I come to the paper to breathe

In the evening and now, every morning

I torture my mind as if it is to blame

Flog it with guilt, burden it with righteousness

How can a blameless mind have so much regret?

—

Nna, relax

The world has been spinning for billions of years

It will spin for billions of years after humans are extinct

Your mistakes are not the end of the world

—

I cannot move, I cannot feel

The things I did with ease seem impossible

To write is to go to battle against my insecurities

I surrender quickly because I am outnumbered

And so I have not moved, I have not felt

—

You’re paralysed with fear

You fight with your own mind when you should cherish it

Unloosen the knots you’ve tied yourself

And be free

—

I’ve freed parts that shocked me

I’ve seen my skin metamorphose

My organs contort, bones stretch

I have become a new person

But I don’t know when I stopped being the old person

—

—

It will be well

—

—

Eh?

—

Eh.

—

Isee.

Mami Wata is different. People will call it Art House, experimental, say it is reminiscent of old West African francophone films, and all of these are true. But they are all just a way to say that Mami Wata is not like other Nigerian films. This is important because, with this film, CJ is cementing his status as a stylistic Nigerian filmmaker. I don’t know how he feels about the comparison, but he is close to a Nigerian Wes Anderson. And while CJ is not nearly as anal yet about his style, the makings are there.

Mami Wata tells a story about a people who revere the titular mythological being, but this is not CJ’s first film to explore otherworldly creatures. His first film Ojuju is a zombie film; Hello Rain, a Nnedi Okoroafor adaptation, follows witches mixing technology with their craft; and Suffer the Witch, a short film part of the larger Juju Stories, follows a girl who attracts the attention of an ogbanje-esque witch.

Just like in his other films, in Mami Wata, the characters just exist. They do not explain themselves nor give you a back story, they just are, and you are getting a look into their lives. It’s like you catch them on slices of their lives. In Suffer the Witch, the witch explains nothing, and it’s never even certain that she’s actually supernatural or just simply crazy. She just is. The characters in Ojuju do not know why their neighbours are turning into zombies. They just are.

Things in nature always are until we observe them and make conclusions about them on our own. And I believe this may be the genius of Mami Wata. By just being and existing without explanation, this world becomes real in the same way our own world exists without explanation. We, the audience, are only getting a glimpse into this world. What we see is not the beginning and the end of this world; what we are seeing is a snapshot of a world that’s continuing to exist.

This is CJ’s style. CJ’s style is different, CJ’s films are different, CJ is different, and he wants you to know this.

On the flip side of such focus on stylisation is a story that doesn’t hold up as much. It could be argued that art is in the telling and not in the story. Simple stories are often elevated with deftness and artistry in the telling. The telling here being the absolutely breathtaking cinematography and that black and white. It works. It works very well because there is no world in which these characters do not exist in black and white. Lílis Soares’s brilliant cinematography, CJ’s deft direction, elegant editing and stunning costume and makeup create a mesmerising world that draws you in and turns you black and white.

But it’s not that the story is simple; it’s that it’s not sure what it says. Everything seems like a metaphor for everything. Perhaps my expectations are my own fault. Perhaps CJ intends not to say more than ‘Look at this really, really stunning world’. But then that leaves me asking, ‘Why this particular world?’ This is a film crafted meticulously, frame by frame, like a piece on a canvas, and perhaps this is the entire point. It features Rita Edochie delivering a very familiar mournful look, a look laden with the loss of hope, disappointment and exasperation, a look that I’ve seen in the eyes of Nigerians of a certain age. It is not my fault that I had expectations. The point could not have just been crafting an aesthetic. And if I’m right and it is not, then it shouldn’t have been so easy to miss.

CJ is making art; he’s crafting a style. I compare him earlier with Wes Anderson, but that isn’t so much about having a very obvious visual style but about the obvious intent to create a catalogue that sticks out. There’s an overarching theme for this catalogue, it’s one large beautiful painting. But just like when you zoom into a large picture, themes become hazy when you zoom into each film.

Mami Wata is a triumph of style, it is cinema in every sense of the word, a visual masterpiece, a catalogue and a career-defining outing for CJ, but it would have been more triumphant if the story had more focus.

You’ve seen the grandiose headline, and now you’re asking yourself, ‘who the hell are you to judge Far From Home for its sins?’ That’s a fair question. I have spent much of my life watching movies and series set in high schools. I have watched every single one. In fact, it was because of my obsession with Gossip Girl that I failed my entire 2nd year at uni. I have made sacrifices for this genre and earned the right to judge what is being billed as “Nigeria’s first YA series.”

Before listing the sins, let me talk about all the things I liked about Far From Home, the virtues if you will. I love that this series exists. I’m glad we are journeying out of our box (even if it’s to some other people’s box) to tell stories. For our Nigerian industry and at this scale, it’s a fresh direction, and I love it. The story (or the idea of the story) is good; it is entertaining and can be gripping in some places.

I love the performances. I mean, the actors play well-established tropes that have been done to death and better (this is a sin), but some of them do shine. Frank is a nerd bullied by the popular kid (eye roll). However, the actor gets an opportunity to shine in that toilet scene and knocks it out of the park. Said toilet scene honestly is the only one that makes sense in an episode filled with mind-boggling events, such as Frank basically forgiving his kidnapper only a few scenes later, making his whole breakdown useless. But really good performance.

And now… *drum rolls* …the sins.

The people who made this show are trying too hard to back out from the high school thing. They’re calling it a ‘young adult’ show, and it’s funny. It’s a high school show to the core. And yes, a high school show is technically a young adult show, but I have this feeling that they’re avoiding the term ‘high school’ because of the ages of the actors (and I could be wrong). However, they have nothing to worry about; Glee had 30-year-old actors playing teenagers!

In my opinion, Wilmer Academy looks like a secondary school, and if it looks like a secondary school, feels like a secondary school, and acts like a secondary school, it is a secondary school. I am not fooled by all that ‘A-levels’ talk on social media.

Then there’s the expository and laborious dialogue. Expository dialogue is not a big sin; it’s better than those in Thai shows adapted from random webtoons and Wattpad stories. But it is bad enough to require some calling out. Somewhere in episode one, the school principal speaks to an audience of new students, and she calls upon ‘the great-granddaughter of the founder’ of the school to make a speech. It’s obvious the writers are trying to establish that Carmen is a nepotism baby. But there are a myriad of ways it could have been done with more tact and style throughout that episode. I imagine someone with an actual office will speak at such an event, like the head girl, senior prefect, or school captain. All of which Carmen could have been, but they chose the very realistic office of the ‘great-granddaughter of the founder’. And don’t get me started on Ishaya and his sister talking about their dreams, “unrealistic dreams are destructive,” such laborious dialogue. Who talks like that, ever?

