Cruelty is surely not the only story that can be told of government. Government has noble sides which often amaze us when virtually it responds to disasters; when it cares for the widows and less privileged and the likes of such kangaroo arrangements deliberately fashioned to deceive the gullible and hopeless masses. Then it seems that its generosity knows no bound. But, when we come face to face with ghastly government atrocities, we are appalled and want to ask, “But what has happened to our humanity that we have become inhuman?”Is that not how we felt when we encountered the horror of Holocaust or the dropping of the atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki; when we heard of the horrible goings-on of an Idi Amin or a Bokassa; when we learned of the vicious occurrences in the killing fields of Cambodia; the excesses in Bosnia and the genocide of Rwanda? We have been equally appalled by the gross violations of human rights in many Latin American countries and South Africa, all in the name of government. We have at home seen government massacre at Odi and Zaki Ibiam.
At Agbaja and Inyimegu Unuphu communities, I hung up my head in shame as I witnessed man’s extraordinary capacity to be vicious, cruel and almost devoid of humanness. I saw what no human being should have to see- the triumph of power over those whom nobody wants to speak for. I saw multitude of human beings, overwhelmingly Izzi Unuphu people, humiliated, isolated, ostracized, and psychologically murdered. I was horrified but not surprised. I am not new to sights of ruins; Ezillo gory zone was once my field work. The perpetrators were not vulgar, underworld thugs, but men of high and low positions in government and industry. Ebonyi has become a state but the question remains: what motivated such a brilliant and committed administration to invent such maximum horrors, by their scope and magnitude, by their sheer weight and number? Development? Then drivers are culpable; they exaggerated their mission and the effects are obvious.
The communities now bear all the features of refugee camp save for the absence of soldiers to rape the victims. The compounds have become shadows of themselves, rags are littered outside. Women are picking pieces of their wrappers and nursing mothers the napkins of their children trapped in the demolished houses. Selected articles of clothing destroyed are hanging on flower edges, and some are being carefully arranged in Ghana-must-go bags. Children are left lying on mats under tree shades. The fathers are loosening trapped roofing sheets as new tents are pitched like wandering Israelites.
Some of the demolished houses still reveal their former contents through doors that are jammed half trapped. Inside one house, I saw a crucifix of Our Lord Jesus Christ snapped in two, its up-stretched right arms cut away from the rest of the symbol of the one whose sacrifice for all humanity was regularly remembered in that house and whose blood was poured as ransom for this type of horror. The small wooden altar table itself was lying crazily askew with broken candle sticks, scratched holy picture of ‘Divine Mercy’ on it and splashes of Goya-brand Olive Oil on the ground. “What do you call this?”, my colleague asked. It is more than insanity, more than desecration. There are no Boko Haram cells in Inyimegu Unuphu, yet we have bleeding altars and desecrated crucifixes. ‘This can only happen in Izzi’, my friend observed. On a two-legged stool with a bamboo support was a JVC radio cassette tuned to ‘Salt FM’ Station. The radio was singing praises of the on-going projects at ultra modern Ochudo City just at the same time a man commanded his small boy to tune it off.
Cursed be that day! I never bargained for it. A colleague friend and associate had challenged me a night before to go and see for myself. Passing by along the dusty road I was standing was a middle-aged man sobering. I greeted him “Good day Sir”, but he turned with a reply: “there is nothing good about our days now. There are no devils left in Hell. They are all in Inyimegu Unuphu. God has deserted us.” My feeling went high and my pen responded to ‘uguru’, refusing to give its ink when I tried to note these beautiful lines. You can then imagine the fate of new born babies in these communities. ‘The timing is strategically malicious’, said a sympathizing visitor.
