ARMAGEDDON BY BOB EJIKE

ARMAGEDDON

By BOB EJIKE

The incessant sound of distant shooting was becoming more and more audible, the war coming nearer. From ‘Radio Without Battery’ as rumors were humorously tagged, I was abreast of the military situation, for everybody kept informed, since our lives depended on information. Nigerian forces had captured Nkalagu and Abakiliki. Biafra Airforce Chief Colonel Chudi Sokei had died trying to stop Murtala Muhammed from entering Onitsha. He finally marched into Onitsha, but Mohammed ‘s convoy was too long that much of his stores were still in Abagana. As the rest of the long convoy eventually headed for Onitsha supported by four ferret cars. Major Uchendu laid an ambush for it at Ifite Ukpo Junction and set it on fire. Consequently, the convoy was jammed and the fire spread to the other vehicles. The Biafrans attacked the lorries from all sides, killing almost all the soldiers. The Nigerians counter attacked from Abagana with two ferret cars and were promptly eliminated by Major Uchendu’s forces. The Biafrans captured a large amount of ammunition, the small part of the convoy that had managed to escape protected by two armored cars heading swiftly for Onitsha was intercepted at Ogidi in much the same way as the main convoy. The armored vehicles fled, but the rest of the motorcade was set ablaze.

                The Nigerian Third Marine Commando had bombed and strafed it’s way into Afikpo, beating back Biafran counterattacks in successions. It was in this period that Nigeria delivered her deadliest blow by changing her currency thereby making all Biafran values in Nigerian currency useless.

                In the meantime Nigerian jets devastated civilian institutions in Ikot-Ekpenne and Oron with genocidal impunity. Biafrans led by Colonel I.N.C. Aniebo resisted the invaders attempts to land at Oron beach despite lavish bombardment by the Nigerian air force, sinking three boats. Ikot-Ekpene, Oron and Uyo fell into Federal hands primarily because the minority ethnic groups there had collaborated with the invaders to the extent of directly firing at Biafran troops. Colonel Aniebo was later jailed for allegedly attempting to assassinate Ojukwu.

                Biafrans soon attacked, sending the Nigerian forces off Ikot-Ekpene. At this point most people knew that Port Harcourt would fall. In fact some riverine people were said to know exactly when the invasion would take place, since some of them were actively colluding with the Nigerian Army like their counterparts in Uyo. The general fear was worsened by the news of the fall of Umuahia, the Biafran capital and increased the shelling of the suburbs of Port Harcourt.
                One afternoon as I was playing with Chinyelu and Ifeoma in the corridor, listening to Okoko Ndem emphatically extolling Biafra’s military prowess on our neighbor's radio, I noticed that the prophet was continually stealing quick lances into our apartment. Immediately Papa returned from work, compelling us to stop the game, the curtain swished and the prophet dashed into our sitting room. The folds of the curtains resumed their previous stillness. Mama who was setting the table for Papa’s lunch tried to hide her indignation about the intruder who had not bothered to knock.

                ‘Where is your husband? He asked with a sharp edge in his voice.

'He has just come back from work and he’s changing his clothes.’ Mama answered curtly and proceeded to pour drinking water from a jug into Papa’s glass on the dinning table where his lunch was set.

 'I had a vision about him last night and I must speak to him immediately.' The prophet sounded jumpy.

‘But Papa Boma, he has just returned from the office, he is very tired and he hasn’t even had his lunch', Mama protested with a plastic smile.

                ‘To be forewarned is to be forearmed, for a word is enough for a wise, he who has ears let him hear.' The prophet deliberately kept his voice down. Mama sensing a deadly premonition, quickly rushed inside their room and reappeared with Papa in wrapper and singlet. Papa motioned to us leave, and Mama hoarded us into our room, leaving him alone with prophet divine. For about thirty minutes they prayed inaudibly and incomprehensibly. When the revelation session was through, the prophet left in unusual silence. Papa came out dressed in blue trousers, shirt and tie. ‘I am going to Mr. Oraedu’s house,’ he told us.

 ‘What about your lunch? Chinyelu asked.

