Mynd_44:
Meaning it is getting there

What do you mean by it's getting there? What do you think about the characters? The plot? Ways to improve? Things you liked/disliked?

Abeg, make una kala my work. Dem sweetie wella-wella.

https://www.nairaland.com/odumchi

Would appreciate it if you guys gave feedback. Thanks. Feel free to read my other stories as well.

Would appreciate it if you guys gave feedback. Thanks. Feel free to read my other stories as well.

Would appreciate it if you guys gave feedback. Thanks. Feel free to read my other stories as well.

Mynd_44: Hmmm

Meaning?

Would appreciate it if you guys gave feedback. Thanks. Feel free to read my other stories as well.

[size=16pt]PERSONAL MATTERS[/size]
K. C. E.


FRANCIS DURU wiped hot sweat off his shimmering forehead. He planted a soft kiss on Angelina, who giggled. Wrapping his arms around her, he began kissing her some more and attempted to push her back onto the bed but she gently pushed him away and refused.

“Ah, what is it now?” he asked perplexedly.

“We’ve had enough for the day. You know it’s almost four o’clock and my husband will soon return,” explained Angelina as she got up and began to redress.

“C’mon now,” goaded Francis as he drew her hand and began pulling her back towards the bed, “You can’t let that useless husband of yours keep you afraid all the time. Who does that stupid man think he is anyway?”

“I know, but—”

“Angie, I love you…or don’t you love me too?”

“She twisted her face in a frown. “I love you too but you’re forgetting that—”

“Then what am I forgetting? Is it because of that good-for-nothing old man that calls himself your husband? Look, baby, I’m tired of all this fear and running around. I can’t let another man turn me into a coward!”

“Baby, shhh! Mechie onu! I think I heard something!”

The sound of the main door unlocking could be heard followed by the heavy footsteps of Mr. Emenike. Exhausted from a busy day’s work, he dropped his briefcase onto the sofa-chair and loosened his tie. He called to his wife. No answer.

“Is this woman at home?” he asked himself. He walked through their two-room flat and arriving at their bedroom door turned the knob but discovered it was locked.

“Ah-ah? Angie, darling are you there?”

By this time Francis Duru had hurriedly gathered his belongings and was searching for a way to exit the small bedroom. There was no other door save the one which Mr. Emenike was standing behind. Finding no other alternative, he forced open the old wooden French windows, which definitely hadn’t been opened in at least twenty years. He darted out half-naked in nothing but his plain knickers and hopped down their second-floor balcony.

Angelina, assuming a faux expression of forced calmness, walked over to the door and unbolted, it allowing her husband to enter.

“My husband, good afternoon,” she greeted him, alongside a cold hug. But he brushed her aside, sensing something was wrong.

“What were you doing that you didn’t hear me calling?”

“Di m (my husband), I was just taking a short siesta.”


“Siesta…in your bath towel?”

“Oh this? I had just taken a bath and when I came in I felt a bit sleepy, so I said let me just take a short nap…Honey,
how was work today?”

“Why are those shutters open?”

Angelina, growing nervous, walked over to the wooden shutters and closed them herself. “It was stuffy in here. You know, I keep telling you we need to buy that new electric fan I saw at the appliance store.” As she closed the shutters she used her body to hide from her husband’s view the pair of brown trousers which Francis had foolishly left behind on the floor. However she was too late. Mr. Emenike’s quick eyes had already spotted the wretched thing.

He slowly and solemnly walked up to her and stooped down to pick up the trousers and wordlessly held them before her as if expecting another rubbish explanation. But for this one none came.

. . . .

A week had passed. Mr. Emenike, Angela and three of his kinsmen sat in a half-moon in front of his country home in Ahogwa. Before them was a table upon which rested a bottle of Schnapps, and directly on the floor was the same pair of brown trousers which Mr. Emenike had found in his bedroom.

“What are we hearing about you, Angelina?” asked a kinsman in disgust. “Do you know that you are the wife of a prominent man in this community? Why must we continue to be hearing bad news? Do you wish to disgrace your husband so?”
Angelina sat mutely staring at the pair of brown trousers which lay in the dirt. She cared little for what these old men said. After all, they were old men and were thoroughly incapable of understanding her motives.

“Woman, we are talking to you!” yelled another kinsman in outrage against her disrespectful silence.

