By Ike Chime
It was like every other morning since my ordeal started. I woke up from the cold bare concrete floor that had become my bed from the day I was thrown into the guardroom in the quarter guard of 1st Div Nigerian army in Enugu in February 1969. I have earlier spent some months in the concentration camp further down the main street of the army barracks, ironically, a long house with barbed wires I have known since my childhood as we usually walk through the barrack during our usual childish adventures. Little did I know that the gruesome abode we often wondered what it could be used for will one day become my prison.
The concentration camp was the first place I was brought to after long tortuous interrogation on the very day I was apprehended. When I stepped into the overcrowded house, the first thing that hit me was the raw smell of human filth, an odour I have come to get familiar with. You live with it during long operations. It is a combination of body filth, due to many days without bath, rotten skin from the stockings and boot, decaying wounds, and putrefying dead bodies.
Most of the inmates were suffering from malnutrition. They were mostly bones and hollowed, but determined eyes. I was greeted by most of them with smiles of courage. They urged me to be strong, that whatever the case, victory will be ours. I was marvelled by their courage despite the hopelessness of their condition. I was in handcuffs, indeed the only one in handcuffs among hundreds of inmates in the camp.
We lay packed like sardine in the open hall; everyone kept to his little space for lying down, and sitting or standing in the day. It was the most inhuman of a situation reminding one of situation in boats during the middle passage. I have never been exposed to a situation like this before.
As a new entrant, I was taken to the inner room which was more crowded, and I could not find any space for myself as most of the inmates there were standing. I realised that in that room there was a trash can with a cover which served for the offloading of human excrement. On top of its cover I found myself the comfort of at least sitting down, but I had to get up intermittently as someone is pressed to use the can. The concentration camp was organised by the inmates, and as usual there was hierarchy. The veranda section of the house was where the seniors stay, then there was the main hall, and the smaller inner room where the newest entrants stay. The GOC of the camp stays in a comfortably spaced area in the corridor. In the evening there was a call for silence that the GOC was coming. He came into the central hall with his retinue of lieutenants. He announced that there was a new entrant today, and according to their custom, he has to introduce himself and tell what led to his coming to the house. I was nudged forward by some of the boys, and I introduced myself and what led to my ordeal. This way I was formally initiated. In the evenings, we sang and said prayers, the song that stayed with me up till date, and brings tears to my eyes when I think of it, an Igbo song that translated thus-
See that child sitting on a rock
Sitting on the rock, weeping
Rise up my child and wipe your tears
For everyday is not made for weeping
Jesus commands you to rise up and dry your tears
Every day is not made for weeping
I did not last long in this human dungeon, for I was taken away one day to the front gate of the barrack, the quarter guard area in a military guardroom where offenders of the Nigeria army serve their term. It was an open hall with three narrow rooms, one, much narrower with an iron bar. It was in that one with bars I was locked in. The soldiers were one by one taking out their frustrations on me. They will call me unprintable names, pii on me, spit on me and so on. I had to keep to the end wall of the room to avoid their humiliation. Some of them compete on whose pii can hit me from the distance.
A few days later, an elderly man in his 70's I guess, was brought into my cell, and was made to share the hand cuff with me, me on the left hand, and him on the right. It was an awkward situation as we eat and use the toilet tied together. Think ot, waiting on him to poo-poo and vice versa. He told me his story, he said he went to the bush to ease himself in the bush behind the Holy Ghost Cathedral when he found some shiny metal objects and thought they will be nice for putting snuff. He collected them and displayed them for sell in Ogbete market. I was really touched because I knew what the objects were, I knew the location he got them from, but what can I do about it? Well we were interrogated and tortured on a daily bases. The guards were instructed to beat us with bulala (horse whip) every morning. My back was so sore that it was difficult to bend down. The wounds could not dry as they were opened up every morning with fresh flogging. But there was this tall gentle provost whom whenever he was on duty will take me behind the house and ask me to start shouting while he hit the bulala on a bundle of tarpaulin by the corner. He was a very kind and fatherly type and will always smile at me. I was always happy when he was on duty, and often look forward to that.
This was the routine until 11.11.1969.
