Defend the Defenseless

PART ONE

Nigerian Civil War

CHAPTER ONE

LAGOS…A sheltered child, an innocent childhood

Lagos in the nineteen sixties, a bustling city proud of Nigeria’s newly acquired independence. Nigeria, which began as a geographic entity arbitrarily assembled by the British during the colonial era had become Africa’s most populous country. As its capital, Lagos had become a progressive city. Its people were proud to be omo ekos (Lagosians). ‘Highlife’ (a music genre characterized by Afro- Cubano rhythms originating in Ghana) was the music of choice. Colorful traditional outfits were worn with great pride. Nigeria’s future seemed bright.

So soon after independence, there were still remnants of the colonial structures. The civil service set up under the British remained in place, but no one minded because it was an excellent civil service and Nigerians themselves were now in charge. They now had a chance to rise to the top without colonial masters breathing down their necks. Those British individuals who remained in the civil service had to give Nigerians the respect they deserved. The Nigerian people had pride and discipline.

My father had studied engineering at the University of London and was a chief engineer in the Waterworks section of the Public Works Department (PWD). He quickly rose in rank to an Assistant Director in the later formed Ministry of Works and Housing. He was proud to be a civil servant.

My mother, who had studied nursing and midwifery at Queen Charlotte’s Hospital at Hammersmith in England, was now a full-time housewife, taking care of my six siblings and me. Her nursing background proved useful in caring for seven children.

We lived in an exclusive part of Lagos called Ikoyi, as did most civil servants and their families. It was a beautiful, safe suburb, with big houses and large compounds filled with casuarina shrubs and fruit trees. Ikoyi was filled with tree-lined streets, street lights and well paved roads. It was where the British had lived before they hauled down the Union Jack and gave us back our independence. I was a kid then, carefree, playing with my friends and brothers and sisters on the streets, riding bikes on the streets, a bit of a tomboy, climbing trees…not a worry, not a care and all so ready to act on any dare.

In our compound, there was a building tucked away at the back, completely hidden behind shrubs and a wall. The colonialists called it the Boys’ Quarters and it was used to house their servants. I remember the big mango tree with its massive trunk that towered above our two-storey home. I was told the tree was over one hundred years old. There were also almond trees in our back garden. I always looked forward to the fruit season because hundreds of fruit would fall off the trees and we could eat as many as we wanted. My siblings and I would dry the seed, crack it open and eat fresh raw almonds. They tasted good and were nourishing.

On Saturdays, my parents had the night out. My mother would dress up gorgeously in a traditional outfit called Up and Down. I assumed the outfit was called Up and Down because it had a top piece and a bottom piece. The top was usually tight fitting and short sleeved and sometimes had an intricate pattern in front with the zipper or buttons always at the back. The bottom was usually a long fitted skirt made of the same fabric as the top or a long wrapper made of a fabric called George. When my mother was going on her Saturday night outings with my father she would wear her Up and Down with a long fitted skirt. For formal functions she would wear it with a double layer of George wrapper and an intricately tied Haze head tie. Occasionally, she would wear a long maxi gown with embroidery round the neck and front. I loved helping her get ready. My parents made a handsome couple. Mother loved getting ready because her husband was taking her out to dance the highlife at the rave of the time, Caban Bamboo Night Club with the famous singer, Bobby Benson. Those were the days, life was sweet and everything seemed certain. That was the Lagos in the sixties I like to remember. Everything good seemed to be happening; I saw enthusiasm, hope, and pride in the faces of the adults. It seemed nothing could possibly go wrong.

As a child, I did not comprehend the rumblings of political unrest. With independence came decisions that involved the country’s destiny as it moved forward, especially the division of power among the diverse Nigerian peoples who the British had formed into one geographic entity. The British had handed power over on October 1, 1960 in such a way that political control was vested in the country’s North and exercised by the Prime Minister, Tafawa Balewa. The mostly ceremonial role of President went to the veteran independence leader, Nnamdi Azikiwe from the Eastern Region. Now the future of the country lay in their hands along with those of the other founding fathers, who represented the nation’s various regions, ethnic groups, clans and religions. The euphoria of independence was fading and, with the colonial masters out of the way, the nation’s different ethnic groups began to look at and suspect one another. They, however, momentarily seemed to keep it all together. I was a child, so at that time I did not know the details. I later found out about the subsequent coups that led to what I had dreaded most: civil war, which shattered the innocence I once knew.

