Memories of the Dark Days: The Dark Days Series

By Ken Okonkwo

The vast sub-Saharan landmass with many heritages was amalgamated by the British government to form the nation, Nigeria. In 1960, the nation became independent. Ethnic, tribal and religious intolerance tore into the well – ordered fabric of the country and seven years later a vicious conflict resulted. Part of the south seceded and the con

• Language: English
• Publisher: URLink Print & Media, LLC
• Release date: Jul 2, 2019
• ISBN: 9781643674735

Ken Okonkwo

Chuka Ken Okonkwo was born in Warri, Delta State and hails from Obosi in Anambra State, Nigeria. His father was a police man and being subject to frequent transfers, they traversed the southern parts of Nigeria until after the civil war. This enabled him to pick up some of the multiple languages spoken and experience the various cultures first-hand. He went through school and chose the banking career, working for about fifteen years for one of the most prominent banks in the country as an inspector, before branching off into the private sector and establishing one of the longest lasting Finance companies in the eastern part of Nigeria. Chuka was at the helm of affairs of his Finance Company for about 20 years before retiring, but continues to serve on the board. He was always introspective and communicated better in writing, and thus developed the habits of writing out his thoughts, imaginations and stories. Recalling facts of the civil war, Chuka birthed ' the dark days series'- historical fiction reminiscent of the war in Nigeria. In 2007, He produced a short non-fiction narrative titled 'second chance'. The Fictional trilogy titled 'Biafrana 1, 2 & 3' followed in succeeding years, depicting post-civil war Nigeria. Chuka is happily married to his heartthrob and blessed with four children. He presently resides in New York and spends the majority of his time involved in his various charities, with his grandchildren and writing to his heart's content.

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Memories of the Dark Days

Copyright © 2019 by Ken Okonkwo. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, descriptions, entities, and incidents included in the story are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, and entities is entirely coincidental.

The opinions expressed by the author are not necessarily those of URLink Print and Media.

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Published in the United States of America

ISBN 978-1-64367-474-2 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64367-473-5 (Digital)

15.05.19

DEDICATION

The book Memories of the Dark Days is for cancer patients. A portion of the proceeds accruing from this book goes to assist cancer patients locked in mortal combat with the dreaded disease through the Kindness Unhindered Organization.

Ken Okonkwo

CAVEAT

LET HIM BEWARE WHO READS

THE LURE FOR CONQUEST IS INEVITABLY ALLOYED WITH PYRRHIC

GALL.

—KEN OKONKWO

Contents

Preface

Chapter 1: Source

Chapter 2: Mike

Chapter 3: Trial

Chapter 4: Prison

Chapter 5: The Other Side

Chapter 6: Murphy

Chapter 7: Frontline Action

Chapter 8: O Group

Chapter 9: Battle

Chapter 10: Enemy Action

Chapter 11: Service of Songs

Chapter 12: Loose Ends

Wreath of the Dark Days

Prologue

Glossary For Memories Of The Dark Days

PREFACE

I have no pretensions to being intellectual, a historian either civil or military, a moral crusader, or a great writer. I humbly lay claim to being a storyteller albeit inept at the art. My stories are born of facts woven into humorous sequence and embellished with wild imaginations. I am optimistic that not counting the good laughs, some good shall result from this work of fiction laced with background facts.

Any resemblance or similarity to names of anything, event, place, group, organization, entity or persons existing, past, living, or dead is highly regretted. My thanks go to Rod Anyamene of Valdez Publishers (NY ) for his sympathetic work of editing and criticism.

Special thanks go to General Yakubu Gowon whose large soldierly heart had ample space for magnanimity and for his famous three Rs (reconciliation, rehabilitation, and reconstruction). Thank you, sir.

Finally, I say many thanks to you my dear reader for joining me in the laughter I had during the arduous labor of delivering this work from my imagination.

Ken Okonkwo

CHAPTER ONE

Source

In the beginning of this story was the Psychiatric Hospital. The situation of the hospital was formerly directly opposite the College of Immaculate Conception, which very humbly adjoined the Biggard Memorial Seminary. All three establishments held pride of place in the Enugu metropolis and ruled the Uwani realm. These establishments had different stories and diverse reputations which were told by different people, but their identities as hospital, college, and seminary remained clear. These establishments were not in the very beginning of this story because I, Bosah Ike, the receptacle that gathered the facts of the story was born in Warri, Delta State of Nigeria. My need for psychiatric attention came in the wake of the Nigerian civil war. I am not of the Roman Catholic persuasion, not to talk of trying out my hands at seminary education. I got my secondary education at Anglican Grammar School, Achi. This was then a young school where students had to, as part of their normal academic pursuits and for vocational purposes, work hard at being good carpenters, bricklayers, laborers, welders, plumbers, and what-have-you. This contrasted with the College of Immaculate Conception, which was already well established before the facts of this story saw the light of day.

I recall with utter clarity the day that my father cursed me. He cursed me at about 10:00 a.m. on that bright sunny morning of 10 September 1971. Without any warning, the sun disappeared behind a dark and mourning cloud. These indicators of an impending rainfall had no time to impress upon my frightened soul their cold significance before they successfully ushered in a torrential downpour. The water taps had gone dry some eight days earlier, and this was ample opportunity to fill up all available containers with water. As it happened, I did not receive a flogging that day as my father was wont to administer freely when somebody contravened any of his numerous decrees. However, the very next morning, I went back to school four pounds richer and free from all thoughts.