“Emenike, o wu otu a ka nwunye gi shi eme (Emenike, Is this how your wife acts)?”

“My brothers, do you see the kind of woman I have for a wife?” began Mr. Emenike. “There is never a moment when I can step out of the house with a calm head. Other’s have loyal and faithful women at their homes…while I have this!” By this time his tone had risen and he was clearly enraged. “Look at the nonsense she does!” he said as he pointed to the brown trousers lying on the ground. “My own wife uses my bedroom as a pleasure-parlor and traffics men in and out!”

“It is a lie!” Angelina denied. Her interjection came as such a surprise that it only made her husband angrier. He jumped in her direction as if to strike her but was swiftly restrained by his kinsmen, who begged him to soften his anger and maintain his senses.

When all had calmed, the kinsmen once-again asked Angelina to explain how the trousers ended up in their bedroom and once-again she flatly denied saying she knew nothing about them. Seeing the present situation, one of the kinsmen then suggested that she should be taken for ritual oath-taking so as to prove her innocence.

“God forbid!” rebuked Angelina. “I will never go for such a thing!”

“And why not?” asked a kinsman.

“I am a Christian! My bible and my faith do not allow me to partake in such fetish practices. God forbid bad thing!”

“Oh! So it is now that you remember your faith and your bible, is that so? But you couldn’t remember them when you were busy committing adultery and bringing men into our brother’s house? Listen, woman, you must go for that oath-taking whether you like it or not.”

And so it was thus decided that Angelina would undergo a ritual oath-taking in a week’s time. She knew not much about such practices, but from what little she did know she concluded that it was utterly dangerous and fool-proof.
There was no convincing her husband to change her mind or begging for forgiveness, for this was not only the third time she was being accused of adultery, but her husband’s mood seemed especially stone cold. In the few days in which they were in the country, he neither spoke to her nor looked at her. He didn’t eat her food and the two no longer slept in the same room. Her condition seemed bleak and all seemed lost, but then, as if miraculously, she saw hope in her childhood friend Sandra Nwakaego.

When Angelina had heard that Sandra was returning to Lagos after her two-week leave, she hurriedly composed a short poem and gave it to her friend to deliver to Francis Duru, her lover.

The young Francis Duru drove all the way from Lagos to obscure, little Ahogwa when news had reached him of Angie’s plight. By this time, there were only two days remaining before her oath-taking.
When Nze Emenike left to attend to errands around the village early one morning, Francis Duru, disguised as an agent of the Postal Service went to see Angelina. Upon arriving at her residence he discovered that she was under the watchful eye of an elderly in-law, and so he took advantage of the man’s illiteracy and simply delivered a letter which read:

My dearest Angie,
I have received news of recent developments and I am in town. Prepare your things for at exactly three o’clock on Wednesday morning, I shall await outside of your gate and we shall both leave this God-damned land once and for all.
With sincerest love and affection,
Francis

When the anticipated day arrived, Angelina was ready. She had packed her most-precious belongings into her small luggage box and had also several pound notes which she had taken from her husband’s box. At exactly the stroke of three, she tiptoed passed the rooms where her husband and his kinsman slept, out of the front compound and entered a small Volkswagen Beetle which sat outside the gate. After sufficiently romancing, the two held hands and drove down the dusty country path.

….

“I married a devil,” Mr. Emenike said as he sat on the side of his bed, head in hands and holding back tears. It was well into the morning hours of the day and through the open window yellow sunlight spilled through and into the small room, illuminating it.

The room had clearly been put into a state of frenzy. The floor was scattered with empty drawers, scattered sheets of paper and opened briefcases. Standing beside Mr. Emenike was his uncle Dede Nwufo.

“My son, it is alright,” said the elder quite calmly. “A young infant does not know that fire is hot. What we have to do now is to meet with the rest of our kinsmen and inform them so that we can know what do to.”

By one o’clock that afternoon Mr. Emenike and Dede Nwufo had already climbed into his small motorcar and were on their way to the house of one of their other kinsmen by the name of Ugonna. They passed by a somewhat large crowd that had assembled beside the Eke stream, and overtaken by curiosity, Mr. Emenike pulled the car to a soft halt and decided to investigate what spectacle could have possible attracted such a crowd.

