The Unprepared Fantasy Paradise Called Biafra; An Eye Opener For Igbo Youths By Emeka Ubesie

The euphoria of the actualization of the Sovereign State of Biafra has become an outlandish symphony, that most young Igbos have decided to dance to under a shimmering hot sun in this 21^st century, without a proper assessment of the benefits and upshot of dancing to such a fatal song of this tempo, at the wrong time.

I’m an Igbo man, whose ancestors had played a vital role in preserving the heritage of the Igbo culture and values, in the little way they could and I’m proud to say here that most of my fallen ancestors that had gone to the world beyond, participated actively in the Biafra Civil War, which was led by Ojukwu in 1967-1970. I wasn’t in existence at that time, but rather, I was privileged to cohabit with some intelligent homo sapiens that fought the war for years and the experiences they garnered, were bequeathed in my consciousness. I’m one of those million lucky young Igbos that were fortunate to hear the Biafra War story from the orifice of some of our ancestors that pulled the trigger, right in the battle field and even participated in the building of the so called  ‘’Ogbunigwe,’’ the local bomb.

My father told me his own version of the Biafra War story when I was younger, of how he fought the war, alongside his brothers at a very tender age. Tony Ubesie, one of my ancestors of a blessed memory, who later became a Captain in the Biafra Army at the age of eighteen, also had his own account of the war. Tony was among the few individuals that were opportune to pass through the four walls of the University of Nigeria, Nsukka after the war, where he studied Igbo linguistics from 1976-1980 and I’m so pleased to have navigated through the same walls and also partook from the same ‘’Lions Heritage,’’ just as he did. He was later nicknamed Bullet, a.k.a Ukpaka Gbagburu Enyi, during the war. Tony dropped an Igbo novel that was titled ‘’Juo Obinna,’’ after the Civil War and this wasn’t his only novel anyway. Through this novel, he was able to decipher gently, his experience during the Biafra War and this well narrated, explicit and articulated master piece was published by Oxford University Press in 1977, if my memory still serves me right. I believe that most of these young Igbos that are busy clamouring for the State of Biafra at this virgin period have not read a single book that told the story of our Civil War. Most of them cannot even speak our native language (Igbo), let alone reading it - what a shame.

I never wanted to embark on this writing escapade, but my instinct revealed to me that some young Igbos really need to hear my honest position on this subject matter. I have, but a few questions to ask my fellow Igbo youths that are flocking the internet with various pictures and written journals about the Biafra War that they never witnessed and my questions go this way;

What infrastructure or frame work have you built for your Biafra to stand upon? Don’t you know that for a state, like the one you all are canvassing for to stand, it needs a strong economic, political and social frame work that will stand a test of time? Don’t you also think that what you should be talking about at this juncture is to sort for the most effective and long lasting ways, of uniting these Eastern States, which have fallen apart like pieces of Ukpaka seeds? Think about this; why can’t the Eastern Governors pull resources together and build your region? Who are those that will manage the affairs of your Biafran State? Is it these same Eastern (Igbo) Governors that have wrecked and stolen all the money that were meant for the development of the Eastern Region? I’m not against your determination in actualizing your Biafra dreams, or either am I an anti Biafra, but the truth must be told, no matter if it taste as bitter as an Onigbu leaf. I believe strongly that the Igbos are not ready and matured yet to possess this their daydreaming state. Brood over on these questions for a minute, while I fill up my ‘who send you glass cup’, with some fresh palm wine that my good friend bought along Epe axis of Lagos State.

 Do you have any wharf in the Eastern Region? How many functional industries do you have in your region? What have these individuals who are busy brainwashing you and telling you to get ready for war done for an average Igbo youth? What is the shape of all the Universities that are located in the Eastern Region like? Do you have an efficient Dam that will power the whole region if you go home now? What is the condition of the Eastern roads like? What are the Eastern Governors doing with their respective federal allocations? Just to ask, but a few.

Take your time as an Igbo youth to assess and analyze the wretched condition of Abia State and other states that are in the Eastern Region and write a report to that effect, without compromising your findings. Are these states not managed by the Igbos (Governors)? Are these Governors from the Northern or Western part of Nigeria? Is this the type of Biafra that you need? The Igbos are busy developing other states and allowing grasses to take over their lands. When was the last time you visited your village as a patriotic son or daughter of the soil, of the Igboland? Of a truth, almost all the elders that fought during the Civil War regretted why they embarked on such an unprepared expensive mission, which almost sent the entire Igbo race into extinction.