During the mid to late sixties I attended private school in Ikoyi. I had many friends at school, many of whom were expatriate children. After school, I loved to have my friends over or go and visit them. I seemed to be the social butterfly amongst my siblings. One of my closest friends was from Palestine and another was from Israel. Although they did not seem that close to each other, I thought nothing of it.

Parents liked to know where their children were, and whenever I went to a friend’s house a driver and the nanny would have to drop me off, and later pick me up at the agreed time. One Saturday, I had gone to visit my Palestinian friend. She lived in an apartment building in Southwest Ikoyi. I remember that day clearly. She was happy to see me. We played hide and seek. When it was my turn to hide, I opened a door in the kitchen pantry and was stunned to see a room full of cans of food, water and different supplies. It looked like a supermarket. We never kept that volume of supplies in my house. We went to the stores and market to buy food when we ran out. I remember my mother went to the supermarket almost every day. Why, I wondered, did my friend’s parents have this store full of food and bottled water?

I forgot about playing hide and seek. I had to know right away. Instead of her finding me, before she could call out Ready or not, here I come, I found her. I took her to the store room and asked her for an explanation.

Our families were of similar economic status, so I questioned why they had a store of supplies and we did not. My friend looked at me and took me to a corner as if she was about to tell me a secret she was not meant to know. She looked into my eyes, and said in a low voice, I overheard my parents and some of their friends talking. They said ‘the winds of war are in the air.’ Apparently, when those winds arrive they bring severe shortages of food and water, so we have to prepare. We left Palestine because of war and now, in Nigeria, my parents think another war is about to come. My friend looked deeper into my eyes as if she was searching for some comfort from my soul and said, Why does war follow me around? My parents say if war breaks out in Nigeria we will have to move again to another country.

Although I was stunned, I replied her reassuringly, There is no war about to break out. I knew my parents would tell me if that were the case. We too, would have a store full of supplies. Any playful spirit left, I was no longer myself, the certainty and innocence I felt left me. I needed to get home; I needed some answers from my parents. I needed reassurance. How could I be so uninformed when I always seemed to know everything happening even though I was a child?

As soon as the driver, Mr. Taiwo, came to pick me up, I jumped into the car and asked, Is it true there is going to be a war in the country? Mr. Taiwo was taken aback by the question. He quickly said to me, You are a child, what concerns a child with war? Just keep playing like a child. That was not good enough an answer for me. I needed to hear from my parents. As soon as I got home, I jumped out of the car. I ran upstairs, forgetting to knock on the door, as I barged into my parent’s room. My parents were there. I expected my mother would be getting ready for her Saturday night out with my father, but neither of them looked like they were going out.

I began to talk nineteen to the dozen, bombarding them with questions about a war.

Is a war about to break out in our country?

Why didn’t you tell me?

What will happen to us if there is a war?

Can we go one hundred years without a war?

My friend told me about the war and her parents have a food supply room, so why don’t we have one?

Questions, questions, questions kept flooding my mind, as it was working non-stop like a clock. I was confused and scared and I needed to know.

My mother finally pulled me close as she saw the anxiety on my face. She put my head on her chest and tried to reassure me that everything will be fine. My father said he would talk to the family as a whole after dinner with all the children present.

No one had denied any of the questions I had asked. I knew it must be true. After all, it was unusual for my parents to stay at home on a Saturday night. I closed my eyes in fear, I felt the world was changing around me.

Our house was a large white colonial two-storey building. Upstairs there were four bedrooms, the room I slept in with my sisters was a later addition built when a new dining room was added. There was a wooden upright chair on the stairway landing where I often sat. I would gaze out through the window, which overlooked a roundabout on the driveway that led to the gate. It was my favorite spot for day-dreaming during the war that was to come. Downstairs in the entryway was a No Smoking sign boldly written in red and white. My parents were totally against smoking and lectured us never to smoke. The entryway led to the main living room, which we called the parlor. In the center of the room was a large, masterfully carved wooden lion with a gaping large mouth and sharpened ivory teeth. My younger siblings and I were told by the nanny that if we put our hands in the lion’s mouth it would bite off our fingers. I can still recollect that there was a period when I suspiciously looked at the lion and avoided being in close proximity to it. The floor of the parlor was made of beautiful oak wood, which was polished once a month using Mansion polish and buffed with half of a coconut husk. This routine became less frequent during the war because many commodities became scarce, including floor polish. The windows were low and I remember jumping in and out through them till my father had burglary proofing grates installed. Our night watchman, Baba Beji, had asked my father to do that to prevent thieves from climbing in. Baba Beji was a bold, friendly older man who had fought in Burma during the Second World War. His battle front experience would later make him my ‘encyclopedia’ on war. He carried around a bow and arrow as well as a sword. Although he did not have the physique of a U.S. marine, he had the confidence that he could tackle any intruder that came into the premises.