“Somebody drove their car into the gulley early this morning,” explained a member of the crowd when asked what was happening. “The driver must have driven straight off of the road. Thank God everyone in Ahogwa knows about this gulley. It’s most likely a foreigner.”

Peering down, Mr. Emenike whistled in amazement as he saw the smashed wreck of what had once been a Volkswagen sitting in the stream. The thundering current splashed around the twisted ball of steel as it followed its natural course. He shook his head sadly and returned to his car. He couldn’t be bothered with such things at the moment for he had personal matters at hand.

[size=16pt]PRODIGAL BROTHER
[/size] K. C. E.

THE SKIES over Onitsha were possessed with a calm that had not been felt in what seemed like forever. No longer were the Egyptian MIGs thundering through or black thick stacks of churning smoke drifting high.

Well it couldn’t have been said that the town was at peace. No, not exactly. Since although the war had ended some months ago, and with it the gunfire and air-raids, tension still hung in the town’s atmosphere and there drifted a dangerous aura of uncertainty.

In what remained of the partially-destroyed and flame-ravaged port-town, people began struggling to begin life anew. Children young and barely-clothed began hawking fried puff-puff and chin-chin to the occupying soldiers while their mothers searched for their missing husbands. Men both young and old swarmed from near and far to read the registry at the Red Cross Station and attempt to locate their relatives who had been dispersed due to the war. Dennis Udemba was one of them.

Dennis was a man of above marriageable age who prior to the war had only once left his small village of Ubungwo. Before the chaos he worked as a bicycle-repairman, and tended to his younger sister and their ailing mother.
Sadly, the war cost him his mother and left him with a pregnant sister, who was raped by occupying soldiers. The death of his mother and the needs of his pregnant sister were mainly what caused Festus to journey out of little Ubungwo in search of Festus, with whom he was not well-pleased. For if their mother were not dead and their sister not ravaged by those ravenous Hausa miscreants that call themselves soldiers, Festus could have gone to hell for all he cared.

Their father had died at a young age and as the oldest son, Dennis inherited the responsibility of taking care of the family. He labored to the bone to make sure that Festus completed his secondary schooling and used the money he had been saving for a business to send him to Civil Service College.

“Our people say that when the right hand washes the left, the left will do the same,” said Dennis one evening while sitting in his father’s compound in the company of his uncles.

“That is right, our son.”

“Then why has Festus chosen to not only refuse to wash the left hand but to soil it with shame? Who will believe that we have a person in the govament but we are suffering like this? Mama’s sickness is getting worse and I can’t afford her medications alone.”

“You said you have written a letter to him, is that not so?” asked one of his uncles.

“Dede Uba, I have not only written a letter but I have already written one…two…three!” said Dennis as he held his fingers in the lamplight. “It has been six whole years since Festus began working with the govament people in Lagos and he has yet to show his face. He has not stepped into this compound even after I told him Mama was not well.”

The uncles grunted in disbelief and disgust. Refusing to believe that their esteemed son had forgotten his people, they sent Dennis to Lagos to bring him home. The events of that journey are enough to form a story of their own; therefore we won’t digress into them. However after returning from that thoroughly humiliating and unsuccessful journey, Dennis swore that if he ever entered Festus’ house again he should run mad.

But that was nearly six years ago, and as destiny had it, Dennis once-again found himself on the road in search of his prodigal brother. When the war began, most people ran home. But the “big men” who were willing to die and risk their lives for their numerous possessions and investments refused to leave their city jobs and return to Biafra, despite being Igbos.

The Igbo were persecuted before, during, and even now after the war. When Biafra seceded, anti-Igbo sentiment flared and spread from the North and reached the different regions of Nigeria. They not only targeted those “rebels” who had fled to Biafra but also those few who faithfully (and in the eyes of their kinsmen, foolishly) clung to their Nigerian citizenship and jobs in the cities.

Although he had not heard from Festus throughout the three years of the war, Dennis was sure that his greedy brother was still living in his government-sponsored Lagos residence.

And so when he arrived at Onitsha early that morning with nothing more than the clothes on his back and the few shillings he had gathered for his transport and feeding, he decided it would be of no use to check the registry list at the Red Cross Station. What for? His brother’s name could never be there. As much as he tried to deny it, the main reason he decided not to visit the Red Cross Station was because he secretly feared that his brother may have been dead. That’s impossible, he would tell himself whenever the dark thought would sneak into his head. Festus has always been absent from everything.