Beckoning on my friend to jump inside the car, I turned the kick in anger and started rolling down gently along the road. Not long, my gear selector started its own revolt moving freely and responding to its own initiated mechanism. But this disappointment was both a lesson and a blessing. As I navigated to one corner of the road to pack, I saw a woman excavating some portions of the road. ‘Why do this? Stop it!’, I instinctively demanded. The women simply ignored me and continued. I turned to speak a dialect, I guessed correct she would understand. She turned to me with reasonable maturity.
Nwandugo told us the whole story in a flat unemotional voice, no tears, no paralyzing grief, just a harrow story of losing all; everything she worked for in life. “This spot used to be our compound, our graveyards. Now it has become a road. Never will I live to tread this way, this road is a symbol of government’s cruelty.” I could not comprehend what Nwandugo was feeling. Was it a grief, or trauma or simply a survival?
Then we left our car for my electrician who had come from Abakaliki to respond to my distress call. As we trekked along the road, there was nothing to say for a very long time as our troubled minds tried to grope in the thick darkness and gloom of what we had seen and heard. We crept into Ndieze Inyimegu Unuphu for another tale of loss and signs of my siesta time did not come a long time in the stricken compound of the village head, Hon Sunday Mgburuma. The villagers quickly assembled. My complexion argued against me. No, they would not agree I didn’t learn their language. With one proverb, I won their approval. They wouldn’t count property loss. No! Lives were important. They gave a list of deaths they have recorded because of the trauma- Solomon Okwunta, Nwogbaga Una, Ugo Origbe, Nwibo Adibor, Okpuru Onwoshi, Ajagbo Nwankwegu, Igwe Egbarada, Nkwegu Onicha, Nwibo Ebem, Uzoke Uguru, Ogazi Aleke, Nwibo Igbeagu, Nwibo Igwe, Nkwudanshi Nwankwegu, Nwogha Igwe, Mbam Ajagbo.
The way they chorused the names seemed like children reciting litany of the Blessed Lady. When I tried to cross-check some of the strange-sounding names I had hastily written in my bad writing, the village secretary, Comrade Eguji Francis Okechukwu in a twinkle of an eye furnished me with a hard copy in a letterhead bearing “Inyimegu Unuphu Elders Forum”. The SOS which was not dated but addressed to the Director, State Security Services, Abakaliki, Ebonyi State was ‘A Reminder Of The Report On The Demolition Of The Ancestral Homes Of Inyimegu Unuphu People Causing The Death Of Sixteen Persons Already, Thereby Creating Dispute Between The State Government And The Affected Community.’
The reminder interestingly reiterated the community’s support for the past and present government of Ebonyi State and lauded Ochudo-led government revealing that at various times the community had donated their land for government projects such as: The Central Bank of Nigeria, The Ebonyi State Secretariat Complex known as Ochudo City, The International Market, The Central Police Station (CPS), Abakaliki Mechanic Village, The Abakaliki Rice Mill Industry, CAS Campus of EBSU, Old Water Works Corporation, Motor and Motorcycle Spare Parts Markets. The SOS submitted among other things that government should assist any son/daughter of the community whom the road construction or other projects had affected through compensation while allowing others not affected by any project to remain. They finally argued that government’s right to acquire land for developmental projects, should not infringe on people’s right to exist. The summary of the 43 demolished households attached to the report were as follows: three-2bedroom flats, six-3bedroom flats, twenty-three 4-bedroom flats, nine-5bedroom flats, two 6-bedroom flats, two-7bedroom flats.
Then came a call from my electrician, my car was okay. I hurried to leave as if that was what I had been waiting for. ‘Are you going?’, they asked. ‘We thought you would have time to listen to us; your list is out-dated’. I was disappointed. When I demanded for an update, the answer I got startled me. ‘Over 200 households have been demolished. They want us out, not just those who live along project-targeted routes.’ The latest dead are Nwandugo Nweze, Elias Nweze, and Clement Ogodo who was said to have run into accident while conveying his loads to a friend’s house after his compound had been demolished.
