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Showing posts from June, 2016


The Biafran story is closely woven into the history of my family. Without that war, there might probably not be a thing like me or my siblings; probably not be a thing like my family.

Let me explain.

My parents met inside a refugee camp in Gborokiri, Rivers state Nigeria. It was the Summer of 1968 and the war was raging on both sides. My mother was an orphan, a refugee left under the care of a Baptist missionary called Miss Harris. It was this white lady who had picked  her off the streets of Aba after her father was shot by the Nigerian soldiers.
  My father, on the other hand, was a remarkable young man who had left a flourishing career as a Sargent Major in the Nigerian police to enlist in the Biafran army. He came regularly into the camp to inspect the condition of things and to report back. It was during one of these visits that he chanced upon my mother and (not minding that my mother was still a naive prepubescent girl), a very piquant romance that would later blossom into an unha…