Adjacent to the parlor was a dining room, its floor and those of the other rooms were made of terrazzo. We did not have carpeting anywhere. My father felt it was more difficult to keep clean and, with the hot climate would accumulate more dirt and harmful bacteria. My father had a phobia of germs. He loved the pristine beauty of wood, terrazzo and marble on floors.

The dining room was an addition to the house that sat beside the former, smaller dining room that was now used as an informal sitting area. The former dining room was too small for our long dining table and was visible from the entranceway. My parents wanted a room big enough to fit all of us children and cousins who would sometimes spend vacations with us. They also wanted it separate from the living room and more private. My siblings and I had assigned seats at the table. My father sat at the head, my seat was on the right hand side of my father and my mother’s seat was on his left. I remember my father once saying my mother’s seat was on the left of his because that seat was closest to his heart. No one was allowed to sit in my mother’s seat. That precedence may be why even now as an adult, at the dining table, when my husband sits at the head of the table, I sit on his immediate left.

Before dinner my father or someone else, would pray, saying, Bless this food Oh Lord for Christ’s sake. However when my younger sister or I prayed we loved to sing, Thank you for the world so sweet/Thank you for the food we eat/Thank you for the birds that sing/Thank you God for everything.

That night at dinner, with a war pending, I did not think the world was so sweet. My father said the prayer blessing the food that night. I could barely eat. I just wanted dinner to be over. With what I knew, how could I eat? My other siblings sat at the dinner table; there was the usual noise, jokes and story-telling. I was usually one of the loudest, but today I was quiet. I looked at my siblings and wondered. They did not know what was happening. A war was about to break out! They would not laugh and joke if they knew what I knew. The meal seemed to take forever. Finally, my father said we should all gather in the living room, he would like to talk to us.

He told my brothers and sisters what I had found out. A war was about to start and as a family we must prepare and have a plan. My mother and father then continued to expand on what was happening as gently as they could so we would not be overcome with fear. They said the war probably wouldn’t get to Lagos. It would most likely be concentrated in the eastern part of the country. It was still all a probability and things might resolve themselves so we should not worry. I kept quiet throughout till the end. I then asked if we were going to store up food supplies. My father said my mother would go out to buy non-perishable foods in bulk starting the next day. My father then told all of us to follow him. We looked at one another and wondered what he was up to. We lined up behind him and were led to a large space underneath the staircase. He said structurally that space was the safest if a bomb were to drop on the house. He was an engineer, after all, so he should know. He explained to us that in case of a bomb attack, we should not panic. A siren would go off. If it happened at night we should put off all the lights in the house and lie flat, side by side, under the staircase with our hands over our heads. He said another siren would go off when the bombing had stopped.

My head felt bombarded with so much information. Why did it take a confrontation before my parents told us about the possibility of a war? Were they trying to protect us? How long could they protect us? As I think about it now maybe they felt the winds of war would not be severe; maybe it would just be a breeze and blow over. But what if the winds became a gale? There were more questions than answers and much uncertainty. My parents would later tell me that although they had prepared a war survival plan for the family, they wanted to protect us for as long as they could by not going into details earlier about the pending war.

My sisters and I shared a large room with five beds. The windows had mosquito proofing and were left open at night. My father said fresh air was the best air and through and through ventilation was the best in any room. Even so, we all slept under bed nets. As I reflect, it was actually like a boarding school room. We each had our corner with a little bedside cupboard. My mother would come in to say goodnight, tuck us in and turn off the lights. Once the lights were out there was to be no talking and we were meant to go to sleep. That night was different. None of us could sleep and we whispered into the late hours. With trepidation we imagined different scenarios. Some of my sisters felt everything had been fine until I came home with the story my friend had told me. I was not sure but I sort of felt they blamed me for disturbing their bliss. I know I was very inquisitive as a child. That night I felt like a TWW because of the speed with which I had passed on information about the pending war. My siblings and I coined the phrase TWW (Telephone Without Wires) for when information was passed at such speeds that phone wires or cables were not capable of, thus the information