Unfortunately, the writing is not much better than the dialogue. This is not a great sin either; high school TV shows are hardly ever Emmy-worthy, but what happened with Adufe’s arc? I assume the entire show happens in at most three months, and in that time, Adufe goes from being Ishaya’s girlfriend, a regular teenager (young adult?), to a drug baron and kidnapping kingpin. Does time mean nothing to these writers?

You know that thing when you’re writing a story. Let’s say the story takes place over one week, but it took you a month to write. You start to feel like the same amount of time in your world has passed in your story. I dunno if I’m the only one who’s felt this way, but while watching Adufe’s storyline, I felt the same thing happened to the writer, and they couldn’t control it. Adufe’s arc is like a three seasons arc, not a five episodes arc.

And like I mentioned earlier, Frank has what I thought was an honest breakdown in the toilet after his kidnap, only to forgive Ishaya in the next scene after he confesses. I would have thought he’d have kept that grudge a little longer. No consequence for Ishaya. And if there’s no consequence for kidnapping Frank, what is the point of kidnapping Frank in the plot? It means nothing was ever at stake. It was just something that happened. Another thing in the checklist of events to be ticked off by the writers. And these kinds of events keep happening, either without set up, like the protest scene, or without consequence. Just a bunch of events on a checklist being ticked off one by one.

Another sin is just how chockful of tropes this show is. For a show set in ‘not a high school’, it sure has all the high school tropes. Popular kids, the nerd they bully, the outcasts, the new kid, the rivalry between the new kid and the popular kid, the cheerleading squad, the captain of the football team, the queen bee who is deeply flawed but carries a persona that says otherwise, the queen bee falling in love with the outcast new kid, the queen bee giving a heartfelt speech at the school dance and so many other tropes.

Now, tropes are not necessarily a bad thing; they make for an easy but predictable watch. But the big sin here is that Far From Home doesn’t even care about these tropes; it does not commit to them. It doesn’t go all the way. Why have a cheerleading team if the cheerleaders don’t know any cheer choreography? This is supposedly the best ‘not a high school’ in Nigeria; their cheerleading squad should be okay at best, but these girls have obviously never cheered before. Cheerleading is not a Nigerian high school tradition, and it does nothing for the plot or the aesthetic, so what is the point? They could have all been in the school debate team or choir, and all the plot points would have played out similarly. So, it’s just a trope for trope’s sake.

Why have a whole school ball without the ball? If you want to be wacky, go all out and be wacky. Let them dance like they’re in an actual ball, and commit to the aesthetic you’re going with. Speaking of aesthetics, undoubtedly, the best ‘not a high school’ in Nigeria will have better crowns for their king and queen of the founder’s ball. The props people couldn’t even be bothered to buy crowns that didn’t look like cardboard cutouts? This is a show about the 1%; things like this should matter. Blair Waldorf would never be caught dead in something cheap.

This lack of commitment to the tropes denies the actors opportunities to shine; why have the nerd and the bully if the bullying doesn’t happen? Why just have all these tropes and not let the tropes play out? These tropes exist because they’re a perfect recipe for good drama. That’s why they’ve endured for so long since the 80s. Why let the drama with Oga Rambo, Government, and Adufe steal the shine in a ‘young adult’ show?

Now, moving on to a really big sin, the music. The music is… bad. There’s no other way to say it. It’s either too intrusive, playing upbeat afrobeat at moments of intimacy, or it’s too on the nose. There’s a football match, and Olamide’s ‘It’s A Goal’ starts playing. Students are in the science lab playing with drugs, and ‘Science Student’ starts playing. And the absolute worst, at that ill-fated founder’s ball, Carmen is about to give her heartfelt speech, and Teni starts singing, ‘I wan talk my mind’. There’s no style whatsoever with the selection and placement of the songs; it’s just lazy.

Also, do these songs really fit in with the tone of this series? I get it, ‘afrobeats to the world’ and all of that, but our shows and films are more than just the conduit for the propagation of afrobeats. Surely, other Nigerian genre songs would have fitted in better in a school with wealthy Gen Z students.

Another big sin? The drug subplot. MDMA is not a performance-enhancement drug; it’s a stimulant used for recreational purposes — it’s a party drug. Students won’t take it to study. Someone addicted to pain meds will also not instantly substitute that with an MDMA addiction. Also, what were the effects of students taking molly so much in school? Teachers didn’t see or notice anything? Especially since the side effects of taking molly are pretty evident, like Ishaya at the pool party. Two things — first, the drug plotline was huge, and no one researched these drugs. Second, what were the consequences of selling so much drugs in the school?

For me, however, the greatest sin is the general lack of style. Maybe because everything from the story and all the tropes to the music is derivative, a lack of distinct style was inevitable. But, that aside, there is a lack of style and finesse in how the show is made; you see this in the expository dialogue. It withholds nothing; nothing is left to the imagination. We do not second-guess characters’ intentions. They are always just what they seem. The only character who shocks us, Adufe, does so by pulling the carpet from under our feet, so we hit our heads, and now we have a headache. It’s not sleight of hand, it’s not magic; it’s assault.

If you were walking home from work and you came across a magician, and he does a trick where he asks you to reach into your hair and pull out a dove. You do as you’re told and pull out a real-life dove! That’s magic; you’re shocked and amused, impressed even. But if the magician had asked you to close your eyes and then proceeded to beat you, that would have been shocking too. It definitely won’t have been what you were expecting, but it is not magic, and it’s not good.

A more existential sin is the identity crisis of Far From Home. While it does not need to justify its existence, Far From Home fails to establish who it is. It fails to differentiate itself from any high school TV show ever made and looks exactly like every other suit-clad high school series on Netflix. What makes it different? The characters occasionally speak Yoruba? Big whoop! Elite is in Spanish, Young Royals is Swedish, Blood and Water has Zulu, Afrikaans, Xhosa, and Sotho.

Allow me to digress a bit here on the topic of language.

Nollywood needs to stop wanting to submit films for the Oscars only because they’re in a Nigerian language. The foreign language award at the Oscars is the most competitive and, honestly, the best category. You’re not competing with America, you’re competing with Korea, Italy, Thailand, the entire world, and they’re bringing their best. Their films already are, by default, in a foreign language, unlike here, where our films are in English. They are not submitting any random film in Korean; they’re submitting their best film, period. We need to submit our very best, period. It just happens that that best needs to be in a Nigerian language.

Think about it honestly and sincerely, do you think that that carelessly designed beard in Elesin Oba can compare to the deliberate use of lines and symmetry as an allegory for class divide in Parasite? Come off it.

And now, back to business.

In the end, Far From Home has nothing new to say or nothing at all. Unless, of course, it is that poor people are bad, and if you’re a school for wealthy people, you should never let them in. Or your dreams are more important than the people in your life; pursue them at the detriment of the people you love. There will be no consequence to your actions because it’s your dream, and everything you do in its pursuit (no matter how heinous) is justified. If this were the message, Far From Home was saying a lot.