'Later,' Papa replied and without as much as looking at the dinning table, hurried out.

                When we woke up the next morning our portable belongings had been packed in traveling bags. It immediately occurred to me that the invasion of Port Harcourt was either on or on its way. We had barely finished breakfast when Mr. Oraedu let himself in without knocking. My parents and Okwu packed the bags into the booth and on the carrier of Mr. Oraedu’s Volkwagen Beetle. Mama ushered us out into the tiny blue automobile. She sat in the back seat carrying Chudi, Papa took the passenger’s seat, and Mr. Oraedu drove off. Papa briefed us on the situation. 'I have reliable information that Port Harcourt will be invaded today in fact my source says that Biafran government is fully aware of the impending invasion, but does not want to cause a panic by evacuating Port Harcourt. On the contrary the dreaded Colonel Achuzia has been ordered to prevent any body from leaving Port Harcourt. As civil servants we must report to duty but we decided to smuggle out our families immediately, because by the time the Federal troops enter, it will be very difficult to move. We will return to Oba after work with Oradeu’s car.'

                ‘Stephen, I was also given full information on the military operation in the creeks. Since August 1967, Biafran gunboats have been battling with Nigerian Navy warships for the control of Bonny. Nigerian aircraft bombers and helicopters, assisted by their British-made warships against Biafran-made gunboats soon made Biafrans withdraw. The Biafran Navy however blocked the creeks, successfully halting the Nigerian move to Port Harcourt. Because the coastline is too large for complete surveillance by the Biafran Navy, some Nigerian boats penetrated undetected and landed troops at Onne. Biafrans fought relentlessly. They sank the invading boats and pushed the rest back to sea, confiscating their store.’ He paused to turn into the main road and avoided a stray dog in the middle of the road. But for a few vehicles, the motorway was deserted. Mr. Oraedu continued ‘At about the same time that Umuahia fell in April, the Nigerians invaded Obete and Okono through the Imo River, heading towards Port Harcourt. Biafran defense was so stiff that the Federal troops were forced withdraw, but the Nigerians launched another attack supported by jet bombers which gave them access into Okpantu and Kwawa, constant artillery bombardment brought the enemy to Kani Babbe and Maribu. In spite of daredevil defense by Colonel Achuzia, the Nigerians entered Umuabayi and Bori and marched as far as Obigbo, Aletu and Okrika. With the pace at which they are moving, Port Harcourt will fall sometime today. We have paid a driver from the Ministry of Agriculture carrying cocoa beans northwards to take you all to Oba.'

                The car pulled up at the secret spot off the major road where an enormous truck was packed. It was an open truck full of big brown bags. Our fathers looked around to see that there was nobody about. The truck driver, a dark skinny fellow with over-veined hands and neck jumped out, peered suspiciously around, ran round, and opened the rear part of the massive vehicle. There was a path between the big brown bags of cocoa beans leading to the center where the Oraedus were crouching and looking anxious. Papa handed us to the driver who passed us to Mrs. Oraedu. The lady made space for us to sit on the floor and received our bags from Papa. The three men climbed unto the truck, grabbed bags of dried cocoa seed from other parts of the vehicle and used them to seal off the path within the truck.

                ‘May God lead you home,’ Papa prayed, and jumped down letting the driver lock the rear. With a deafening sound the truck roared into life and sped off.

                'If the truck stops you must keep silent!' Mrs. Oraedu shouted above the engine noise 'not a word from any of your children. Okay?'

 'Yes ma,’ we uniformly replied.

                As we proceeded towards safety Mama started to pray. I thought about Papa and Mr. Oraedu abandoned in that apparently peaceful city that was destined to be overrun by uniformed licensed killers later in the day. Why had they chosen to risk their lives instead of coming away with us? Yes I knew the answer immediately. If they left the town before it became clear that the city was falling it would be obvious that they had pre-knowledge of the invasion, which meant only one thing to the Biafran authorities, that they were saboteurs, and the punishment for sabotage was instant death. The truck suddenly screeched to a noisy stop. Mama covered Chudi’s mouth, as he toddled up and down.