Some youths of the Igboland need complete metamorphosis of their psychology because, most of them have decided to compromise rationality for mediocrity. Let’s become more realistic in our judgement for a while, and stop following the band wagon of the jonses. If you really want your quest to transmute into a reality, it is of a greater importance that the Igbos should first build a foundation for their home and stop chasing after shadows. I foresee major ethnic wars and crisis amongst the Igbos in less than ten years, if the youths choose this unprepared means to achieve their Biafra dreams.

I was opportune to have conversation with some old men that fought the Civil War and I can boldly say here that most of them never liked it because; the Igbos were never ready for it at that time. Do you want history to repeat itself? Where you privileged to see your grandfathers? I didn’t see mine either because, he died out of accumulated stress that was bequeathed on him by the Biafra War. The stories of my ancestors ended the same way, after my thorough inquiries and I believe that all these young Igbos, who are busy clamouring for Biafra now have not witnessed a real bloody fight, let alone a war. How many of you can pull a trigger and whisked away the brain of a man right from his skull, just in a single target?

My honest advice and opinion here is that, the Igbo youths should tell those people that are in their various hidden bulletproof cars to develop their home first, before forcing you (the youths) to embark on an unplanned journey home. The aftermaths of an unprepared war is always more deadly and gravely than HIV and the tomorrow of an average Igbo youth is more realistic and sure to an extent, in this present Nigeria that is still looking for her bearing, than this your unprepared fantasy paradise called Biafra.

(Emeka is a young Nigerian writer. He is a member of Nigerian Institute of Management (NIM), Institute of Public Diplomacy and Management (IPDM), Chartered Institute of Purchasing & Supply Management of Nigeria (CIPSMN) and The Royal Life Saving Society of Nigeria)

 

 

Hip Hop Is Not For Children (Poem) By Emeka Ubesie

Some men believe Hip hop is for children,

But I haven’t seen a child who is a gangster.

 

Hip hop is life; it’s food, lovelier than a wife,

The best motivator,

The language that illuminates the truth about life to humans,

The fighter for human equality, the killer of racism,

Hip hop thinks like a wise woman and acts like an old man.

 

I call her my drugs, my saviour, my inner sorcerer,

My companion, the language of the black gods.

 

Hip hop is Africa, it is black in colour,

The medium that Negros use to pass message(s) to the White Aliens,

Hip hop is so hard, harder than a man’s erection,

More explosive than come shot, so wired than bitches,

Hip hop was born by an African mother,

She puckers brows when things are done the wrong way.

 

Hip hop is revolutionary; it’s a secret fighter,

A culture, a cult and a deity,

Hip hop is a gospel, the comforter of the street.

 

It is a ritual that the gods speak along with an instrumental or synthesized beat,

Life without Hip hop is like living in a world without a motivator,

I die, when Hip hop dies.

(Emeka is a young Nigerian writer who is endowed in a special way with storytelling knack, just   like his ancestors. His short fiction stories and poems have emerged as Guest Post on ‘A Loco Viva Voce,’ and host of other literary blogs)

{Email: emekaubesie@yahoo.com, Twitter: @emeka_ubesie}

 

 

The Lost African Goddess (Short Fiction) - By Emeka Ubesie

One Saturday afternoon at exactly 1:00pm, I lay on my bed, reminiscing on how I had spent seven years, reading a course of five years in one of these miserable Universities in Nigeria and the panorama of all my activities in the institution within these years were flashing one after the other in my memory just like the big round-headed torchlight of my village palm wine tapper, Mazi Okigwe. The nook and cranny of my Odenigwe lodge arena was covered with an absolute tranquility, as most international and indigenous students had transmuted to their various countries and homes after the first semester examination.

Standing in front of me was my long tiny neck fan, which sat on its round leg on the floor for hours, moping at me like a figurine without blowing a single air towards my direction because, we hadn’t had power for about five days now. The weather was hot; I mean very hot, that my black skin almost baked like an Agege bread. Incessantly, I rolled like an Avu ani snake, from one edge of my bed to the other searching for solace and panting profusely, but the heat’s intensity doubled as the hands of my wall clock moved, ticktock, ‘I have cooked.’ I bawled, staggered, as I climbed down from my long bed. At the same time, I reached out my hands to split the pieces of curtain that covered my window, so as to allow the free flow of air in and out of my self-contain apartment.