I know people worked hard on this show, and it shows. I appreciate the hard work that poured into it, and I hope the show is successful enough that Netflix renews it for season two. But hard work can only do so much; there has to be a level of care added to everything. It’s not just about doing; it’s doing well, and because this is art, doing stylishly. It may sound like there’s too much passion about this, but that’s because I am passionate. About the genre, about Nollywood, but also about Far From Home. I love the people behind the project. I love the actors. I love how well they’re promoting the show on social media. I just wish the show’s incredible potential was fully realized.

I romanticised my 27th year a lot. The first time was when I was 13, and I drew a map of my life where 27 was a big year. It was the year I’d marry, but more importantly, it was also the year I’d complete my big, intelligent house in Abiriba. I had just watched Steven Spielberg’s A.I. Artificial Intelligence, and I was obsessed.

Let me tell you about this house: it was going to be a large intelligent edifice on a hill with a very large compound. The compound was to be divided into several regions that were supposed to mimic all the climates of the world. There was going to be a hot desert climate, Tundra, Savannah and so on. I’d sit in class, drawing maps of this compound and imagining making my own wine from its Mediterranean region.

Later in my early 20s, I discovered Jean-Michel Basquiat and became obsessed with his art and the life he lived in 80’s New York City. I also began to romanticise the idea of dying at 27. All the cool kids did — Jean-Michel, Amy Winehouse, Jimi Hendrix. There seemed, to me, something incredibly sexy about shooting to incredible success and renown so young and crumbling under all of that pressure. It was tragic, yet beautiful.

Then I turned 27. I had no marriage, no vineyard in my backyard in Abiriba, no stratospheric fame that threatened to take my life. By my own measurements, I had failed, but I didn’t mind much or at all. In fact, I wasn’t counting down to anything at all, I had zero weight on my shoulders and I was happier. I had learnt a few lessons that helped me put less pressure on myself. Here are some:

• Nothing matters — not the large house nor artificial intelligence. Not fame or marriage. In the end, we all die. We all are forgotten. The ones who remember will die someday. And even if you were so famous that edificies were built for you, a time will come when even stone will erode away and all that’s left is nothing. Not humans, not sand.
• But also, now, this moment matters. Forget about the future and the plans you’re making. Forget the name you want to make and enjoy this moment. Enjoy this self-aggrandising but masquerading as self-deprecating article that I’ve written. Take in the sun. Now, today, live.
• Be kind to other people and to yourself. Show kindness, just because and be intentional about it too. Go out of your way to be kind. It may come across as if you’re faking it, but you know what they say, ‘fake it till you make it.’
• Do whatever you want. By the time you’re 28, you realise that you’re living this life only for yourself. No one else knows what living your life feels like. It’s your duty to yourself to ensure that your existence is one without apologies. Humans make traditions, so if a tradition doesn’t suit you, fuck it.
• All of our collective existence as humans is nothing but a blip in the huge expanse of the universe and the infinity-ness of time. The whole thing is too futile for you to waste it not being who you know you are or doing the things you love.
• Learn new things and unlearn old ones. Don’t hold on to traditions that don’t let you grow as a person. The traditions that do not let you empathise with others and allow you to show kindness to them. Let go of these traditions and make new, better ones.
• Forgive more.
• Forgive less. Truth is, it’s not every grudge you can or should forgive; you can absolutely move on without forgiving.
• Work less.
• Eat more.
• Dance.
• Laugh.
• Cry.
• Throw those self-help books away. Don’t give money to charlatans. You know what? Write your own story; you have just as much experience living as they do.
• Stop going to battles over celebrities, it’s embarrassing. All that home training and there you are, cursing strangers’ fathers over entitled celebrities who don’t know you and may never do.
• Stop stanning billionaires. In fact, try a bit of cynicism when it comes to them.
• Stop worshipping success, or the semblance of it. You come off looking like a hungry sycophant.
• Don’t make Twitter threads, you’re not that insightful. Write a self-help book instead, or wait till your birthday and do a medium article.
• Understand that you don’t know a lot of things and at the scale of the universe there’s only little you can ever know. This understanding frees you and helps you approach things with more humility. It also actually encourages you to really learn, not to show off, but for the sake of it. And that’s so much more fun.
• Travel, if you can. If you can’t, watch travel vlogs. You travel through the stories of others.
• Fuck minimalism. Put stuff in your house, unless of course, you’re broke and can’t afford to. But don’t be ashamed to put stuff you really like in your space. It’s a home, not a postmodern art gallery.
• Consume more art.
• Read more books.
• Watch more films and TV shows in a different language than you speak.
• Some things you tweet. Some things you tell your best friend and closest confidant. Other things you take to your grave. Even the KGB at the height of the Cold War should not be able to get it out of you by torture. Know the difference.
• Ignore your boss’ calls.
• Live. And I don’t just mean the involuntary exercise of existing. Do things.
• Question institutions and traditions. Understand for yourself why they exist and decide if they suit you or not.
• Trust experts. There are things you will never understand as well as people who have spent years studying them, no matter how many YouTube videos you watch. Trust those people it is their job and life work to know those things. Vaccines? Trust a doctor, not your pastor.

That’s all folks! A tad repetitive and didactic, but it’s my birthday and you have no choice but to read it. 😌

Nwojo hated the other boys in the Pack Squadron Biafran Army Engineers’ Regiment at the Okigwe sector, stationed at Obom. In the 10 months he had been there, they had stolen all the foodstuff he brought with him from home, all his clothes and underwear, his toothbrush — everything. He hated being there; in that dingy, little building in the middle of the forest that did little to protect them from the elements, tinkering on metal, crafting guns and bullets. He hated the scraps of dirt that was fed to them, he hated the occasional cholera and the constant starvation. He needed to go home to his parents. The last he heard from them, they had run from their home in Abiriba, which was now occupied by Nigerians, and were staying at Ozu Abam, with a relative he had never heard of before. Nwojo applied for a pass, a small cardboard with his name and duration of his leave — one week — printed on it. He tucked it in his pocket, and with a small bag, he headed home.

Travelling in those days was an extreme sport, especially since Umuahia fell and was now occupied by Nigerian troops, dividing up Biafra into two enclaves — Biafra 1 and Biafra 2. Two small, lonely islands sinking into the sea of hopelessness and death that surrounded it. Nwojo caught a gwongworo heading south, just outside Obom. In those days, no vehicle stopped for anyone, certainly not those rickety lorries that looked like they’d fall apart if they halted even for a second. To catch a ride, one had to chase after the lorry, throw their luggage into the back, grab the lorry by whatever part they could, propel themselves up and into the back. A venture that was often rewarded with scratches, tears and sometimes broken bones. That day, Nwojo landed on the back of the lorry unscathed. It was drizzling soon. The year, 1969, was ending but the dry season was refusing to come. It was raining every day as if the heavens was determined to wash off all the blood that had been spilled and soaked into Ala before the new decade came.