'Where are you going!' Barked a hoarse voice trained to frighten. Other male voices could be heard in the background with the thud of moving boots.

'Nnewi, this is government vehicle’, came the driver’s reply.

‘Your papers! Yelled the officious voice

‘Here they are officer’

A heavy moment passed.

‘What are you carrying?

The women trembled with trepidation.

‘Cocoa, Ministry of Agriculture.

A stiff moment slipped slowly by.

‘You can go’, conceded the voice of authority.

‘Thank sir.’

The engine came alive and the truck surged forward once again. Mama freed Chudi’s mouth and the child started crying. When Chudi was eventually consoled, Mama started a woman-to-woman chat with Mrs. Oraedu while the children now feeling more relaxed, played and joked. A short while afterwards the truck reduced its speed and came to a grinding halt.

‘Are you running away?' Came a harsh masculine voice, amid the stamping of boots.

'No sir, I am from the Ministry of Agriculture delivering cocoa to Nnewi;’ replied the driver.

‘Let me see your papers!' The voice barked sternly. After an endless pause. The officer stormed. ‘We have orders not to let anyone leave Port Harcourt, what are you carrying?

'Cocoa sir’ the endless seconds crawled past without any break in.

tension.

 'Corporal!'

                Earth-trembling thuds followed. Every nerve and sinew of my being quivered uncontrollably. Another voice replied, ‘at your service sir!

 'Control this vehicle!' Mama and Mrs. Oraedu gazed helplessly at each other, the children terrified. My eyes snapped in my skull as the sound of climbing boots was followed by the thrust of a bearded black face over the bags and a uniformed body with two wiry hands.’ Please, please have mercy on the children, in the name of God,’ Mama pleaded in a muffled voice.

 ‘Please young man don’t report us.’ Said Mrs. Oraedu.

   The Corporal quickly descended, his boots stamping nosily. 'There are two women and little children, sir', 'Driver you lied to me!' The officer, enraged, exploded furiously.

'They are women and little children sir', gasped the driver.

'Come down and open your truck!' Bleated the officer. The creaking of metal door was preceded by loud thuds of boots on asphalt. The clang of shifting iron heralded the opening of the rear part of the truck. Every fiber and nerve of my body pitched to its utmost. The angry eyes of the ugly officer, examined us sneeringly, the way a snake looks at its prey. The silence drew out for a while, then he exploded. 'Get out women! All of you!'

 'Please officer, for the sake of the children,’ Mama begged, tears rushing down her face.

 'My orders are not to let anybody leave Port Harcourt; you must get down and return to Port Harcourt. Driver you will continue your journey alone!'

                A wire pulled at the fabric of my mind and I was flooded in a tempest of horror. 'Please sir at least let me take home the innocent children,' whispered the driver.The cowardly face of the officer reflected momentarily. ‘Okay, take the children home, ladies get down and return to Port Harcourt, get down fast before the others see the children.'

 Mama handed Chudi to Chinyelu, a look of apathy in her eyes. As our mothers made their exit from the truck we started screaming, but the rear door banged shut. A moment later the engine revved again and we continued on our journey completely disoriented.

                ‘We must stop crying and start thinking about our travel’, counseled Aikay one of Oreadu’s son. ‘If we are to survive this trip we must grow up and keep calm'.

                Gradually the crying subsided. The truck towed its way uninterrupted so we started to relax a bit. I was even thinking of what I would do as soon as we reached Oba. Would Nonso and Uncle Nathan be there, with our long string of wonderful relations? I assured myself that somehow our parents would get to Oba.

                Suddenly the truck braked abruptly. Instead of the usual boots we heard an awe-inspiring riverine war-song, the horrifying creak of machetes sharpening on asphalt and many masculine voices speaking incomprehensively in Ikwere dialect. Chudi was about to cry, so Chinyelu put his feeding bottle into his mouth and started feeding him.

                ‘Where you dey go? A voice rang out loud in Pidgin English beyond the other raucous voices.

‘Nnewi sir, Ministry of Agriculture.’ Came the usual reply.

 ‘I don’t care about your ministry, I want to know where you dey go now, you hear, landlord, have you finished collecting your rent in Port Harcourt? Now the Hausas are coming and you want to run!’