Trekking towards my car, it was difficult to say whether it was the sight of a compound in ruins or that of a tall slim 17-year old girl wearing a modest denim skirt and a dark blue cardigan wrapped over a faded print blouse that attracted my attention. She held herself painfully erect and stared ahead, eyes brooding and hooded. Shyly, she turned her back and pulled down the edge of the sweater from the smooth dark skin of her neck, revealing why she held herself so sternly stiff. Coming closer to her, I saw three wide, ugly corrugated-looking scars, still healing, slash their way across the velvet skin, cutting deep into muscle and nerves, leaving her temporarily unable to turn her fine-boned head. ‘I sustained it while trying to remove my bed-ridden blind mother inside the house while the bulldozer was already razing it down’ she explained. “To avoid my mother being trapped, I had hurried inside as the planks fell on my neck from nowhere. Thank God I am alive.” Nkechi dropped and walked away. I was more concerned with her story than her wrong grammar after all the night before I had watched a national honoree youth leader speak wrong grammar with impunity.
Hmmm! I didn’t know when night started falling and the cold of the harmattan penetrating into the nerves. Wetting my throat with “Aquarapha” can-water while steering the car with one hand, suddenly there came a distress call. I thought I had run into an accident. “Please, come and help my sister, she has been shivering since last night’ a little girl had called from under the shade which had become their make-shift home. My friend was first to reach. “It is pneumonia, come and pray for him”, he shouted. “Friend, no need for prayer, God is not in the habit of doing for men what He has given them power to do.” I had replied. We wanted to take them to hospital but her sister would not allow us. I realized she had mistrust for unknown visitors. Though we collected rags to help her cover her sister, as I left I asked myself how long that child would live under that condition. Only God knows if she is still alive. I went the next day to check, but the shades had been deserted. Where, when and how could I trace them? Only then did I realize that they were wandering refugees in their own land.
My travelogue was not all a litany of woes. As I was driving out, the beautiful Ochudo City happened to me. I was amazed at the neatness of the massive office complexes beholding a dam I had mistaken to be a big swimming pool that could accommodate both His and Her Excellencies, Founding Fathers, Commissioners, Permanent Secretaries, Special Advisers, Local Governement Chairmen, Development Centre Coordinators, Judges, Members Of State House of Assembly And Youth Assembly Leaders And All Members of The Winning Team in any state function. I tried driving in but I was turned back by the hungry looking security guards who at the same time pleaded that I celebrate Christmas for them.
As I drove home, the thought of these two contrasting scenes kept hunting me. First thesis! Government thinks best for us by giving us a modern city. Next! Development has its own burdens. Antithesis! Should a development come at the expense of the people who should behold and enjoy it? Synthesis! Negative. I then realized that to be a priest, journalist and a government fan are incompatible. But which angle should I speak from? Let’s turn to living history of big cities and places.
The popular Obudu Cattle Ranch with its enviable tourist attraction in Africa still permits the existence of aborigines even within the Ranch. Houses have been built for them and means of livelihood continually provided by the Ranch just because their grazing land has been acquired by government. Besides, they are still permitted to run their petty trades in the ranch. At Abuja, the Bwaris who were wandering nomads, have not been made wanderers nor exterminated just because their communities have been turned to a Federal Capital Territory. Today, they live in big mansions built by the government; houses they would not have built in the next century. What other examples do we want? Are these government authorities ignorant of Land Use Act of 1978?
We can no longer deny our duty to the demolished communities. Justice is the only way Agbaja and Inyimegu Unuphu can be healed and suppurating sore of hatred lanced, so that the tiny traumatized communities can be properly compensated, reconstructed, and relocated if need be. Justice means supporting Agbaja and Inyimegu Unuphu people in their overwhelming grief. Trying to short circuit this process by concentrating on guilt-motivated short-term humanitarianism and arguments is to fulfill the worst fears. Humanitarianism invites us to relocate the victims of our mistake. See Agbaja and Inyimegu Unuphu and weep!