It was like every other morning during my ordeal. Our cell door was opened and there was among the regular guards a military police officer dressed in a ceremonial outfit. He exchanged some words with the guard who ordered us to come out. Outside was a waiting military Land Rover with about seven fully dressed military policemen sitting in rows holding their rifles upright with the butts on the floor of the land rover. We were aided to sit onto the floor of the vehicle. I found this kind of wired and I started feeling butterflies in my stomach. We were quiet as the vehicle left the guardroom area and started heading towards the gate. It turned right towards the city, and turned left at the New Haven junction and then right into a compound that was in those days used as the military police headquarters. There was a bevy of activities going on as I suspected they have just dismissed from their morning 'Stand to' parade. The vehicle stopped in front of the main building and turned to face the way out. This way I could see what was going on the grounds. The military policemen sat still in the Land Rover as I noticed another Land Rover being loaded with shovels and a large coil of rope. Also there was a constant communication going on with the officer who picked us up and the people loading this other vehicle. I simply put two and two together to understand what was going on. I turned to Baba and said "Baba, I think they are going to kill us"
Our vehicle left the compound with the second Land Rover trailing behind. The convoy drove back towards the barrack gate and stopped in front of the gate but along Abakaliki road. The officer in the front seat by the driver came to the tailboard and spoke some words in Hausa to the military policemen. Then it happened, we were both blindfolded. I mumbled to Baba, “Baba, you see, I told you, they are going to kill us! they are going to kill us” I shouted. Then he spoke for the first time, and that was also his last words “Nwam kachie obi” ‘My son be brave’ he said to me.
From this moment I felt cold sweat run down my body in constant waves. My mind was racing from one place to another, from one issue to another. It was more like the fast scrubbing rewind while editing a video. I was having flash memories of faces of dear ones, my parents, grandparents, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends. I mumbled their names and tell them I am going home. This experience I find very hard to fully describe. Also at the same time I was consciously trying to trace where we were being taken. I realised that the vehicle turned left after a while, registering in my mind that we were heading towards Abakpa Nike. After a while I felt the hollow echo you get while on a bridge, this further strengthened my hunch that we were heading towards Abakpa. Then after a while there was sound of increased human activity, suggesting a market area, and I thought this must be Abakpa market. After that it became very quiet except for the sound of the moving vehicle, and I thought we are now in some Nike village.
After what seemed several minutes, the vehicle stopped and we were led out of it. We were dragged through some bush and I remember falling into a ditch, probably an abandoned trench, and was dragged out of it. We went further into the bush until we stopped. I started hearing more voices, and there were some activities going on of which I could not phantom with my eyes blindfolded. Then suddenly the blindfold was removed, the blaze of the sun dazzled my eyes, and when I managed to focus, a voice said, “Hei you boy look in this direction”. I recognized that voice. It was that of the senior officer who had once interrogated me, a major by rank. I looked in the direction he ordered and saw Baba firmly tied on a stake.
Then the major continued “You are a condemned man already, the GOC have signed your death warrant, I am the only one with the power to save you, only if you will give me a reason to do so by telling me the truth and everything regarding your operation. You are too young to be wasted. If you play along I will make sure you are sent to Lagos or Kaduna to continue you education........” Then he added “But if you fail to cooperate, what will happen to this Baba, will happen to you, the ball is in your court”
All the while he was talking my mind was racing, what to do, spill the beans and expose other operators. But if I do, how do I guarantee he will keep his side of the deal. Then I remembered what happened the year before when one of us got caught in action, he spilled the beans and his two accomplice where arrested. Three of them were shot by firing squad and people were forcibly taken to the field in military trucks to witness it, and I was there. That was it, I am going solo on this, if this is my fate, I am accepting it with honour. Then I spoke thus, “You people have tortured me enough, i have told you all I know, I have nothing left to say” “ Okey o!” the major said, “ I have tried my best”
That moment there was an aircraft flying overhead, and for some reason I can’t explain, I looked up at it, and the major said “Yes you can look at an aircraft for the last time, yes, look”
He then spoke to his men in Hausa, and the military police officer took over from there. He shouted some command and the seven armed men fell in line facing Baba at the stake. At a second command they knelt down and cocked their riffle, “fire” and seven gun barrels roared, and as I watched, Baba did not flinch one bit. I thought this could be a show off; maybe they were using mock bullets. The military police officer was mad at his men for some reason I did not understand, maybe they missed their shots. He commanded them to fire again, and the guns roared one more time. Then I noticed something. Baba had a netted singlet on, and I noticed that it was split at several points, that was when it dawned on me that this was for real. I became agitated. I knew he was innocent, and they should know that. Here is an illiterate old man in his 70s selling used wares he picked from things people abandoned while running for their lives from Enugu. It is simple logic that if he knew what he picked from the bush behind Holy Ghost Cathedral was a dangerous explosive; he wouldn’t display it for sale. Now they shot him.