After a short rest at Onitsha after the night’s long ride from Ubungwo, he boarded a motorcar and headed for Lagos. In the evening he arrived at the Lagos motor park and found the atmosphere refreshingly different from that of Onitsha and the East in general.

As he walked the remainder of the long journey to Festus’ home, he passed by bars and joints where young people danced, laughed and blasted highlife music. Uniformed soldiers drank and chatted merrily with one another, and small children played football in the streets with worn rubber balls. It was like nothing he had ever seen before.
He refused to believe that he was in the same country as Onitsha and Ubungwo. Were these people immune to the suffering and anguish which had ravaged the East? Was this what Festus was enjoying while Mama died of illness and those rough soldiers abused Adaku? By the time he had arrived at the gate of his brother’s residence a well of anger had collected up within him. He would surely teach Festus a lesson.

Stepping to the big, freshly-painted gate, he knocked heavily.

“Who dey bang de door like dat? You dey craze?!” yelled an unfamiliar voice from within the compound. The voice certainly did not sound like that of Dauda, Festus’ gateman at the time when he had last visited. Perhaps he had finally retired the old man who seemed to be much too old for such an occupation.

There was heavy clanking and the iron gate drew back, revealing a short, rough-looking man who wore a flattened driver’s cap. From inside the compound the tune of highlife music could be heard.

“Who you be?” asked the man.

“My name na Dennis Chijioke Udemba.”

“Eh, wetin you dey find?”

“Na your oga I dey find. I be him brother.”

The man stood quietly and examined Dennis from head to toe, as if gauging whether a man dressed as poorly as him could possibly be a relative of his oga.

“My oga no dey,” he finally lied, after deciding that Dennis must be one of these beggars or charlatans that his oga had severely warned him never to allow enter his compound.

“O.K., make I wait for inside,” Dennis said as he tried to force his way through the door.

“Ah-ah! I say him no dey! Na wetin now?” replied the gateman as he forced him back.

“No be my brother’s compound? Move out o! Make I no shout for here!”

“Musa, what is that commotion?” called a voice from inside.

“Oga na one useless man o. Him say him be your broda.”

A smartly-dressed middle-aged man in a white polo and brown slacks came up to the gate and waved Musa away.

“How can I help you, mister man?” asked the man.

“My name na Dennis Chijioke Udemba. I come all the way from the East. I come make I see my brother wey live for here.”

“Look, you are confused. Your brother does not live here. I, Barrister Olamide, am the sole occupier of this residence. Get that?”

“No, no, no. See. My brother name na Festus Okwudiri Udemba. See him address sef,” Dennis produced the worn piece of paper upon which he had scribbled his brother’s address so many years ago, “See am.”

The Barrister scrutinized the piece of worn paper as if examining a legal document. “This must’ve been before the war,” he began. “Your brother must have abandoned the property and ran away like many of you Igbos did. Well he’s not here anymore. You better go and look for him.”

“Na lie! Una must produce my brother!”’ shouted Dennis, refusing to believe the man’s obviously fake explanation.

“I don’t have time for this!” howled the Barrister. “I have a serious case early tomorrow morning.”
With that he violently slammed the gate shut. The clanking of locks could be heard and in the background the sweet melody of highlife music roared energetically from a small radio.

[size=16pt]AFAMEFUNA[/size]
K. C. E.

HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS Igwe Olisadebe Maduako, the traditional ruler of Obiru village, did not go to school. The son of the first British-imposed warrant-chief of Obiru, as a youth he was not made to understand the importance of education.

His father was a wealthy and established farmer in Obiru and never saw it fit to send his son to the white man’s mission school. He already had plenty of land, wealth, and yams. What else did he need? What could the white man give him that he did not already have?

And so, young Olisadebe took to his father and became a farmer, leaving western education to those who were in dire need of it. In the year he succeeded his father as the Igwe (king), the British discovered large coal deposits in the land around the village’s outskirts and Obiru suddenly became very wealthy overnight.