Suddenly, my eyes caught a figure that stood outside through a miniature space on my window, and I needed no prophet to reveal to me who owned that figure eight shaped body that was standing out there. I shrieked almost immediately, ‘the African goddess.’ She turned, smiled back at me while relaxing on the minuscule handrail that was affixed on a long balcony in front of our bungalow lodge and gradually, she moved in reverse, cracked open the handle of my wooden door, walked majestically into my room and sat in front of me with her legs widely open. She was wearing a tight skinny blue jean that reminded me of Baba Fela’s pants in his Lagos shrine, way back in the early ninety’s.

Straight away, as a sharp guy, I initiated a discussion that had to do with Africa and her enormous literary works and culture, which the gods bequeathed on her as a continent. I presumed in my own little mind and thought that she was going to enjoy my rollercoaster; riding and colliding with me at every juncture in this our literary adventure. After all, her name had Africa attached to it. But I fell a bit disappointed and embarrassed as she sighed snappily, pulled a face and looked at me like; ‘Huh! What did you just say?’ Quietly, I swallowed a pool of saliva that had already secreted in my mouth, as the guy man in me was busy writing a crazy script, on the amount of Akpako that she was going to receive from me this hot afternoon. Hastily, I took a deep breath, inhaled and exhaled spontaneously, as I tried to refine my Igbotic intonation a bit and gradually, I repeated myself.

‘No! I totally disagree with you,’ she yelled at me. Overwhelmingly, I pulled myself up, sat on the bed and moped at her like an effigy.

As we sat on my bed analyzing some recent Nollywood movies, she was of the opinion that Africans have no story to tell the world through their literary works, movies, music and culture. We digressed a bit in our discussion, while I glimpsed at her beautiful face with a shock, as if I was hit by a missile that journeyed from one of these Boko Haram camps, which is located somewhere in the Northern part of Nigeria – confuse ga duma, slipped from my maw uncontrollably, as my eyeballs focused on her face.

‘What?’ I queried her uneasily, as my heart battered like one of those Oloko, with crazy engines that I spotted along Yaba Market in Lagos State. The last time I spotted the Oloko was two weeks ago, when I visited Lagos. I was inside a commercial Danfo bus on my way to Surulere and it was gradually rolling on its feeble wrecked rails.

I couldn’t fathom this grave blasphemy that hopped out from the orifice of an African young lady of about 25 years old in this 21st century and I wept bitterly on her behalf because, I realised that Africa just lost another daughter to folly.

‘Chai!’ I screamed and wished she had existed during the days of my ancestors when the gods were still very much thirsty for the blood of individuals that committed such a big taboo with their tiny round mouth. Yes, she had a tiny mouth, the type that every active young man wouldn’t stop kissing for hours. Of a truth, she was cursed by the gods with such an evil beauty hence the nickname ‘the African goddess’. Her hip was perfectly weighed, baked and carved by the gods and it was fixed in a perfect position on her waistline. Meanwhile, her breasts stood conspicuous and pointed inside a transparent Versace top in front of her chest, like the early morning erection of a potent African man. The truth was, at that point, I had already lost my appetite to have a taste of her honey pot, because I had been tutored by my instinct on how to escape triumphantly from such enticement and my black Agbogidi in between my legs conformed and lay low like a sleeping child.

The argument was heated up for hours and she remained so adamant to accept my explicitly convincing facts, which I poured out with my last energy. After trying unsuccessfully to make her understand the marks that Africans had made on the world map of Art and Literature, I said to myself calmly ‘don’t bother’. ‘Why are you wasting your precious time arguing with a lady who hadn’t gone to her village since she was born, a lady who didn’t know how to speak her native dialect, nor had ever cooked any of her native soup. A lady who had never heard names like; Chinua Achebe, Aaron Mike Oquaye, Tony Ubesie, Akosua Busia, Albert Kwesi Ocran, Cyprian Ekwensi and so on.