The drizzling stopped by the time the lorry arrived at Añara junction. The lorry was continuing south towards Owerri and Nwojo was going east towards Umuahia. People got out of those lorries in the same way they got onto them — they grabbed their belongings and jumped out while it was still moving. Nwojo scoped his potential landing area, hugged his bag, propped himself and took the leap.

Nwojo was an agile boy. In the months that he hid from conscription in the orchard in their backyard at Abiriba, he and his brothers climbed and jumped off trees as if they were rehearsing for the life he was living now. In those months, their mother would send them off to the backyard, early every morning, and call them back into the house as the sun set. Of course, not all of them wanted to escape conscription. His younger brother, Kalu, had willingly enlisted a few months into the war. He was brought back home two months later on a stretcher, his left leg broken.

Nwojo was conscripted at night. It was a few days after the New Year and the harmattan winds were freezing that night, and so he was tucked under his blanket when the door to his room came tumbling down. The night was a blur. He heard the men who had come to take him, bark at him.

“Ị bụghị nwoke? You no be man? Your mates are dying and you’re here sleeping! Ị bụghị Biafran?”

“I am Biafra”, Nwojo replied.

“Come and fight then!”

His mother wailed. He hadn’t seen her since that night.

At Añara, Nwojo bought some akara from a woman who sat inside the remains of what used to be a wooden kiosk. The woman smiled at him as she wrapped the akara with an old newspaper.

“Ego ole?” Nwojo asked as he fished for money in his pocket.

“Nwoke ike, just keep fighting for us,” she said and waved at the boy to go. Nwojo then took the road that headed east and began his trek. He was heading to Seven and Half Junction, from where he’ll find a way to by-pass Umuahia. As he walked, he ate the akara and he hummed some music to himself.

Nwojo had spent the early weeks of the war with his mother worrying about his elder brother Dike. Dike had moved to Lagos in ’63 and came home only during Christmas. He worked at a record store in Surulere and whenever he came home, he brought home some records. Nwojo and his brother, Ndukwo, used to take the records and their father’s record player into town and throw some of the hottest parties in Abiriba.

Dike did not return home when Igbo people fled the North during the pogroms. He did not return when Ojukwu called every Igbo man and woman home. He did not return when Biafra was born. He did not return when Nsukka fell. He returned one night, while Nwojo and his siblings huddled around the radio with their father, listening as the newscaster announced that Enugu had been invaded. Their mother had jumped and grabbed her son, singing loudly. The next day, Nwojo and Ndukwo ransacked their brother’s bag for records. They found two, The Rolling Stone’s, Out of our Heads and The Who’s, My Generation.

That night, with their father’s record player, they partied at their friend, Ukiwe’s house. For two months, while the shelling leveled villages, Nwojo and Ndukwe threw party after party at Ukiwe’s house. This went on until Ukiwe and his best friend Victor enlisted in the army. They left Abiriba in December and in January, Victor was brought home to his parents in a stretcher. Ukiwe, or what was left of him, had been buried where he had died in Onitsha.

Propped on one side of the valley that cradled the Imo River, Seven and Half Junction was an abandoned market where, only a few months earlier, fish from the river was sold. That afternoon, as Nwojo arrived, it was filled with people running from Umuahia and heading westwards to the new capital, Owerri. They carried baskets and boxes of clothes — their entire lives — on their heads as they trekked. On the other side of the valley, just a few kilometers ahead, was the city of Umuahia, the former capital. Nwojo imagined that it was now all rubble. He turned and headed west too.

All of the trek was in silence. Nwojo walked with a young couple and their toddler. The little girl was healthier looking than most he had seen over the last few months — her parents must have been well to do. The sun had already set as they got to the town of Achingali, barely halfway to Owerri. They slept in the open, in front of abandoned shops and homes. The mother cradled her baby on her chest, and beyond her constant cooing, Nwojo could hear the persistent shelling in the distance. Long gone were the nights when crickets hid in the darkness and sang, Nwojo didn’t even know if he remembered the crickets’ songs, all he knew now were the sounds of shelling and Ogbunigwe.

Before sunrise the next day, they headed out. The family continued westwards while Nwojo went South. Before noon, he crossed the makeshift bridge over the Imo River at Umu Nwa Nwa. The old bridge had been blown up and replaced by a complicated mesh of wood and ropes, stretching over the wide river. On the other side, the town of Umu Nwa Nwa was sleeping. Only a short distance from Umuahia, the townspeople hid in their houses hoping that the canopy of the forest would protect them from the Nigerian soldiers. As Nwojo walked through the town, people peeked out from their windows at him, no one attempting to come out, even though he was obviously a Biafran soldier and not Nigerian. The fear was as thick as the air in the forest. Nwojo continued eastwards, till he got to Ubakala, just south of Umuahia.

Ubakala was abandoned and burning. The Nigerian troops coming from Aba in the South had torn through the town which was on the main road to Umuahia. Nwojo changed out of his Biafran kit, wearing only a singlet, shorts and sandals, before crossing to the other side of the road and into the town, into Nigerian-controlled territory. The town smelt of dust and burning rubber. The market looked as if someone had uprooted it in its entirety and tossed it back with reckless abandon. Nwojo ravaged through it, nonetheless, looking for anything edible. It had been probably a week since the market and the town was abandoned, but Nwojo was hopeful. He found a basket of okpa that stank to high heavens, he fished for two wraps and headed on his way.

Avoiding the main road, he made his way through the forest and headed south as if he was going to Aba. The city had been shelled continuously for days before it fell to the Nigerians. It was difficult for him to imagine Aba as a fallen city. Before the war, he was a Standard 4 student at Ngwa High School, Aba. He and his friends used to sneak out of their dormitories and walked 7 kilometres into town to watch action flicks at Rex Cinema on Asa Road. Then they went to Unicoco Hotel and Nite Club at Scotland crescent, not far from the cinema to dance. In those days, bands in Aba were experimenting a lot with Rock and the scene was lively. They’d spend the night dancing till after midnight, then they began the long walk back to their dormitory. It seemed like a lifetime away. When the war ended, if the war ended, he didn’t imagine life would ever go back as it was. Too much had been spoilt, too much had been lost.

Nwojo weaved his way carefully and slowly through the bush, knowing he was in enemy territory. He moved so slowly, that by the time he got to Mbawsi, the sun was glowing orange in the sky, setting behind the towering palm trees that surrounded the town. Unlike Ubakala, Mbawsi seemed mostly untouched and unlike Umu Nwa Nwa, the townspeople were not hiding. They moved about, but there was a sense of urgency in their stride — like they were trying to escape the impending darkness. Doors were shutting, stalls were emptying, everyone was moving quickly; someone tapped Nwojo on his shoulder. He spun around with a jump and saw Victor standing in front of him with a giant grin.

“Viclolo!” He shouted.

“Stag!” Victor called back and the two boys hugged. Nwojo smiled, it had been a long time since anyone called him by his high school nickname.

“Wetin you dey do here? You no be soldier boy?”

“I’m going home.”