The useless ore drove the white men mad. They built a rail station at Obiru, connecting it to other faraway towns via a railroad. They carted in laborers from villages near and far to mine the coal, and with time, many of these foreigners decided to settle down and live at Obiru. They used their wages to build small zinc-roofed homes and they brought development and progress along with them.

These foreigners took advantage of the educational opportunities presented to them and sent their children to the white man’s schools, preparing them for bright futures as clerks, teachers, and other positions in the British Civil Service. In actuality, they were getting ready to assume dominance over Obiru. Unlike the sleepy Obiru natives, who were preoccupied with the mundane agricultural lifestyle, these foreigners thirsted for knowledge and through education they found favor and employment with the white men.
It was then that Igwe Olisadebe realized the importance of western education for he saw the danger which the educated foreigners presented to his people. He secretly vowed that his first son would be the most educated man in his kingdom.

When the Igwe’s first son was born he was named Afamefuna, meaning let my name never disappear. His father desired for him to fulfill all of the things which he himself had never been able to accomplish, in addition to succeeding him on the throne. When Afamefuna reached school-going age, his father enrolled him in the best mission school in the district and he excelled wonderfully. He was the star pupil in all of his classes and his teachers came to love and appreciate his presence. The boy had an unquenchable appetite for learning and it didn’t come as a surprise when he told his father that he wished to study at a university.

“Afam, you have spoken like the man you are,” said his father proudly. “You shall go to the university—but not just any university—I shall send you to that big school in the white man’s land. Erm…what is it called again?”

“Cambridge.”

“Eh, yes! I shall send you to Kembriji and you shall bring back the secrets of the white man’s wisdom. My son, you have made me proud.”

It so happened that in the following year the British government began a scholarship scheme in which it would send the sons of a select group of local Chiefs abroad to study and procure knowledge for their peoples, so as to expedite the processes of westernization, development and modernization. Through a series of hefty bribes, Igwe Olisadebe secured a place on the scholarship scheme for his son; and so Afamefuna journeyed to Cambridge University.

….

On a sunny Sunday morning twelve years later, Igwe Olisadebe, his family and their entourage of officials and dignitaries stood on the tarmac of the Lagos airport. A silver aeroplane was noisily gliding in from the distance. Wings glistening in the sun, the plane breezed over the grassy field, descended and skidded to a smooth halt on the runway.

The hatch opened and a group of people climbed out of the plane and descended down the iron steps to the people who awaited them. The last man to step down was none other than Afamefuna himself—or rather Dr Afamefuna, for he was now a medical doctor. He wore a neatly-pressed black suit—much like those the white man wore. His hair was parted and upon his nose sat smart-looking spectacles. Behind him followed a white woman.

His father could barely recognize him. The small boy whom he had sent to England merely twelve years ago was now a large man—a well-educated man. After greeting his father, Afamefuna embraced his mother, his sister, the other guests and a young woman whom he assumed must have been a palace-maid. He offered to introduce his guests to his family, but his father cut him short insisting that there would be time for that later, for the journey from Lagos to Obiru was long.

They reached Obiru very late that night, so everyone retired to their quarters in the Igwe’s compound. The following morning, Igwe Olisadebe organized a performance by a traditional dance troupe followed by a welcome feast for his son who had returned from Obodo Oyibo with the white man’s secrets.

After the performance, visitors and well-wishers from Obiru and beyond flocked to the Igwe’s palace in order to pay homage to the newly-returned prince and to steal glances at the white woman whom he had brought with him (although the white men resided in the big cities, white women were very few in number). They praised him with names like Omekannaya (he who does like his father), Ojemba (traveler), and Nwa Oyibo (white son) and presented him with their gifts and blessings. They had high expectations for their newly-returned son.

During the feast that followed, Afam introduced the three strangers whom he had brought with him to his family. The first was Dr. Thompson, a young, sharp-looking Englishman whom he had met at Cambridge; the second, an African, was Mr. Adeleke, also a friend of his at the university; and the third was a beautiful English girl by the name of Jenifer, whom he introduced as his fiancé.

“What is the meaning of fiancé, my son?” asked his father in their native Igbo.

“It means she and I will soon be married,” he replied in English, rather ashamedly that he had not mentioned such an important news much earlier. Upon hearing the very words, the same girl that Afam assumed was a palace-maid, got up from the table and excused herself in suppressed tears. His mother did the same and went after her. Afam demanded to know what was happening but his father did not say a word. They ate in silence and for the remainder of the meal.

