₦airaland Forum

Are you a Nigerian? Have you written a poem you want published? Would you like to feature among select 52 poets whose poems will feature in the poetry anthology:

"...SONGS OF A WAKING GIANT..."

to mark Nigeria's 52nd Independence anniversary?

Please send your poems to us for consideration at:

The Pedagogues Publishing:
Email: tppnigeria@yahoo.com

Each poem must not be longer than 21 lines and with theme reflective of the Independence mood and Nigeria travails and triumphs. Featured poets shall share in the royalty and jointly retain copyright.

For further enquiry please write to:

El-Darlington Enereba Esq.
General Manager,
The Pedagogues Publishing
Email: tppnigeria@yahoo.com
Telephone: 08072533742 or 08106515072

An historical novel
by Mike Uriel Ogbechie

About the author

Mike Uriel Ogbechie,
was born in Darazo, Bauchi State of Nigeria. He grew up in Port Harcourt where he schooled at government comprehensive secondary school. He later, after the civil war, attended the pilgrim Baptist grammar school, Issele-uku. Went to university of Nigeria, Enugu Campus where he studied architecture. He has been very active in architectural consultancy practice in a thriving fi rm offering consultancy services in and outside the country. Presently, has been an active advocate of the gospel of our lord Jesus Christ, proclaiming that only Jesus is lord and saviour to the glory of God the father.

About the book

From 1967 to 1970, the Republic of Biafra experienced the darkest of days. The Nigeria‒Biafra war, sometimes called the Nigerian civil war, fell upon them – thirty months of starvation, fright, and horror. Author Mike Uriel Ogbechie was there when it all happened.
The war truncated or, like I have succinctly put it, eclipsed the lives of several people, especially the youths at noonday.
However, most published books about that period lacked detail.
It is obvious that nothing much had been written about how the war affected the lives of the youth, the young ladies, and young men who were in the thick and thin of it all or how their lives, dreams, and aspirations were truncated or altered by the war.
In his attempt to unravel the unwritten diaries of the people of Biafra, he pens ECLIPSE AT NOONDAY.
Covering a wide spectrum, this book contains many unpublished and most times, unbelievable but true stories of that war and its after-effects. Emphasis has been laid to a large extent on events that happened behind the frontlines – how such actions affected the lives and the psyche of the populace. It unfolds the tension-filled period until the commencement of the war. Also included are the events that occurred shortly after the war indicating, to an extent, the short-term effects of the war on the lives of those of the fortunate survivors.


http://mikeogbechie.com/

, It was all a blur.

My nightmare began at the Greyhound Station in downtown Baltimore. I had two hours to kill before the bus departed for Silver Spring. I sat at one of the seats with a built-in TV, slotted some quarters in, slipped the headphones over my head and started watching a show called “I Love Lucy”.

I don’t even know why I picked the show. But, the woman looked funny. Her husband spoke “funny” like me. And, it helped that my mother’s name is Lucy.

A few minutes into the show, a shadow fell on me. I looked up and saw Tunde. I was in so much shock I had to close my mouth tight otherwise my heart may have jumped out.

It took me a few moments to realize that there were some men and a woman in uniform behind him. When I saw them, I wished the ground would open up and swallow me.

As an illegal immigrant, two of the institutions you learn to avoid even before you leave your country are the Police and Immigrations. Behind Tunde were seven Police and Immigrations officers.

At that moment, I knew how Jesus felt when Judas betrayed him in the garden of Gethsemane. But, I was no Jesus. I didn’t have a heavenly father to bail me out. I didn’t have the promise of heaven. Heaven was about to be snatched from under my feet.

“Are you Abosede Omoakholo?” the only woman in the group asked me.

She didn’t really say Abosede Omoakholo. What she did was murder my name. But, my name was the last of my worries at that moment.

“Yes,” I answered tamely.

“Can I see your passport?” she demanded.

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” I declared to the policewoman.

She looked at Tunde. He looked at her and nodded.

“Were you in this man’s house today?” she asked.

“Yes, but,” I began.

“Is that your bag?” she cut in.

“Yes,” I answered.

“Mr. Ralph Oluyomi has alleged that you visited him at his residence, went into his safe while he was in the bathroom and you made away with his money. True or false?” she asked edgily.

“That is a lie!” I shot back.

“Do you have any money on you?” she asked.

“Yes, but,-” I began.

“How much do you have on you?” she cut in again.

“Five thousand dollars,” I replied.

“How did you get that amount of money?” she asked.

“I brought it from my country,” I responded

“Can I see your passport?” she asked as she stretched out her hand.

I gave up. I was dead. It was back to hell for me.

They took me to a detention center. I had one phone call. I called Oliver. Once he heard I was in detention, he turned off his phone.

“You think you can just walk out of my life?” Tunde asked when he had a few moments with me.

I stared blankly at him. The man is a fool. I am being deported. I am not walking out of his life. I am flying out.

They asked if I wanted a trial. I declined. Why postpone the day of reckoning? Three days later, I was on my way to Lagos.

Now, I was entering a Molue bus. I had spent all my money on the ticket to America and converted the rest to dollars. I even sold my car. Now, we were taking a bus that creaks as it rolls through the highway, threatening to fall apart any moment. Since I already gave up my flat, I was now going to live in my father’s house.

Whoever said curses do not cross the Atlantic Ocean was a fool.

Two weeks ago, I was on top of the world in Atlantic City. Now, I am standing in a bus cramped with at least forty people more than the official capacity of sixty. I have been to heaven. I am back in hell.

I started to cry.

“Ju going to Silba Skin?” a man was saying in the far corners of my brain.

I felt someone shake me. It was soft at first then got really rude. I woke up slowly and looked at the funny looking Hispanic man with a four-day old beard.

“Ju going to Silba Skin?” he asked.

It took me a few moments to realize he meant Silver Spring. I nodded.

“Coming up,” he said.

I looked around the bus. It was the Greyhound bus. I am still in America. I have been dreaming.

I wanted to hug the stranger who had woken me up. But, I would probably have freaked him out. I could tell from his poor teeth, hopeful eyes and mismatched clothes that he was like me – a fellow dreamer in the land of hope.

I have never been more scared. And, I have never been more relieved.

I looked outside and touched the window. The rays of sunlight danced on my hand as the bus exited the I-495, sped down Georgia Avenue and towards the Silver Spring station.

For the first time in a week, I smiled. I was free. This is my life now. I will live it my way.

And, I will become an American! Some day.

by Abosede Omoakholo

Everyone calls me Bose. I’m a reluctant illegal immigrant. I never planned to leave Nigeria. Lagos was good to me. I had a good job. . . in Nigeria. But, love brought me to America. . . . .

read more here: http://bosediary.com/2011/01/01/coming-to-america/