Back in the university, I was a politician; and like all politicians I had to form alliances—another way of saying I manoeuvred to be on the good side of other student politicians or popular students—to improve my chances at the polls.

I never had enough money to go beyond contesting—and winning (thank you very much) my Departmental Presidency—but after contesting for this and that, I knew most of the movers and shakers in my school—Nnamdi Azikiwe University Awka. One guy I knew was Obiadada—a nickname, coined from his first name, Obi, and adada, Igbo for ‘one who does not fall’. Obi was the Director of transport when we were in third year.

Anybody who knows what’s up about Nigerian universities will tell you that Director of Transport is a very important position, one that is second only to the Student Union President as per influence in some schools. In Unizik, without student hostels in the then still underdeveloped permanent site on the outskirts of Awka, transporting students to and from lectures in the permanent site was huge business—a business that the Student Union Government (SUG) Director of Transport oversaw.

As Director of transport, Obi oversaw the required ferrying of students and acquired the influence that came with the position. In Nigeria, and elsewhere, influence means money. Obi made it big, they said.

I can’t truthfully say that money got into Obi’s head. For those of us who were on friendly terms with him before he made it big, we still saw the same soft spoken boy that was known for his kindly disposition. Aside from the rumour that he had a fleet of buses running the school route, and another of him dating the then Miss Unizik, Obi didn’t appear to be overly expressive with the trappings of office.

A year after his tenure ended, Obi was killed. Someone or some people took a gun to him and Obi that would not fall, fell.

What followed Obi’s killing was a carnage that sent many of us running home to mama. It was a bloody cult war and boys died and mothers cried in vain for sons sent to become men but who won’t be coming home, ever.

I knew Obi, as much as you will know a fellow student that knows your department and your first name but perhaps little else. I knew him because the draw of politics ensured our paths crossed several times, but I knew him more because his roommate was a first year hostel mate of mine—a guy that later swore that he had no inclination that Obi was a cultist.

While some may ponder how that is possible, those of us who passed through school and had an above average profile knew that this happens, a lot too. There are people who join cults but stay well below the ‘flag flying’ radar. Then there are those who at first sighting your mind screams ‘cultist’ but who turn out to be Jew Men with no facilitations.

Well, this story is not about ‘flags’ or who wore what, but about dreams destroyed and supposed scholars who are killers and a government that refuses to be bothered.

Obi died, and some boys died or were maimed in the revenge killings that followed. We were in final year then, and if not for an extension caused by a riot over tuition fees some months before, would have graduated by then. It wasn’t the first time it would happen in our school—I am not sure it was the last even—or in higher institutions in Middle-Belt and Southern Nigeria, where cult wars and the resultant fatalities are an accepted rite of passage for university students.

A few months ago, students in higher institutions in Lagos were the targets, with daylight shootings turning the schools there into what the unwary would presume to be action movie sets. Only, the uninitiated would realise, the guns are real and the gore and blood made up of living, or about to die, matter.

A few weeks ago, students of the University of Benin were in the news, blocking streets and gearing up for a showdown with police after it emerged that a student was shot and killed by the police. That case is still fresh and further revelations being awaited.

A few days ago, the same university entered the news again, with reports of more students’ deaths sending mothers to again call their wards to find out if all is well. Not all phones rang; and of those that rang, there were some where it was not the owners’ voices that carried the news that every parent dreads—the death of a child that should care for them in old age and ensure they meet the earth on humane terms.

Unlike before, when police was marked as the perpetrator, the student body did not take to the streets to protest the deaths. They can’t/couldn’t, won’t/wouldn’t, because people from within their academic community are the perpetrators—people who probably added strength to the numbers that protested the police linked killing.

More here .... http://telegraphng.com/2013/06/the-other-war-we-are-not-talking-about/?wpmp_tp=1

What a good write up/observation, kudos op. There is one person that can stop it, guess who, Wole soyinka...