There Was a Country: A Personal History of Biafra (18 page)

A
IR
R
AID

It comes so quickly

the bird of death

from evil forests of Soviet technology

A man crossing the road

to greet a friend

is much too slow.

His friend cut in halves

has other worries now

than a friendly handshake

at noon
¹

The Citadel Press

News filtered in that life approached some semblance of normalcy far away from the
immediate arenas of war. A few weeks after my arrival in Ogidi I was informed that
there was a job opening in Enugu, so I packed up my family at my father’s house and
headed farther east into Igbo land, and, we hoped, away from the war zone.

Christopher Okigbo left his work at Cambridge University Press in Ibadan, where he
served as Cambridge’s West Africa manager. He suddenly appeared in Enugu a few weeks
after I arrived from Lagos. By the time we all arrived back in Eastern Nigeria, after
escaping the massacres across the rest of the country, it became clear to me that
it would be beneficial to the cause of Biafra if intellectuals worked together to
support the war effort. Christopher came to me and requested that we establish a publishing
house. It immediately seemed to me to be a very good idea, for we believed it was
necessary at this time to publish books, especially children’s books, that would have
relevance to our society.

This was something we felt very strongly about. We felt we wanted to develop literature
for children based on local thought, and we set up a firm called The Citadel Press.
Biafra declared its independence while we were developing our plans, and we were more
confident than ever that what we were doing was good for the cause. Christopher proceeded
to get a plot of land in a key area of Enugu off one of the city’s major thoroughfares—today’s
Michael Okpara Avenue.

It was a very strategic piece of land at the commercial nerve center of the future
capital of Biafra, Enugu. The building that was erected had a few rooms—one for Christopher,
one for me, one for our secretary, one area for printing and publishing machinery,
and a smaller one was a toilet. Christopher made all the arrangements himself. That
was his nature: He would get the work done before even broaching the subject, so that
when you eventually agreed to his idea (something he was sure you would), he would
then release a torrent of information, in this case about the office location, its
design, and what the building would cost us.

The first book we worked on was called
How the Leopard Got Its Claws
. John Iroaganachi, a talented author, submitted a manuscript of a version of the
African myth “How the Dog Became a Domesticated Animal,” which Professor Ernest Emenyonu
relates “abounds in various versions in many African cultures.”
¹
Christopher and I realized immediately that we wanted a different story, more or
less, and decided to spend some time on it. Iroaganachi’s story transformed into something
entirely different as I worked on it, and began to take and find avenues and openings
in a way that the original narrative hadn’t. Christopher in particular was put off
by the subservient character of the dog in the original version and was delighted
to see the next incarnation of the story. To be certain that everyone was on the same
page, Christopher asked Iroaganachi if he was ready to see his original story transformed.
Iroaganachi had no problem with the changes we had suggested, and we settled on a
joint authorship for our first book, between me, John Iroaganachi, and Okigbo, who
wrote a powerful poem,
“
Lament of the Deer,” on my invitation.

Christopher was seen less often as the war intensified. I kept on working at the office,
and he came back whenever he had some time, and we discussed a number of matters.
²
The war clearly influenced the crafting of the new story. In the second version the
leopard is the king of animals and is a peaceful and wise king. One day he is cast
out by tyrants, led by the dog, into the cold, wet wilderness. The leopard seeks help
from the blacksmith, who makes teeth and claws of steel for him, Thunder and Lightning,
that grant him his roar and strength. Then he returns to his kingdom to retake his
throne, punish the usurpers, and banish the dog to the services of man in perpetuity.
In the end the new story not only turned the ancient African fable on its head but
also clearly had manifestations of the Biafran story embedded in it.

The Ifeajuna Manuscript

Christopher and I encountered a wide variety of projects during our time at Citadel
Press. Emmanuel Ifeajuna, one of the so-called five majors who executed the January
15, 1966, coup d’état, presented a manuscript to Christopher, and he excitedly brought
it to me. I too was excited to receive it; I opened the package it came in and began
to read it. It was the story of the military coup. I read the treatise through quickly
and became more and more disappointed as I went along.

