of his father’s house were not alone. They had also been joined by their female counterparts. Very malnourished and gaunt looking women, who by now, because of the blighting hunger had been stripped of their normal bounce and had become reed-thin, bereft of that familiar African female physiognomy—a generous bosom and the usually sensuous, provocative, sizable backside. Some of whose husbands and children had either gone off to the war voluntarily, or simply overwhelmed by the then compelling massive enthusiasm shown and displayed by the throng of people on the Biafra side. People, who were indeed caught up in the euphoria by the then seeming larger than life image of the then man of the moment, a certain Chukwuemeka Odumegwu Ojukwu. A young man, whose persona rather than any other single reason or rhyme had singled and pushed all of them to accept, embrace and support the idea of going to war. And based upon whose oratory, and his captivating charisma had also led many on the Biafra side to join the army without much coercion from him. But then not many dare admit today that it was because they had been captured and conscripted to become unwilling recruits by just the sheer force of intimidation used by the recruiting units of the Biafra army that made them to join the war campaign. And as a matter of fact, even as they lounged lazily in that backyard, some of their wards and relatives were still caught up at myriad war fronts, fighting the war of their lives, which they did most times, slugging it out literally with their bare knuckles . . .

*     *     *

To complete the picture of idle and harried people huddled out there, were also bedraggled looking boys and girls and even children on mats, lounging lazily on whatever they had considered proper to be laid upon . . . The compound where they lounged, at its peak, was always a little village of sorts. If a census was conducted at that time, it would have been absolutely difficult for anyone to get the accurate figures of the inmates, considering the number of people living in there, in that his father’s compound.

This is no exaggeration! The compound, with an interlocking canopy of palm trees and kola-nut trees lining the front and its sides, was always bubbling and brimming with people, especially at night when everybody would have returned from their hideouts. And or from whatever little jobs they still held unto, as the war raged . . . I must confess that as a little boy then, the whole scenario used to excite me. Maybe because of the presence of so many people bunched up together in such a little space, he said in soliloquy as he reflected! I grew up thinking that was the ideal way to live. The thought is already making me feel so nostalgic about it now! He chuckled.

*     *     *

Nde Hanta, an ideal haven?

Nde Hanta, an idyllic but very beautiful village. With an undulating landscape and a topography that was always spectacular to behold and envied, the village remained unbelievably unspoiled by the mild explosion of its population at the onset of the war. The village, which is accessed by two separate dirt roads, wide enough to accommodate only single lane traffic from the main road, maintained its rustic beauty. And even grudgingly shone like an uncut jewelry, especially to those with the keen sense of appreciating nature’s endowments. The ‘Friends of the Earth’ would love its pristine nature, sans the devastating erosion that’s threatening to