                ‘I am a civil servant sir, I have no property in Port Harcourt, I am delivering cocoa beans to Nnewi sir’, the driver’s voice quivered with fright.

‘We are Ikwerre people and our Chief order us not to allow any Ibo man pass this road, you must return to Port Harcourt and collect your rent, landlord!’

                ‘Look at my papers sir, I am, working for government Ministry of Agriculture, I have instructions from government to deliver these cocoa beans to Nnewi!' The driver protested feebly.

 'Wali look inside that motor! Look inside that motor,' yelled the irate tribesman.

                ‘Yes Oga,’ blurted a weaker voice. The terrifying clank of shoes on steel was followed by the push of a bony face with bloodshot eyes above the bags of cocoa beans.

                ‘Come, see people here!' The man shouted in poorly developed English. Six other angry young men climbed frenetically into the truck, their eyes darting menacingly. They immediately jumped down.

                ‘Why, you lie to me?' Demanded the militia leader.

‘They are only little children, innocent children, what do they know about the war?' The driver tried to explain, but he was interrupted with loud slaps. He cried out in pain.

                ‘Wali, give him twenty-four strokes of the cane,’ the headman ordered abruptly. We heard the rough opening of door the ensuing shuffles and a noisy struggle as the infuriated mob dragged out the driver and started flogging him. He resisted with all his strength shouting out in pain. When the torturers were finally through, their master bellowed acidly, 'Take the children back to Port Harcourt make them face the enemy, their fathers dominated and colonize our people, today be judgment day and they must to pay. They must pay for the crime of their fathers!'

                The truck swung into a massive U-turn and started heading back to Port Harcourt. Images of sheep led to the slaughter crowded into me. Hidden and frightened emotions emerged from where they had been locked up, causing a heaviness of heart. Shivers scurried through my being as if iced water was poured over my naked body. Pictures of all the nightmares I had known since the war started came rushing swiftly back, myriads of a haunted premonition assailed me as I pondered the hopeless and dangerous situation we were facing. The imminence of certain death voluntarily opened my mouth and gave vent, as the rest of the children ventilated their terror. An idea flitted through my dazed mind. Rather be killed by the invading Nigerians or these sneaky riverine creeps, wasn’t it better to jump off the truck and die in my boots? My eyes shifted around the faces of the other children. Something in their eyes stopped me.

The petrol station where the battered truck driver had abandoned us was in the center of Port Harcourt town, a quarter designed like the West End of London with beautiful multi-storey buildings that the Ibo had painstakingly constructed in the illusion that Nigeria would remain one country, where all her citizens could dwell in whichever part of the nation they pleased, in pursuance of whatever career their ability, and not their area of origin, permitted. But those were lofty dreams of a politically naïve people who had concentrated too much on trade, patriotic to a fault, which is why they traveled to every part of Nigeria and developed their cities and industries to the detriment of their own homes. Which Yoruba man has ever built a hut outside the West? Which Hausa man has ever built a hut outside North? But the Ibos who were by far the most patriotic Nigerians were now labeled rebels to justify their extermination. Port Harcourt the city that they built in the image of paradise was falling apart, a logjam of ethnic hatred was rapidly manifesting in all parts of the garden city.

                The invasion of Port Harcourt had begun in earnest, much earlier in the day than anticipated, and the Federal forces were bombarding the town by land, sea and air, hailing havoc and panic into the over-populated city. The terrorized civilian populace was trying desperately to escape from the town, before it would be completely overrun by the Third Marine Commandos, with its gory implications. Meanwhile thousands of irate Ikwerre  demonstrators mounted roadblocks on the major road that lead out of Port Harcourt to the Ibo heartland, in a frenzied bid to prevent the Ibo from leaving. Thus they would have completed their own side of conspiracy that would make them owners of properties constructed by decades of hardened Ibo labour.

                Vehicles loaded to the last inch of space with people and their belongings purred noisily, struggling fervently to maneuver their way through the traffic jams. As horns blared loudly, thousands of pedestrians, mostly women and children, tried to fight their way through the fanatical mobs. The rattle of nearby gunshots, the death-whistle of rockets and the inevitable thunderous explosion that blew buildings to bits, combined with loud anatomical overtones in making the petrol station a living inferno.