Ifeajuna’s account showcased a writer trying to pass himself off as something that
he wasn’t. For one, the manuscript claimed that the entire coup d’état was his show,
that he was the chief strategist, complete mastermind, and executer, not just one
of several. He recognized the presence of his coconspirators but did not elevate their
involvement to any level of importance.

The other problem I noted was the inconsistencies in the narrative. For instance,
the group of coup plotters are said to have met in a chalet at a catering guest house
in Enugu at night, and because what they were doing was very dangerous, there was
no light in the room, and they all sat in pitch darkness. Despite the darkness, Ifeajuna,
our narrator, goes on to say: “I stood up and addressed them while watching their
faces and noting their reactions.” The whole account was replete with exaggerations
that did not ring true.

I also struggled with the fact that the writer seemed not to appreciate the seriousness
of what he had done. Ifeajuna’s manuscript passed off the assassination of the prime
minister as light fare, as if it was all in good sport, almost as if he was saying
to his readers “I did this and I was right. I am a hero.”

When I saw Christopher Okigbo next I told him how impossible it was for me to believe
this account—I wanted to get a real sense of what really happened on that fateful
day in January 1966, not what Ifeajuna would want us to believe. Christopher, having
read the manuscript as well said, “I thought it was lyrical.” He then told me that
he bumped into Nzeogwu shortly after receiving the manuscript, and Nzeogwu said to
him: “I hear you and Achebe are planning to publish Emma’s [Ifeajuna] lies.” That
comment from Nzeogwu further placed the manuscript in disrepute.

My own private conclusion was that Ifeajuna’s manuscript was an important document,
but it was not a responsible document. I believed Nzeogwu was right. But, unfortunately
for all of us, the manuscript seems to have disappeared, which is not surprising considering
what happened to all of the people involved in its story. Ifeajuna and Nzeogwu are
both dead, robbing us all of the opportunity of reading two competing versions of
what transpired. They are no longer here to help fill this void. This is what gives
me my only regret: I could have published the manuscript and called it special publishing
,
as opposed to so-called regular or mainstream publishing, so that at least a version
of what happened, however flawed, warts and all, would be available for debate.

Staying Alive

While I worked at the Citadel Press, Christie, with her characteristic ingenuity and
flair for design, created a home for us in this new city. When we arrived in Enugu
we quickly found accommodation on the outskirts of town. It was an apartment complex
with two subunits. We took the flat upstairs and converted this empty space into a
very livable, comfortable accommodation. She employed a number of workers, including
painters, masons, carpenters, and electricians, over a short period of time in this
miraculous feat of transformation. The other tenant of this building was a charming
architect. He too went ahead, and architecturally altered the lower living quarters
to meet his needs. We could leave to the eye of the beholder whether this pleasant
artist’s taste was eccentric or eclectic. But one thing was clear: His new design
did not go down well with the landlord.

I put my family to bed one hot night toward the end of the renovation, and opened
a window to let a gentle, cool breeze in. At about 2:00
A.M.
Christie first heard the noise of an intruder. She alerted me, and I shouted at the
top of my voice, “Where is my gun?” We saw the outline of a figure in the dark dash
past us and jump through the open window. The intruder thankfully did not realize
that I did not possess a gun and was adamantly against the use of firearms. The next
day the workmen were one person short. When we asked where the missing man was we
were told that he had gone to the hospital to nurse a broken leg.

—

I traveled abroad soon after the move to Enugu, on a mission for the people of Biafra.
I asked my close friend Christopher Okigbo to take care of my family while I was away.
Christie was pregnant, and I turned my young family over to Christopher for protection
during this precarious time. In a quintessential Christopher Okigbo move, he promptly
checked them into the catering guest house, a swank hotel chain of the day, first
run smartly by the colonial British government and then quite well by the government
of the first republic of Nigeria. This particular branch was now in the hands of the
Biafrans and had, in the words of Christopher, clearly an unbiased judge, “returned
to its former glory.” In any case, Christopher had connections with the manager and
introduced my wife and family as one of his own.