Victor laughed. “You dey go Abiriba? Fight never end oo!”

“I get pass, one week pass”

“One week? How many days you don dey road since?”

“Two days. Wetin you dey do here for Mbawsi?”

“I live here. Na here I dey do my business.”

“You dey do business?”

“Yes, come make we dey go. Night don dey reach.” He walked past Nwojo beckoning him to follow. Nwojo then noticed his very obvious limp. The last time he saw Victor, he was lying on his bed motionless as his left leg was buried in layers of bandages. He smiled and followed his friend.

Victor lived in a small, single room in a family compound filled with people like him who had run from their villages and town. Victor served him a plate of soup and garri. The soup was warm, which he really appreciated. He could not tell what kind of soup it was or what vegetables were in it — in those days anything could be used to cook, what did it matter what vegetable was in a soup when there was a famine? Nwojo quickly ate the meal and asked for seconds. After the meal, the two boys caught up.

Victor told Nwojo about Onitsha. The devastation that was rained down on the city and how the Biafrans held on and how they fought till the Nigerians retreated across the Niger to Asaba. He told Nwojo how Ukiwe died. He was killed in an explosion at the main Market. The Nigerians had looted the market and raised it to the ground.

“There was nothing to bury, Stag, nothing remain. Ukiwe just go like that.” Victor wept, Nwojo cried too. When Victor was returned to his mother on a stretcher, Ukiwe’s father had wailed so loudly when he was told that there was nothing left of his son to bring home. At that moment, Nwojo could hear the man’s wails.

“Tomorrow, Stag, I will show how you go follow reach Arochukwu,” Victor said after they had cried. “It’s the road I follow to go buy my goods for Ikot Ekpene.”

“Wetin you dey sell?”

“Anything and everything. Soap, comb, food, anything I see.”

“Hmm,” Nwojo sighed.

“Stag, you remember that song by Chyke Fusion?” Chyke Fusion was one of the popular performers at Unicoco Nite Club.

“Which song?” Nwojo asked and Victor began humming the tune to the song, but Nwojo didn’t know it. “No”.

“Chyke Fusion tell me say he want start band, rock-funk band, before the fight start”.

“Hmm”, Nwojo sighed.

“I go like join the band too. Once this fight end, I will go to Aba and I go join Chyke Fusion band”.

“Hmm”, Nwojo sighed again and that was the last he heard. He fell asleep.

***

The next morning, Victor and Nwojo set out eastwards, Victor led him for a few kilometres out of Mbawsi and bid him farewell.

“Make una fight well!” He said. “Fight well, we will not lose. If we lose, they will gather all of us and kill us. I know say only small of us remain, but we can do it. Anyi ga-enwe mmeri!” Nwojo hugged him and went on his way.

It was an uneventful walk and he was refreshed, having slept on a warm bed and eaten breakfast. He also had two loaves of bread that Victor had given him tucked away in his bag, he was in high spirits. By afternoon, he found himself in the small town of Nto Ndan in Ibibio country, north of Ikot Ekpene. Unlike the towns he had passed through, this one was still under live fire. He could hear guns and shells going off and occasionally, fighter jets would fly over. He had to take cover immediately. Somewhere in the distance a church tower was protruding through the forest cover.

He ran towards the church and when he got there, he saw the roof had caved, it must have been shelled earlier. He ran in. The church was packed full of people hiding under the pews and table at the altar, crouching in the corners and in the curtains. He ran to a corner by the altar and crouched. Across from him, under a table on the altar, a young boy about his age, laid, crawled up in a fetal position. He was shivering and every time there was an explosion in the distance or a jet flew over, he let out a shriek. Nwojo figured he was shell-shocked. Nwojo had seen so many people like that, people who had survived explosions that had been so close it had taken homes, their families or some body part and left nothing but emptiness in their eyes.

Somewhere in the church, under one of the pews, a baby wailed for hours while its mother tried futilely to make it stop. Nwojo sat by that corner till night came and his legs grew numb. As night came, it began raining and the baby wailed even louder. The rain poured heavily as if it knew that their shelter in the church wasn’t really much of a shelter and it wanted to drown them. In the distance, louder than the thunder, the guns and explosion went on without end. At some point in the night, the door to the church flew open and Nwojo thought that his end had finally come. It seemed everyone else thought the same thing as an uneasy silence descended on them, even the baby stopped crying. A woman with a basket on her head came running through the door and shutting it so heavily behind her, Nwojo felt the whole building rattle. The baby resumed crying.

The woman bustled to the front and stood beside Nwojo. “Mbọ́k, ádó sé ñtíè mí?” She asked.

“I no understand Ibibio”

“Oh. I ask, make I sit down here?”

“Oh, yes”

She sat. “Na Ikot Ekpene I from come” Nwojo nodded as if she could see his head move in the darkness. She went on regardless. “They don burn everywhere, plenty people don die. Hausa don kill us finish.”

Nwojo sighed heavily. “E no dey finish? Fight no dey finish?” The woman went on. Where I fit go now? Where you dey go?”

“Arochukwu,” Nwojo answered.

“I fit go there sef. I go go there.” she then began shuffling, rather violently, with her basket, occasionally shoving her elbow into Nwojo’s face. Her basket contained clothes that were soaked with water. She brought them out one after the other squeezed water out of them. Nwojo wanted to tell her it was fruitless, it was still pouring rain, but then he heard her sniffle. She was crying. He leaned back and rested on the wall, he shivered, his teeth clattered and he hugged himself. Stupid rain.

He woke up to the noise of a car horn in the distance. He had not expected to fall asleep, but he did and he had dreamt of his mother making him ofo ugbogho and esusu. As he washed his hands and got ready to eat, the car horn blared and woke him. The morning sun flooded the church with so much light that he shut his eyes immediately he opened them. Someone tapped him on the shoulder, he opened his eyes, it was the woman from last night.

“Come oo, motor to Arochukwu dey outside,” She said and headed towards the door.

Nwojo stood and followed her. Outside, a gwongworo was driving off as the woman was jumping into its back. Nwojo ran after it, threw his kit in and then jumped. He sat beside the woman as the vehicle began the bumpy ride to Arochukwu. ‘Enwo ụzọ eji aga Arochukwu di mma’, Nwojo said the Abiriba proverb in his head and smiled, there really was no road to Arochukwu that was good. An hour later of puttering and clattering through the awful road, the lorry came to a stop in the middle of nowhere. The driver stuck his head out of the window and screamed at them at the back.

“Unu ga-eji ụkwụ garuo Arochukwu!”

“What is he saying?” The woman asked Nwojo.

“That we should trek from here to Arochukwu”

“Ah! Where be this?” Nwojo did not know. On both sides of the road were endless rubber trees.

“This place na Plantation!” The driver screamed again. “Arochukwu no far. Make you trek dey go straight, my moto don spoil.”