That same night, when Afam sat in his lamp-lit room flipping through his Oxford English Dictionary, his father quietly walked in. He looked up from his book and greeted him, but he did not reply.

“You have disappointed me,” began his father in Igbo. “Why did you not tell anyone that you intended to marry? We would’ve found a suitable wife for you…not a white woman.”

Setting his book down, Afam stood up and faced his father. “Jenifer is my wife and I love her. I have already made my choice,” he replied in English.

“There is nothing like love!” exclaimed his father. “Your mother and I know what is best! We have already married a wife for you!”

“Father, how could you people be so brutish and barbaric as to marry a woman in my name without my consent?” roared Afam in English that his father barely understood. He let out a deep sigh and ran his hands through his hair in frustration.

“An okra stem does not grow taller than the man who planted it… Just because you have gone to the white man’s land and learned his language does not mean you can come back and use it anyhow, forgetting that you are still my son…Your mother and I have acted in your best interest. The wife we selected for you is a good girl. She is the first daughter of Igwe Arinze of Ubulu kingdom and atop that she is very beautiful. Whether you like it or not you must marry her!”

“Father, I shall do no such thing…Jenifer is my wife.”

“Let me never hear that name in this palace again! Else I shall disown you!” threatened his father. “You have heard what I said and I shall leave you to ponder it.” With that he stormed out of the hut leaving Afam by himself.

Afam calmly resumed to his book. He was not at all perturbed for he believed in the overcoming power of genuine love. In a few weeks time, he and his colleagues would begin their medical mission. He had no time for village drama and politics. He certainly had no time for that crude thing his father called a throne. He would surely let him know his plans when the time comes.

[size=16pt]TRAGEDY AT ODUEKE[/size]
K. C. E.

NIGERIAN forces led by Brigadier Kayode Lawal were making significant progress in the late months of 1969 and early 1970. From their headquarters at Ajaokuta they had advanced deep into enemy territory and had aided in the capture of key rebel towns like Nsukka and Enugu.

They had skirmished with the rebels at several battle-sites and had won most of their engagements largely due to the wit and military brilliance of their commanding officer.

Brigadier Lawal was a tall, handsome man of twenty-nine years of age. Fresh out of the Nigerian Military Academy, where he had graduated with distinguished honors, he was quickly promoted due to his cordial relationship with his superiors and was thus entrusted command of the 9th Kaduna Brigade. He wore sleek, gold-rimmed sunshades and had a low, neat haircut. His uniform was always crisp and neat—even in the heat of battle. His natural cool and finesse earned him the nickname “Gay Kay” as well as the trust and respect of his comrades. He was the type of man who would order his troops to charge into hell and they’d comply without giving it a second thought. Gay Kay commanded not only the bodies of his troops but their hearts as well.

And so it happened that shortly after celebrating New Years with his fellow military men at an Officer’s Ball in Lokoja, he received a letter from Central Command telling him that he was to return to his station in rebel territory and await further orders.

Brigadier Gay Kay complied. He kissed his girl friend goodbye, boarded the next motorcar heading to the East and immediately returned to his men. The following day being January the 4th, he received orders to penetrate into rebel territory and link up with Brigadier Ibrahim at the rebel-held town of Umunze. However, unknown to him, the small village of Odueke, which was fortified by the ever-shrinking and scanty rebel army, lay on the road to Umunze. Early the next morning, Gay Kay and his men began the perilous march.

….

Lieutenant Colonel Ifeanyi Nwagu was faced with an impossible task. Biafran High Command had stationed him at his hometown of Odueke and with his small band of about two-hundred men (a large percentage of which were boys), he was responsible for the defense of Odueke and its environs.

“You’re not serious, sir,” was the response he gave to Brigadier General Anthony Osuagwu when he was briefed of his task, nearly a month ago. Normally, he wouldn’t have made such a disrespectful and dangerous statement for fear of being court-martialed, but as things were he could afford to do so. Biafra was running critically low on officers and it could afford to lose no more.

“And why am I not serious?” asked the General quite calmly as he lit a cigar to his mouth.

“Sir, my regiment has been severely weakened and our supplies are critically low. You know we’re not in the right shape to engage the enemy, sir.”