The soldiers quickly untied his body from the stake after the medical personnel inspected and declared him dead. This was when I saw his blood all over the stake and I could not control my emotions anymore. I shouted “You bloody vandals, you have killed an innocent old man, and you will all pay for this. The man did nothing why kill him” I was totally hysterical and out of control, I knew I had nothing to lose. The whole place was a bit out of control at this time. My shouting, the major shouting at me to shut up, the military police officer shouting to his men to dig Baba’s grave and mine at the same time. It was totally a crazy moment.
It was a hot mid morning and during the dry season. The hamattan season was early that year. In that heat I was feeling cold sweat running down my whole body, and I could not stop talking even as the major kept shouting at me to shut up. As the confusion continued, I started walking towards the stake and shouting, “Come on, let’s get this whole business done with, let’s get it done with. There is no need wasting my time, I cannot wait any longer, the die is cast, the die is cast” and some other stuff like that. To be honest I did not know what was pushing me, but I was so determined. Suddenly the major shouted “Hei! You stop there, shut up and stop there” and I obeyed. He walked over to me and said “the die is cast, the die is cast, where you got that nonsense from”. Then after staring me in the eyes for a moment while tapping his staff on his leg, he took a deep breath and gently asked me, “Are you really sure someone gave you that bag” to which I defiantly replied ”I am tired of repeating the same thing every time, I have told you this time without numbers and I took your men to the home of the fellow that gave the bag to me, I am tired, just get this done with, the die is cast” He shook his head, walked away from me and motioned to the other three officers among them. They came over to him and they put their head together in a kind of mini emergency summit. They nodded their heads, and he then raised his head and ordered “Pita de shi” Hausa word meaning, bring him out. He quickly reminded them to put the blindfold back on me.
This way I was again taken, this time out of the bush to the waiting Land Rover and put to sit on the floor, flanked by armed military police firing squad, but without Baba.
May his gentle soul and those of other innocent victims of the Biafra war keep resting in peace.
It was like every other morning since my ordeal started. I woke up from the cold bare concrete floor that had become my bed from the day I was thrown into the guardroom in the quarter guard of 1st Div Nigerian army in Enugu in February 1969. I have earlier spent some months in the concentration camp further down the main street of the army barracks, ironically, a long house with barbed wires I have known since my childhood as we usually walk through the barrack during our usual childish adventures. Little did I know that the gruesome abode we often wondered what it could be used for will one day become my prison.
The concentration camp was the first place I was brought to after long tortuous interrogation on the very day I was apprehended. When I stepped into the overcrowded house, the first thing that hit me was the raw smell of human filth, an odour I have come to get familiar with. You live with it during long operations. It is a combination of body filth, due to many days without bath, rotten skin from the stockings and boot, decaying wounds, and putrefying dead bodies.
Most of the inmates were suffering from malnutrition. They were mostly bones and hollowed, but determined eyes. I was greeted by most of them with smiles of courage. They urged me to be strong, that whatever the case, victory will be ours. I was marvelled by their courage despite the hopelessness of their condition. I was in handcuffs, indeed the only one in handcuffs among hundreds of inmates in the camp.
We lay packed like sardine in the open hall; everyone kept to his little space for lying down, and sitting or standing in the day. It was the most inhuman of a situation reminding one of situation in boats during the middle passage. I have never been exposed to a situation like this before.