                We had been there for four long hours watching the world go mad as we huddled together crying out for help. But people had other problems, the one group trying to get out, and the other, decidedly incapable of killing the refugees themselves for reason to numerical strength resolved to hold them back until the powerful foe arrived to finish the job. Why not, they had Ibo property to gain, dead or alive, if the Ibo were dead, better still less complications.

                We only succeeded in getting indifferent glances from the intent faces of the disorganized exodus. With the exception of Chudi, none of us had eaten anything since the driver maddened by rage from the beating inflicted on him, dumped us here and made off with our bags. Only the baby’s bag was recovered, because I had hung it over my shoulder. However we could not permit ourselves the luxury of feeling hungry. Such human urge disappeared in the ugly face of impending death.

                Oraedu’s children were very vocal, shouting their father’s name and imploring him to come to their rescue. From a tributary street a procession of fierce-looking wrapper-clad women entered the major road, repeating a bloodcurdling riverine chant. A misty odor rose from their clammy armpits and pervaded the stiffened air. Behold, their banner was a freshly severed human, leg, dripping blood. At the sight of this nightmarish apparition, Oraedu’s children started calling their father’s name even more loudly. The rest of us froze with fright.

                ‘What are you doing here?' A tremulous voice asked from behind us. We turned, it was Mr. Oraedu. Papa was walking briskly through the queue of vehicles that were attempting in vain to get fuel from the crowded filling station.

                ‘We thought you had left town,’ alarm glistened in papa’s eyes.

'And where are your mothers?' Mr. Oraedu demanded with widened eyes.

                ‘The soldiers turned them back and later the rioters turned us back,' I answered. Mr Oraedu’s hands flung up in despair. His rising sense of panic was perceptible. 'Where do you say your mothers are?' He addressed the question to nobody in particular.

'The rioters turned them back?' Replied Aikay Oraedu.

‘Stephen, do you hear what these children are saying?' His lips trembled as the words tumbled out.

                ‘We had gone far out of town before they turned us back,' Aikay explained.

'Where is the driver?' Papa inquired.

                ‘The rioters flogged him so much that he got very angry and dropped us here', I said.

' Jesus Christ!' Exclaimed Mr. Oraedu. 'Stephen so if we hadn’t stopped here in our attempt to get fuel, that would have been it for all our children, where on earth are their mothers?

                ‘Let’s move there’s no time,' Papa suggested. Mr. Oraedu managed to extricate the Volkswagen Beetle from the congestion. There were two frightened children in the back seat. The feminine death procession passed, leaving the echoes of their stamping feet behind.

‘ I promised their parents this morning that I would deliver them to the refugee camp at Owerri, they have no vehicle of their own and the car they are using cannot take all of them' Mr. Oraedu explained. By a whim of necessity the two men packed all of us into the little vehicle, taking up all available spaces. Ifeoma and Ebele sat on Papa’s legs while I sat within the little space between his thighs, raising my head for air. Okwu carried Chudi.

                ‘You know the area well?' Papa asked Mr. Oraedu.

‘Like the palm of my hand’ replied the gentleman. He turned the ignition, started the engine and struggled meanderingly into the jammed street. Instantly a group of wild-looking thugs besieged the Volkswagen, a sinister leer on their faces as they taunted our fathers, banging on the vehicle.

                ‘Landlord are you going home finally? Landlord, are running away? No! No! Landlord stay back, Port Harcourt is your home!' They grinned without humor. The worn smell of unwashed bodies assaulted the beleaguered air and I felt the slide of dismay in my chest.

                ‘Landlord what about your tenants?

                ‘Landlord have you finished collecting your rent?' They ran furiously around the car brandishing their gleaming machetes threateningly. 'Landlord we can’t let you leave!' With a snort of brusquer laughter, they dramatized and grabbed the car, frontally lifting it off the ground until it was nearly standing vertically. Our scattered quivering terrified screaming stopped them from completely somersaulting the vehicle. They replaced the car with a thud, looked inside it with faces contorted by envy, and saw that it was full of half-crushed children.