The General took a long puff of his cigar and exhaled slowly. He stood up from his desk and walked to the Lieutenant Colonel and slung his hands around his shoulder. “Nwagu, let’s not deceive ourselves. You and I know that. The people at the top ask and our job is to give them what they ask for. Your regiment happened to be the only available one for the job. Chukwuemeka and Nsofor are busy away at Umunneochi and Awka.” He took another puff on his cigar and then looked at the Lieutenant Colonel with dry eyes.

Somehow, he understood the meaning of that look. It meant that he understood that his mission was impossible; it meant suicide. By stationing him at his hometown, Biafran High Command expected him to fight his hardest since it was after all his hometown. He was expected to die defending his two motherlands, Biafra and Odueke.

How cunning, he thought. His superiors had planned this out to ensure that he would not stray from the path of bravery. Retreat was not an option for how could a righteous and self-respecting man such as himself live and accept the fact that he had fled from his hometown and allowed it to fall into enemy hands? His fate and that of the two-hundred-and-something men under his command were sealed.

When he had received word from his spies up north that enemy troops were moving southward in their direction, Lt. Col. Nwagu ordered his men to hastily set up fortifications and obstacles and block the main road.

He knew that if the main roads could be blocked then the enemy would not be able to utilize their armoured vehicles and he could somehow delay their advance. Under the hot sun of January the 12th the young boys and men of his regiment took to the roads and began planting homemade anti-tank mines and explosives known as ogbunigwe. They endured harsh rains as they cut down trees and used them to set up successive road blocks and obstacles, and on the evening of January the 14th they retreated to their defensive positions on the forested hills on the outskirts of Odueke.

Early the following morning, as he sat in his bunker attempting to repair the radio which had been damaged by the previous day’s rain, Lt. Col. Nwagu was approached by a young sixteen-year-old private by the name of Uche.

“Sa, ha abiala! They have come!” Uche yelled as he barged into the bunker, trying to catch his breath. Dropping the radio, Nwagu rushed out of the bunker and went out into the open. He clearly spotted the Nigerian troops making their way up the road through his binoculars.

“Alert the engineers and have them detonate the explosives!” he said to his servant. The young boy rushed away and went to do as he was told. But for some unknown reason, the detonation never came. Whether the boy had lost his way or was somehow killed no one knows.

Nwagu grew flustered.

That stupid boy.

He will surely see pepper once all this is over.

He ordered his men to leave their positions on the hill and move into the thick bushes below in order to ambush the enemy troops as they passed. They humbly obeyed. What brave boys, he thought. Before taking position in the bushes, he made the Sign of the Cross and sprinkled dirt on his forehead. Both God and his ancestors were with him. If he were to die, let it be on his own land.

When the first enemy motorcar drove past the bushes, the sound of popping gunfire came suddenly and swiftly. The car burst into flames, sending the Nigerian troops into a wild frenzy. Nwagu and his men picked them off one by one with their outdated bolt-action rifles until they ran out of ammunition. By then the Nigerians had stabilized themselves and had found cover and pinpointed the source of the attack. All around, twigs snapped and bullets blazed through the air, bouncing off of trees and rocks. The Biafrans, having run out of ammunition were pinned down in the woodland and the Nigerians pressed their numerical advantage and advanced onward.

Soon, the fighting became brutish and descended into ugly hand-to-hand combat. Men who had once been countrymen clashed fists and battered each other with the butts of their rifles. The cling clang of bayonets could be heard above the wailing of men and boys who had been mortally wounded. On all sides of Nwagu, men fell down to their deaths. In a flash of an instant he saw a young face as it dropped onto the dirt ground and breathed its last breath.

Why should such brave souls die and he live?

Nwagu, taking sudden shame in the fact that he was hiding behind a boulder while boys half his age were sacrificing their lives, sprinted forward in a burst of foolish bravery towards the enemy lines. With his saber clenched in his right hand he hacked away vigorously and killed two men. As he was about going for his third, he felt a sharp pain in his chest and was knocked onto his back and into the world of his ancestors.

….

“It’s a pity,” remarked Gay Kay, as he and his colleague inspected the village of Odueke later that evening. “The armistice was signed earlier today. All they had to do was just sit tight and listen to their radios.”

“It sure is a pity, sir.”