The passengers alighted and began to walk towards Arochukwu, which it turned out, was really not far. A few minutes walk from the plantation and they were walking through the streets of the ancient city. The woman stopped at Arochukwu — walked towards a house, just after the market. Nwojo, wasn’t sure she knew who lived in the house, but in those days people were letting strangers stay in their house. Better a stranger in your house than loitering around the streets and attracting shells.

Nwojo continued the trek northwards, out of Arochukwu to Umuchi Akuma. The small village of Umuchi Akuma brought him joy. His father’s sister, Mma Olejuru, had been married there. He used to visit as a child and could still remember his way to her house. Her house was a small bungalow by the road. He remembered the small, neatly kept lawn in front and two mango trees. He had fallen from one of the trees as a child. He and his brother Dike had climbed to pluck mangoes. Nwojo had tried to stand on a branch. It broke. He fell face first. Nwojo touched the bump on his forehead as he walked through the now overgrown lawn. The Mango trees were no longer there. He climbed the short flight of stairs to the front door and knocked.

“Onye?!” Mma Olejuru’s voice boomed from inside.

“Ọ Nwojo, Nwojo e’Nkuwngvu” He answered.

“Nwa mụ ee!” She screamed as she opened the door and swallowed him in a large hug. Nwojo let her crush him, he needed someone to hold him and call him their child. He needed to be someone’s child. “Nwa mụ!” she went on and on.

Then she sized him up. She was a carbon copy of his father, tall and fair. “Ị tala ụhụ”, she said. Yes, he had lost weight, everybody had lost weight. But she said it as if she had a solution to his weight loss inside her house. And she did — a steaming pot of ọtọ and stockfish. Two years ago, he had not liked ọtọ — porridge water yam looked too much like excreta to be a normal meal — but at that moment it was not just a meal, it was the best meal he had ever had. After the meal, his aunty prepared him a bath. The first real one he had had in almost a year. After scrubbing his skin like he was attempting to wash off all memories the last year, he put on some fresh clothes — his cousin’s clothes — and sat with his aunty outside. The clothes were several sizes larger, his cousin, Uche, was far older than he was. Uche had been away in the fight from the very beginning and had not returned home, not even once. Mma Olejuru had been alone in her house the last two years. Her husband had died a decade earlier and her daughter, Olejuru, never lived past infancy. Nwojo had always wondered why everyone still called her Mma Olejuru — Olejuru’s mother — even when she no longer was.

“Ị ha-ama ẹwa aga Ndi Okorie”, Mma Olejuru said to him as they both sat out in the small verandah of the house. Like so many other Abiriba women married outside Abiriba, Mma Olejuru still spoke the dialect always, despite being away for more than two decades. She told Nwojo that he had to leave early in the morning for Ndi Okorie, a village not very far away from Ozu Abam where his family was living. Traders from Ndi Okorie came to the market at Arochukwu to buy bits and bots and because of the distance, they usually stayed the night in Umuchi Akuma and left very early in the morning for Ndi Okorie. Nwojo was to follow them.

“Udumma yẹ Nwaigbe nwanne’u bụ nurse ẹ hospital ọhụ nọnụ ẹ Ndi Okorie”, she was saying while Nwojo was dozing off. He vaguely imagined his sisters Udumma and Nwaigbe working in a hospital as nurses and he chuckled to himself, things were really bad in Biafra if anyone was letting Nwaigbe tend to their wounds.

A minute later, Mma Olejuru was tapping him and calling his name. He jumped up with a start, his heart pounding heavily in his mouth. “Ọ gịnị? Ọ gịnị?” He asked, he darted his eyes around and looked to reach for his kit, his gun.

“Chi abụọla, bịa ka ị pụhe taa”, she said calmly as if he was not having a panic attack. But she was right, it was morning already and he needed to be on his way. He hated it when that happened, when he slept so deeply it seemed as though he didn’t sleep at all. He didn’t even know how he went from the verandah to a mat inside the house. He sprung up immediately and saw that Mma Olejuru had laid out his uniform carefully on a chair — she had washed it. Nwojo imagined the amount of grime, a year’s worth of grime, that she had scrubbed away and he spun around and gave her a hug. Mma Olejuru held on for a while before breaking down in tears. They stood there hugging for a while, till she let go and went outside. Nwojo dressed up in his uniform, took his kit and joined her in the verandah. Together they walked to the roadside and waited for the traders to pass.

The traders from Ndi Okorie walked rather too briskly for Nwojo. “Ụzọ dị anya”, they kept saying to Nwojo. The road is far. And they were right. It wasn’t just far, it was rugged — rising on steep hills and falling on rocky valleys. By the time they got to Ndi Okorie, the sun was a large ball of orange ready to retire and so was Nwojo. He was beat. As they came down a hill and the village of Ndi Okorie sprawled before them, Nwojo’s spirit returned. He stumbled forward and down the hill, heading past the traders and into the village.

The hospital was a small building along the road. Nwojo knew it was the hospital by the sheer number of ailing people who crowded around it. He walked towards the building, walking past different people in different states of dying and looking around for his sisters. They found him first.

“Nwojo!” he heard beside him and turned around to see Nwaigbe carrying a tray of bandages and wearing the most ridiculous nurse hat he’d ever seen. Or perhaps the hat wasn’t ridiculous and it was that his sister was a child dressed as a nurse and actually tending to dying people. Nwaigbe let the tray clatter to the floor and screamed. Her scream visibly shook the patients, many of whom — those who could — got on their feet and began running. “Nwojo nwanne m ooo!”, she ran and hugged him. He held her. In the last year, he had been dragged into a world of death and hopelessness that he’d almost forgotten who he was. His little sister in a nurse uniform unwittingly causing a stampede among amputees and shellshocked people in a hospital reminded him. He was a 16-year-old boy.

After everyone had settled down and the head nurse had given Nwaigbe a deserving scold, the siblings began to head home to Ozu Abam. Nwaigbe had said that it was an hour’s walk and if they were quick, they’d be home before night. Nwojo, had not eaten and his leg still felt like bricks after the walk from Umuchi Akuma, but this was the last stretch of his journey, he was not stopping. However, his chi was faithful, a Biafran military tractor drove past them and stopped. The officer driving the tractor stuck his head out and Nwojo saluted instantly. Nwaigbe sniggered, it seemed to her, just like it did to him, that her brother was a boy playing a soldier.

“Ebee?” The officer asked.

“Ozu Abam, Sir”, Nwojo replied, still at attention. Nwaigbe burst into a fit of laughter. The officer waved for them to enter the tractor. They sat at the back as the vehicle drove off. Nwaigbe caught Nwojo up on everything he’d missed. She and Udumma worked at the hospital, but Udumma now had a suitor and was spending more time with their mother learning the ways of a wife. No one had heard from Dike and Ndukwo since they were conscripted and Kalu was walking again, but with a cane. Their mother was spending time fussing over Udumma while their father was spending the days listening to Radio Biafra.