One day Christie asked Christopher to get her a number of things for lunch from a
nearby restaurant and said that she would “pay for it all.” She had a very powerful
craving for fried plantains, beans, and a delicacy called
Isi Ewu.
Okigbo agreed to do so but instead telephoned the manager of the catering guest house,
telling him that Christie Achebe, who was pregnant, needed the food items urgently,
and that the food should be delivered to his room, and he would then make sure it
got to her. After waiting two to three hours, Christie called Christopher about the
food. Okigbo did not respond on the telephone but showed up in their room with the
explanation that he had inadvertently eaten it, thinking it was a special lunch made
for him. They could not believe it. On hearing this, my three-year-old son, Ike, who
had uncharacteristically, for someone his age, been waiting patiently for lunch, launched
at Okigbo, tackling him to the ground and punching him with everything he had. Okigbo
howled and feigned pain, and then made sure he got my family a hearty dinner to eat.

I returned from my trip abroad to the news that my mother, who was quite frail, had
suddenly become quite sick. Her able and diligent physician, Dr. Theophilus Mbanefo,
had worked tirelessly to care for her, and now he thought it best for her entire family
to come back briefly and pay their “last respects.” I was very close to my mother,
and I sent Christie and my family ahead of me while I worked through my private pain
and wrapped up some business at the Citadel Press. My family subsequently left with
our driver, Gabriel, for Ogidi to join the rest of my family at Mother’s bedside.

Christopher and I were working in this office of ours that morning, the first day
a military plane flew over Enugu. Our editorial chat was disturbed by the sudden drone
of an enemy aircraft overhead, and the hectic and ineffectual small-arms fire that
was supposed to scare it away, rather like a lot of flies worrying a bull. Not a very
powerful bull, admittedly, at that point in the conflict. In fact, air raids were
crude jokes that could almost be laughed off. People used to say that the safest thing
was to go out into the open and keep an eye on the bomb as it was pushed out of the
invading propeller aircraft. We heard the sounds of more bombs exploding in the distance,
and Christopher, who already seemed familiar with planes and military hardware, shouted,
“Under the table!” Most of the other Biafrans were going about their business as usual,
unperturbed by this menace flying above their heads. As Christopher and I listened
uneasily, an explosion went off in the distance somewhere, and the attack was soon
over. We completed our discussion and departed. But that explosion that sounded so
distant from the Citadel offices was to bring him back for a silent farewell on that
eventful day.
¹

After the plane disappeared into the distance, Christopher said he had to leave, and
I went to check on something that was already in the press—the first booklet that
we were publishing for children. As I sat there working that day I heard the sound
of an aircraft above, followed by bedlam in the distance. I shrugged this particular
katakata
, or chaos, off as another bombing raid from the Nigerians and got on with my chores.
I set out to visit a business colleague and decided to stop at the house for a minute
before proceeding to my original destination. At the house I saw a huge crowd and
realized that it was my apartment complex that had been bombed!
²

I pushed my way through the assembly to the edge of a huge crater in the ground beside
the building, about a hundred feet from my children’s swing set. Luckily Christie
and the children had left in the nick of time. Had there been anyone in the house
they would not have survived.
³

Okigbo was standing among the crowd. I can still see him clearly in his white gown
and cream trousers among the vast crowd milling around my bombed apartment, the first
spectacle of its kind in the Biafran capital in the second month of the war. I doubt
that we exchanged more than a sentence or two. There were scores of sympathizers pressing
forward to commiserate with me or praise God that my life or that the lives of my
wife and children had been spared. So I hardly caught more than a glimpse of him in
that crowd, and then he was gone like a meteor, forever. That elusive impression is
the one that lingers out of so many. As a matter of fact, he and I had talked for
two solid hours that very morning. But in retrospect that earlier meeting seems to
belong to another time.
⁴

I set off after that brief encounter with Christopher, homeless, to see my mother.
My entire family was present in Ogidi, huddled, with long faces, grieving. Women could
be heard sobbing in the distance. Some, like my brother Augustine, had just come in
from Yaba, Lagos. Others, like Frank, our eldest brother, had arrived from Port Harcourt,
where he worked for the Post and Telecommunications Corporation (P&T). I was informed
soon after I got there that Mother had asked to see us all. We trooped into her bedroom
one at a time and got to spend some private time with her. Soon after that, she passed
away. Our people report that her spirit called my family away from Enugu to save their
lives. I will not challenge their ancient wisdom.