As a new entrant, I was taken to the inner room which was more crowded, and I could not find any space for myself as most of the inmates there were standing. I realised that in that room there was a trash can with a cover which served for the offloading of human excrement. On top of its cover I found myself the comfort of at least sitting down, but I had to get up intermittently as someone is pressed to use the can. The concentration camp was organised by the inmates, and as usual there was hierarchy. The veranda section of the house was where the seniors stay, then there was the main hall, and the smaller inner room where the newest entrants stay. The GOC of the camp stays in a comfortably spaced area in the corridor. In the evening there was a call for silence that the GOC was coming. He came into the central hall with his retinue of lieutenants. He announced that there was a new entrant today, and according to their custom, he has to introduce himself and tell what led to his coming to the house. I was nudged forward by some of the boys, and I introduced myself and what led to my ordeal. This way I was formally initiated. In the evenings, we sang and said prayers, the song that stayed with me up till date, and brings tears to my eyes when I think of it, an Igbo song that translated thus-
See that child sitting on a rock
Sitting on the rock, weeping
Rise up my child and wipe your tears
For everyday is not made for weeping
Jesus commands you to rise up and dry your tears
Every day is not made for weeping
I did not last long in this human dungeon, for I was taken away one day to the front gate of the barrack, the quarter guard area in a military guardroom where offenders of the Nigeria army serve their term. It was an open hall with three narrow rooms, one, much narrower with an iron bar. It was in that one with bars I was locked in. The soldiers were one by one taking out their frustrations on me. They will call me unprintable names, pii on me, spit on me and so on. I had to keep to the end wall of the room to avoid their humiliation. Some of them compete on whose pii can hit me from the distance.
A few days later, an elderly man in his 70's I guess, was brought into my cell, and was made to share the hand cuff with me, me on the left hand, and him on the right. It was an awkward situation as we eat and use the toilet tied together. Think ot, waiting on him to poo-poo and vice versa. He told me his story, he said he went to the bush to ease himself in the bush behind the Holy Ghost Cathedral when he found some shiny metal objects and thought they will be nice for putting snuff. He collected them and displayed them for sell in Ogbete market. I was really touched because I knew what the objects were, I knew the location he got them from, but what can I do about it? Well we were interrogated and tortured on a daily bases. The guards were instructed to beat us with bulala (horse whip) every morning. My back was so sore that it was difficult to bend down. The wounds could not dry as they were opened up every morning with fresh flogging. But there was this tall gentle provost whom whenever he was on duty will take me behind the house and ask me to start shouting while he hit the bulala on a bundle of tarpaulin by the corner. He was a very kind and fatherly type and will always smile at me. I was always happy when he was on duty, and often look forward to that.
This was the routine until 11.11.1969.
It was like every other morning during my ordeal. Our cell door was opened and there was among the regular guards a military police officer dressed in a ceremonial outfit. He exchanged some words with the guard who ordered us to come out. Outside was a waiting military Land Rover with about seven fully dressed military policemen sitting in rows holding their rifles upright with the butts on the floor of the land rover. We were aided to sit onto the floor of the vehicle. I found this kind of wired and I started feeling butterflies in my stomach. We were quiet as the vehicle left the guardroom area and started heading towards the gate. It turned right towards the city, and turned left at the New Haven junction and then right into a compound that was in those days used as the military police headquarters. There was a bevy of activities going on as I suspected they have just dismissed from their morning 'Stand to' parade. The vehicle stopped in front of the main building and turned to face the way out. This way I could see what was going on the grounds. The military policemen sat still in the Land Rover as I noticed another Land Rover being loaded with shovels and a large coil of rope. Also there was a constant communication going on with the officer who picked us up and the people loading this other vehicle. I simply put two and two together to understand what was going on. I turned to Baba and said "Baba, I think they are going to kill us"
Our vehicle left the compound with the second Land Rover trailing behind. The convoy drove back towards the barrack gate and stopped in front of the gate but along Abakaliki road. The officer in the front seat by the driver came to the tailboard and spoke some words in Hausa to the military policemen. Then it happened, we were both blindfolded. I mumbled to Baba, “Baba, you see, I told you, they are going to kill us! they are going to kill us” I shouted. Then he spoke for the first time, and that was also his last words “Nwam kachie obi” ‘My son be brave’ he said to me.
From this moment I felt cold sweat run down my body in constant waves. My mind was racing from one place to another, from one issue to another. It was more like the fast scrubbing rewind while editing a video. I was having flash memories of faces of dear ones, my parents, grandparents, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends. I mumbled their names and tell them I am going home. This experience I find very hard to fully describe. Also at the same time I was consciously trying to trace where we were being taken. I realised that the vehicle turned left after a while, registering in my mind that we were heading towards Abakpa Nike. After a while I felt the hollow echo you get while on a bridge, this further strengthened my hunch that we were heading towards Abakpa. Then after a while there was sound of increased human activity, suggesting a market area, and I thought this must be Abakpa market. After that it became very quiet except for the sound of the moving vehicle, and I thought we are now in some Nike village.