Nwaigbe directed the officer to the house they were staying in. Nwojo’s father was sitting outside, a radio on his shoulder and his head nodding off to sleep. The noise of the tractor driving away after dropping them off, woke their father and brought their mother out. The woman came stumbling out and Nwojo swept her into his arms.

“Nwojo nwa m, kaa”, she cried. “I mezhikwanwa lụa”, she thanked him for coming home. “I mezhikwanwa lụa”.

When he let go of his mother, he looked up and saw that his father was crying. He had never seen it before, he had never imagined it before, that his father could cry. They hugged.

“Kaa nwa m,” he welcomed him. “Ị bụ oke ndi ikom”, he said and let go of him. Nwojo had been at the war front for almost a year and had spent the last week walking a hundred kilometres through enemy territory but, his father calling him a great man was the only affirmation he needed. He was no longer a boy, he was a great man, oke ndi ikom.

Udumma and Kalu hugged him next. His joy at seeing Kalu on his feet knew no bounds, the boy was 14 and with his cane looked like he had aged up to 40. But he was alive and he was walking. Udumma on the other hand was looking radiant, looking at her, it was as though the war did not exist.

That night, they all sat on the floor inside the living room, their hosts too — an elderly couple to whom Nwojo would be eternally grateful for taking care of his family. They ate dinner, ofo ụgbọhọ and ẹsụsụ. Nwojo ate and ate and ate to his content. He had spent 5 days out of his week long leave on the road and he worried about making it back to the camp in time. He’ll leave very early in the morning, following the Abam river, he’ll head south to Amawom, just east of Umuahia. Then he’ll find his way to Mbawsi and retrace his steps. His father assured him it was a shorter and safer route. It was the 26th of November 1969 and even though it was just for a night, Nwojo was glad to be home.

As a little boy, I read an article that declared: “Aba, the dirtiest city in Nigeria”. It was obvious, I had thought to myself, no need writing an article on something everyone knew. We had the worst roads and there were tonnes of garbage heaped at every corner of the city. Of course we were the dirtiest city. We are also ardent spectators. We love to watch. Aba’s love for watching is deep, we watch everything: ongoing armed robbery, people fighting, accidents, magicians, everything. Aba na anya has always been the perfect slogan for Aba.

I live with my family at the last floor of a two storey building along the busy Opobo road in Ogbor Hill, and so like typical Aba people, my family and I watch a lot and we had a good angle. We watched, one Sunday morning, as the filling station, directly opposite our house, get robbed in broad day light by two men on an okada wielding a shot gun and a pistol. We hid in the parlour and watched through the windows.

“So that stray bullets won’t hit us”, my mum said as she hurriedly closed the parlour door. That was the first time I had heard of them, stray bullets, and I imagined they were bullets with minds of their own, bullets that would chase you till they got you and snuffed life out of you.

We watched, one night in the early 2000s, as a young man, who lived in the next building, while fighting with his younger sister, stab his cousin who was trying to stop them from killing each other. “A nwuo la m oo!!” the stabbed boy had shouted as blood poured out of his neck, while we watched. He died that same hour, before he was rushed to the hospital.

“That boy must be a cultist”, my aunty who had come visiting the next day, had said, when the story was told her, “how can he stab his own cousin to death?”

We watched, one morning, as a Lorry’s brakes failed and it ran into a taxi an okada. We watched the carnage from above. We watched as the scene crowded immediately. We watched people scream and cry as victims were dragged out of the wreckage. Our neighbour had gone downstairs with his children to get a look. My mum didn’t let us go. The neighbour’s children claimed they had seen the okada driver’s brain, they said it was like egusi soup. I wanted to go see the egusi-like brain, but my mum was adamant. I imagined from that day on that the human brain was like egusi soup, yellow and green.

I don’t remember most of the 90s, actually I don’t remember the 90s at all. I wish I could though. I wish I could remember the military regime and join people in the argument of whether or not it was better than democracy. I was born during the regime of Sani Abacha, Nigeria’s own Idi Amin. Growing up I heard so many stories about him, I heard that he had secret policemen everywhere disguised as civilians. These men would go around eavesdropping on people’s conversations, and once they heard anyone speak ill of Abacha, they arrested the person and threw them in detention, and so people deterred from calling him by his name. At a time I imagined that this was J K Rowling’s inspiration for ‘He-who-must-not-be-named’. I heard also that Abacha died in 1998 after he ate a poisoned apple from Indian prostitutes and so I developed some sort of feeling of gratitude towards those prostitutes, because somehow I knew I was going to talk about Abacha, if he was still alive when I grew up.

I loved watching cartoons and action movies or as we called them those days ‘actor and boss films’, and even then I hated Steven Seagal for his stoic characters and admired Jean Claude Van Damme’s invincibility. The man couldn’t just die. My mother indulged my love for film and introduced me to classic action films all the way back to John Wayne, classic horror flicks dating back to Psycho and even J and K horror films. She might not have known it then, but those films made me, more than anything, want to tell stories.

I don’t remember much of the ethnic riots in Aba in the early 2000s. They said southerners were slaughtered mercilessly in the north and so Aba people retaliated and mercilessly slaughtered anyone thought to be a northerner. I remember drivers put green branches in front of their vehicles, I did not know why at the time and still don’t know why now. Maybe it was to show that they, the drivers, supported the course. I remember that we never slept in our flat during this period. My mum would take my younger sister and I to a family friend’s flat in the next building to sleep. At the time I thought it was just a fun sleep over. It wasn’t until I grew up did I realize the reason; our next door neighbours at the time were northerners. I remember them, four friendly Muslim men, who woke very early in the morning washed their hands and legs in the balcony then prayed facing the rising sun. I remember them teaching my sister and I Hausa, lessons I have totally forgotten. I remembered that they travelled one day during the riots and never came back. We still slept at our family friend’s place though, you know, just in case they came back. I did not witness any of the killings. My mum did. She tells a harrowing story of seeing a woman being butchered.

I remember when the Bakassi vigilante group held sway in Aba. From their headquarters at Ariaria, they patrolled the city and brought thieves to justice. One of my teachers in primary school called it ‘jungle justice’. But Aba people didn’t care what type of justice it was — the Bakassi boys were our own super heroes. And so we watched in glee as they caught thieves, beat them to stupor, threw tyres round their neck and set them on fire, without fair trial. Well, they did have their own version of a trial — their machete. It was said their machete was enchanted — or something like that. If you were a thief, the machete would turn red once they placed it in front of you. So, that was all they got for justice, those thieves, a red machete.

We watched as policemen ran into bushes and changed out of their uniforms into mufti once there was any gunshot. We watched as bank after bank got robbed. In fact, some prayed for banks to get robbed as the robbers began sharing money after successfully robbing banks. That was Aba at the dawn of the new millennium. The Bakassi boys, however, did succeed in their job of stopping or reducing armed robbery in banks, but then they slowly faded until nothing was heard of them. But Aba people took over from where they stopped, lynching and burning anyone who was caught stealing anything, including mobile phones. I remember seeing all those charred bodies at Opobo junction, on my way to school with my younger sister, the headless ones belonged to those killed by the Bakassi boys while those in very awkward and funny positions with very haunting looks on their crisp, charred faces belonged to those killed by the Aba people. And so their stench joined that of the numerous heaps of garbage that littered the streets and filled the Aba air.