Then, I quickly reminisced over some sweet African tales and stories that I was told by my father when I was four years old and I smiled and enquired from her surprisingly saying; ‘Have you ever heard or read any of these novels; The seasons of Beento Blackbird, Omenuko, Politics of the sword, Juo Obinna, Things fall apart, African night of entertainment, A myth is broken, Mmiri oku eji egbu mbe, Ojadele and his escapade to the world of the dead?’ and she howled ‘Hell No! Why should I?’ Abruptly, I quit arguing with this assumed African goddess who was lost and also ignorant of tracing her roots. I realised that she lacked the prerequisite to discuss the sacred African literary works, movies, music and culture with a young African man like moi. In response to her ignorance, I simply lay back on my bed, adjusted the pillow beneath my head, faced the wall and slept off. 

(Emeka is a young Nigerian writer who is endowed in a special way with storytelling knack, just   like his ancestors. His short fiction stories and poems have emerged as Guest Post on ‘A Loco Viva Voce,’ and host of other literary blogs)

{Email: emekaubesie@yahoo.com, Twitter: @emeka_ubesie}

 

The Biography of a Living THIRTIETH RDH (C.L.U.E. XXX RDH), the Oke Mmanwu Ndi Igbo and the Njikoka of Njikoka (1989 - 2015). By Emeka Ubesie

In 1989, I was in the company of my ancestors, perambulating and searching for the perfect panacea to the mysteries of this world. As we undulated, passed the ancestral boundary that separated the wonderful people of Enugu State and Anambra State, a thunder bellowed from the heavens and we heard a voice that echoed ‘The humanity must help herself,’ I paused and looked into the eyes of the gray headed fellow that was in our company and he yelled uncontrollably ‘The Oke Mmanwu Ndi Igbo has come to help humanity!’ and I laughed and spoke in a foreign tongue, ‘In’shallah,’ with my eyes spinning round, like Okekparikpari, the great deity of my community.

After the Oke Mmanwu Ndi Igbo was dropped from the space, he grew up somewhere in Anambra State where the gods chose for him. The Njikoka of Njikoka was enrolled in Ozalla Primary School Ifitedunu, Anambra State (1993 - 1999), by his caretakers. He attended Saint Charles Special Science School Onitsha from 1999 - 2005, where he was tutored by the best teachers (according to him). He later gained admission into University of Nigeria, Nsukka in 2006, where he became a desperado, in search of more knowledge that would help him to solve some problems of humanity, but his life turned stranded like ‘Onyeka Nwelue’s Nollywood Stranded’ in the University. When he found his virgin ass in one of the most ‘Akpo’ faculty in the University, his life became an episode, in fact, confuse ga duma. C.L.U.E. XXX RDH, began asking too many questions about life, his future and destiny, of a truth, ‘THE GRAY MESSAGE’ could not explain these things to his satisfaction, as he transmuted as a FE, without the LLOW.

In 2009 - 2010, the revolutionary spirit came fully open him like a baptism of fire in the shrine and hunted him, and at that point, he had no option than to surrender like Ebola, when it visited 9ja. After that encounter, his directionless life bought a bearing from the University market, Nsukka, and he started giving the idea of migrating from Computer Science to International Relations and Diplomacy a second thought. He played the school politics anyway, when he was still in a bizarre state of mind, way back in University of Nigeria, Nsukka.  

Oke Mmanwu Ndi Igbo graduated in 2010 and went to serve his ‘Papa land’ in Lagos (2011 – 2012).  During this period, his debut book was published by Sir Victor Uwaifo's museum I'm Benin City, and presented at Bogobiri, Ikoyi, Lagos.

In 2012 - 2014, he was involved in the Community Development Work, ICT Practices, Writing (Writing of the 1,000 paged Nigerian Centenary Compendium: The Metamorphoses of Nigeria 1914 - 2014), Journalism and Activism.

Presently, he is doing his Masters in Regional Development and International Studies in East Africa (Nairobi) and he is an intern in Pakistan High Commission, Abuja, Nigeria.

Oke Mmanwu Ndi Igbo is a Secular Humanist and he does not pray or disturb any god for anything. He is a GULDER and CIGARETTE brethren.  

Mind you, JUDAS PRIESTJUDAS PRIEST got some Money now, after he finished selling his novel MALCOLM in Nigeria, not in Nairobi.

 

Happy Birthday Oke Mmanwu Ndi Igbo,

 (C.L.U.E. XXX RDH).