After what seemed several minutes, the vehicle stopped and we were led out of it. We were dragged through some bush and I remember falling into a ditch, probably an abandoned trench, and was dragged out of it. We went further into the bush until we stopped. I started hearing more voices, and there were some activities going on of which I could not phantom with my eyes blindfolded. Then suddenly the blindfold was removed, the blaze of the sun dazzled my eyes, and when I managed to focus, a voice said, “Hei you boy look in this direction”. I recognized that voice. It was that of the senior officer who had once interrogated me, a major by rank. I looked in the direction he ordered and saw Baba firmly tied on a stake.
Then the major continued “You are a condemned man already, the GOC have signed your death warrant, I am the only one with the power to save you, only if you will give me a reason to do so by telling me the truth and everything regarding your operation. You are too young to be wasted. If you play along I will make sure you are sent to Lagos or Kaduna to continue you education........” Then he added “But if you fail to cooperate, what will happen to this Baba, will happen to you, the ball is in your court”
All the while he was talking my mind was racing, what to do, spill the beans and expose other operators. But if I do, how do I guarantee he will keep his side of the deal. Then I remembered what happened the year before when one of us got caught in action, he spilled the beans and his two accomplice where arrested. Three of them were shot by firing squad and people were forcibly taken to the field in military trucks to witness it, and I was there. That was it, I am going solo on this, if this is my fate, I am accepting it with honour. Then I spoke thus, “You people have tortured me enough, i have told you all I know, I have nothing left to say” “ Okey o!” the major said, “ I have tried my best”
That moment there was an aircraft flying overhead, and for some reason I can’t explain, I looked up at it, and the major said “Yes you can look at an aircraft for the last time, yes, look”
He then spoke to his men in Hausa, and the military police officer took over from there. He shouted some command and the seven armed men fell in line facing Baba at the stake. At a second command they knelt down and cocked their riffle, “fire” and seven gun barrels roared, and as I watched, Baba did not flinch one bit. I thought this could be a show off; maybe they were using mock bullets. The military police officer was mad at his men for some reason I did not understand, maybe they missed their shots. He commanded them to fire again, and the guns roared one more time. Then I noticed something. Baba had a netted singlet on, and I noticed that it was split at several points, that was when it dawned on me that this was for real. I became agitated. I knew he was innocent, and they should know that. Here is an illiterate old man in his 70s selling used wares he picked from things people abandoned while running for their lives from Enugu. It is simple logic that if he knew what he picked from the bush behind Holy Ghost Cathedral was a dangerous explosive; he wouldn’t display it for sale. Now they shot him.
The soldiers quickly untied his body from the stake after the medical personnel inspected and declared him dead. This was when I saw his blood all over the stake and I could not control my emotions anymore. I shouted “You bloody vandals, you have killed an innocent old man, and you will all pay for this. The man did nothing why kill him” I was totally hysterical and out of control, I knew I had nothing to lose. The whole place was a bit out of control at this time. My shouting, the major shouting at me to shut up, the military police officer shouting to his men to dig Baba’s grave and mine at the same time. It was totally a crazy moment.
It was a hot mid morning and during the dry season. The hamattan season was early that year. In that heat I was feeling cold sweat running down my whole body, and I could not stop talking even as the major kept shouting at me to shut up. As the confusion continued, I started walking towards the stake and shouting, “Come on, let’s get this whole business done with, let’s get it done with. There is no need wasting my time, I cannot wait any longer, the die is cast, the die is cast” and some other stuff like that. To be honest I did not know what was pushing me, but I was so determined. Suddenly the major shouted “Hei! You stop there, shut up and stop there” and I obeyed. He walked over to me and said “the die is cast, the die is cast, where you got that nonsense from”. Then after staring me in the eyes for a moment while tapping his staff on his leg, he took a deep breath and gently asked me, “Are you really sure someone gave you that bag” to which I defiantly replied ”I am tired of repeating the same thing every time, I have told you this time without numbers and I took your men to the home of the fellow that gave the bag to me, I am tired, just get this done with, the die is cast” He shook his head, walked away from me and motioned to the other three officers among them. They came over to him and they put their head together in a kind of mini emergency summit. They nodded their heads, and he then raised his head and ordered “Pita de shi” Hausa word meaning, bring him out. He quickly reminded them to put the blindfold back on me.
This way I was again taken, this time out of the bush to the waiting Land Rover and put to sit on the floor, flanked by armed military police firing squad, but without Baba.
May his gentle soul and those of other innocent victims of the Biafra war keep resting in peace.
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