                ‘Let the children go!' Their ringleader ordered. The hooligans cleared the way in a zombie-like manner. Mr. Oraedu immediately accelerated, getting off the major road. We found ourselves in a smaller less congested lane.

                ‘Are we going through the villages?' Papa asked.

                ‘Heaven forbid! Ibos who try to escape through Ikwerre villages are instantly turned into minced meat.’ Mr. Oraedu revved the car swiftly through the gears, firing into the less popular roads that he knew too well, avoiding the groups of native hoodlums that we occasionally sighted. Suddenly the air around us exploded thunderously and an infernal furnace rose up in a distance behind us. Instantly suffocating heat engulfed the atmosphere.

                ‘What was that?' Papa inquired nervously. ‘The oil wells, they have been set on fire. Rather than hand them over to Nigeria intact Biafra decided to set them ablaze, but you know what this means to us, we’ve got to get out of Port Harcourt immediately because this means that the Biafran troops are retreating. We must cross the Imo River bridge fast before they blow it up, that is the only major obstacle between Port Harcourt and the Ibo heartland.’ Mr. Oraedu elucidated, his eyes on the road ahead.

                ‘The trouble is that we are going round and round', Papa started but Mr. Oraedu forestalled him with. ‘It’s the only way to avoid these lazy, ogogoro-drunken hooligans,' Mr. Oraedu swerved into a stretching road with little traffic. Sunset made an unannounced entrance as the sun which was covered by a violent blood-red coat made way for the dim headlamp. We swung into a crowded major road.

                ‘We have beaten them,’ he exclaimed.

                ‘We have by-passed Ikwerre land, Papa explained.

                We were too hungry and fatigued to rejoice and Chudi was crying aloud although nobody seemed to notice.

                ‘Are you sure their mothers will make it on foot? Papa’s face clouded over with preoccupation.

                ‘Only God knows, if it is his wish they will make it, if not….’ The flow of sweat damped Mr. Oraedu’s face. We drove for a long while in the winding shell-churned road; the other vehicles on the road were in much the same state as ours. The over-loaded trucks carried passengers on their roofs and sides and all other spaces large enough to balance in.

The stretch of jungle on the two sides occasionally manifested a deserted house. I wondered if our mothers were in any of those houses and if they were safe. My mind went to Boma and his parents and I hoped they had got safely out of Port Harcourt.

                ‘We are approaching the Imo River Bridge, Mr. Oraedu informed us. Dozens of heavily armed soldiers loitered around the bridge flashing torch lights to stop commuters. The traffic crawled to a halt. The soldiers popped their heads into the vehicles and controlled the passengers. The strong flash of their torch lights dazzled the travelers as they made the men inside get out, and waved the drivers and the remaining passengers on. My heart missed a beat as I thought about Papa being taken away again, at a time that I did not know whether Mama was dead or alive.

                Soon it got to our turn, everybody inside the car froze as two battle-ready soldiers peered into the car, their eyes darting from one face to another. ‘Where are you going?' The officer on the right who was wearing a grass-disguised helmet asked Mr. Oraedu.

                ‘We are taking the children out of town, we will return as soon as we drop them'. He replied a little too quickly. I wondered if he expected them to believe the last part of his response.

                ‘We need men to defend Port Harcourt, one person is sufficient to drop the children, the other man should get down. The officer wiped sweat off his face.

                ‘I am a civil servant, Board of Internal Revenue. Because Biafra needs my services in the ministry, I have documents exempting me from military service.’ Papa explained.

                ‘Let me see,’ a hand outstretched. Papa’s trembling fingers managed to transfer a crumpled sheet of paper to the over-veined hand. He opened it and examined it with cynical eyes, finally he said. ‘You can go'.

                We heaved a sigh of relief as Mr. Oraedu smashed the Volkswagen into gear one, the little automobile responded noisily, nosing its way unto the solitary bridge with pneumatic drill on asphalt. We crossed the bridge and soon joined the long dark convoy of freedom.

BOB EJIKE

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