My primary school, Living Word Academy, was just by the Aba river, Waterside, the dirtiest river in the world, polluted by the ahia udele abattoir.

“The name of my school is, Living Word Academy, Campus 2, Onyeador close, Ogbor Hill, Aba!” I used to recite those days, my face brimming with childish joy. I loved and hated my school at the same time, the same way all pupils do. I hated it when I had to wake early in the morning to prepare, having to suspend sleep when it was most interesting. I loved it when I was with my friends chatting loudly and playing.

Those days, while going to school it was not unusual to meet a road accident at the waterside valley, in fact it occurred quite often. Trucks carrying crates of soft drinks fell frequently as they tried to make the sharp turn from Umuoba road into Ikot Ekpene road at Waterside, spilling their load on the road and crushing motorcyclists and their okada, it was always the motorcyclists.

“These reckless okada drivers self”, some passenger in the bus would say, as the bus moved slowly past the accident scene.

I remember those days when public secondary school engaged in epic battles with each other. These squabbles came to a head in 2005 when Secondary Technical School, Ogbor Hill was shut down after a battle with Wilcox Memorial Secondary School and All Saints Secondary School that, if the rumours were true, ended the life of a young boy. My mum taught at All Saints in those days and I remember she came running home from school quite often.

Then there was the kidnapping saga that put Aba on the world map. It was a horrifying period for anyone who was considered rich. In fact, almost every upper middle class person was either kidnapped for a ransom or at least received a letter received a letter of notification from kidnappers and many left, some never returned. Sometimes, people had to pay their ransom in advance, so as not to be kidnapped in the first place. I heard of people kidnapped for as little as a 10,000 Naira ransom. Schools were targeted too and many received the threatening letters. It was on CNN though, that we learnt about those children’s school bus being high jacked by kidnappers.

“Did you hear about those children kidnapped in Abayi?” Someone would ask their neighbour “It was on CNN”

“Are you serious?” the neighbour would ask “Aba was on CNN?”

I had heard several stories of policemen shooting drivers while collecting the normal 20 Naira bribe at check points. I would say ‘tufiakwa’ like everyone else while bemoaning the level to which the Nigeria Police had fallen, especially in Aba. Then In 2010, my aunt, Mrs Nwanne Dike, was shot by a careless policeman, while forcing 20 Naira out of the bus driver at a check point at the outskirts of the city. She was arriving from Lagos with her daughter. She died a week later. I remember dreaming of stray bullets for weeks.

Aba itself, the main Aba, the one every imagines in their head, stretches from Ahia ohuru and the river, covers the whole of Ohanku and Obohia areas, straddles Asa and Port Harcourt roads, includes cemetery market, the Osusu area, Faulks road and ends at Ariaria international market. Growing up, I knew Aba roads were terrible, but I only saw them on the NTA Aba 7 o’clock news. No fault of mine, though. My route to school in Abayi, was fair. But then when there was no news to air — and this happened quite often — the NTA guys took their cameras to Obohia, Ohanku or ukwu mango, where the roads are so bad, they have their own ecosystem.

“We are begging the government to come to our rescue”, a resident will always plead into the camera.

“Anyi na-ario ndi government, ka ha gbatara anyi oso enyemaka”, they’ll repeat in the Igbo version 15 minutes later. The government though, obviously never watched NTA Aba 7 o’clock news as the roads have remained that way till this day.

Aba has it charms though; its disorganisation is only superficial, take away the layers of garbage and the terrible roads and you have one of the best planned cities east of the Niger.

“Downtown Aba is as well planned as the Upper east side, Manhattan”, my dad claims.

By downtown Aba, he means the 20 blocks between Park road and Ngwa road. Within these 20 blocks, is arguably the largest market anywhere east of the Niger. Park road seamlessly fuses with the phone market at St Michaels, then the central mosque in the popular ama hausa. Mosque road then spills into the business district of Azikiwe road where you can buy your original and not so original computers and accessories. Azikiwe road spills into kent and market roads where you are bombarded with an explosion of colours and the smells of crisp, new clothing material. The whole of Kent is littered with them, just outside of the Ekeoha Shopping Centre. Here, peculiarity dies, every single material ever used for shirts, boxer shorts, table cloths, bed sheets and curtains can be found. A trip to Kent is always very humbling, as you’ll be surprised to find the material of that your expensive ‘designers’ shirt in gigantic bales in at least 10 different stalls. Kent soon opens up to the market at Ehi road and the Clifford road where the best tailors and designers in the world will make you shirts, suits, dresses that will rival those produced in Milan, in a matter of hours. Walk down Clifford road and you’ll soon meet the world famous Aba made shoes sold alongside second hand okirika ones along Mosque road. But nothing is more spectacular than the sight at School road. Everybody knows that if you want to get foot wear, you go to school road. Here in School road, you understand and see the beauty of Aba self sufficiency, here one of the few places in the world where Nigerians consume their own products proudly. Then finally, there’s Ahia ohuru the second largest market in the city after Ariaria International Market, a wonder in its own right. Ahi ohuru has since burst its boundaries, filling up School, Ndoki and Ngwa roads and swallowing the home of the people’s elephant, Enyimba FC.

I remember when the people’s elephant, Enyimba football club of Aba won their first African Champions League title in 2003. Never before had the streets of Aba being so chaotic, it was a carnival. Okada riders performed all sorts dangerous tricks with their motorcycles, bars and joints were filled to the brim as bottles on bottles of beer were consumed in celebration. Even people who were ordinarily not interested in sports joined in celebration. Aba was happy that evening, we were proud; Enyimba FC made us proud, Enymba FC still makes us proud.

Aba might appear monotonic in the way that it is just one big market, making its inhabitants market people. And the common stereotype for market people is that they cannot be book people, or people open minded to change that doesn’t concern their businesses.

“Are you sure you grew up in Aba?” a Lagosian friend had asked me once.

“You don’t behave like an Aba boy”, he said when I affirmed that I had grown up in Aba.

“You are open minded, enlightened”, he said when I asked what he meant by my behaviour not being up to his Aba standards.

I had laughed long and hard. Aba, a melting point of creativity. Aba, an oasis of self sufficiency in a country where foreign made goods are preferred. Aba, where hardwork bustles even in the worst possible conditions. Aba, an epitome of resilience. It was in Aba I fell in love with geography and history. In Aba, where I had atlases and several history textbooks I never let go. In Aba, where I began writing, where my love for film began and flourished. It was in Aba I saw the future, mine and the world’s. From Aba I saw the world, from Aba, I watched the world.