On my way to Enugu late that afternoon of 11 September, I told my friend and our school’s most renowned pimp, Eme Nwankwo, of my father’s generosity. He had wanted to know how I could afford a special service lady. I narrated my story to him, not leaving out the lie I told my father about how I spent my five pounds pocket money, which was supposed to last me for the whole term, and my father’s curse. My friend’s jolly demeanor changed. He got frightened and suggested that I should return to my father and plead for forgiveness. He informed me that my father had placed a great curse on me, which could only be removed by a reverend father. In spite of his three shillings commission for arranging the special service lady, he declined continuing the journey with me. I was lost, and being shy by nature as well as slow of speech, I knew that there was no way I could affect the necessary arrangements. I pleaded with him, to no avail. Then as he started shouting for the lorry driver to pull over so that he would get down and return to the school, out of desperation, my brain became a fountain of ideas. The wailing of the engine was fighting to outdo the grinding of an alien or rather displaced metal and the creaking of the woodwork. The spluttering of the broken exhaust pipe was spilling smoke, which the wind kept blowing into the jam-packed lorry. This aided and abetted, as the police would say, the shouts, snarls, and curses of the irate passengers, making it impossible for the driver to hear him. I remained lost, but as our slow journey progressed, I became frightened when Eme made an attempt to jump down. The lorry conductor stopped him, and my ideas bubbled over. I asked him if he had the transport fare with which to return to our school. When he replied to the negative, I pointed out the fact that we were about to enter Enugu and that we had covered close to twenty-five kilometers from the school. He relaxed a bit and holding his palms together, bowed his head in prayer. He was one of my school’s best athletes, so I did not know if he was praying for strength to jump down without hurt and trek back to school. Disturbing his prayers, I immediately pointed out the rashness of such a difficult trek and the ever-present threat of night marauders. He looked up as if startled. Bosah, he said.

We will go to a priest immediately after the arrangements are made. I have a long life ahead of me, and I don’t want to be encumbered directly or indirectly by other peoples’ curses. For the risk I am now taking, my commission will be six shillings.

I agreed without argument and paid him one shilling there and then as a show of good faith. We got to Enugu at about 5:00 p.m., and he made the necessary arrangements so that at 8:00 p.m., we smuggled the lady into the bush behind the Psychiatric Hospital for the only remaining pleasure of Mike Chidebe.

The curse also had a share in the beginning but was born after the very beginning. Eme Nwankwo, after receiving his commission in full, insisted on our seeing a priest without delay. He stated that the charge for a priest’s services was a paltry five shillings. He emphasized the potency of a Father’s curse, quoting from Proverbs chapter 30, verse 17, he explained that ravens would pluck out the eyes of a son who gets so disobedient as to be cursed by his father. Quaking with fear, I agreed and went with him to the seminary. We scaled the wall effortlessly, sneaking along until we saw a priest ascending the staircase to what looked like a tower. Eme asked me to wait, collected the five shillings consultation fee, ran up the stairs, and fell on his knees beside the priest. In fright, the priest jumped so high that he landed unbalanced on the wet staircase and kept sliding down until he caught hold of the railing. He stormed up, muttering expletives that sounded like curses. I warned myself to stop thinking vilely as priests do not curse. As he was dragging Eme up the stairs, My fears could not be allayed for there was nothing suspicious of benevolence in the priest’s features. I did not see what happened after they disappeared into a room, but about twenty screams later and a little lull, Eme limped out accompanied by the priest. He called out to me a few times, but the limp and the punctuating sniffs made me hurriedly change my position and lie flat on the grass.

They headed for my former position, passing close by me. Then I heard the soothing fatherly voice of the priest and realized that I was in no danger, so I got up and walked to them. The priest took us to the chapel, lit some candles, and affected some maneuvers that spoke of high prayers. He eventually sat down and asked me about the problem. I was still a little frightened and did not know how to start.

Now my son, said the priest.

Tell me everything. I think that I can help you.

I knelt down, unaware of it and decided to bare my heart totally. Father, I began.

I have sinned and departed from thy way like a lost sheep, and I am no more worthy …

He did not let me continue but dragged me to my feet and pushed me back to the pew.

"Now, tell me why you are so frightened as to scale the walls into this place.

What happened?"

My slow wit, already scattered, was not to be hurried. Meanwhile, the wise priest walked down the chapel as if in search of something. Eme urged me to tell my story, he even advised me on how to start. It was more than fifteen minutes before the priest rejoined us, beaming benignly. He sat down next to me on the pew. Nothing changed for I was still tongue-tied, but when the priest spoke again, I smelled alcohol on his breath. I was puzzled because my father, whom I think worshipped priests of all denominations next to God himself, had told me that strong wine does not pass the lips of Nazarenes and that all priests were Nazarenes. I then felt relieved in the knowledge that even priests sometimes do wrong. I looked upon him as a kindred spirit and found it easier to tell my story.

Father, I said.

My father cursed me yesterday.

How did he do that? he asked after some lizardlike nods of his balding head, which I believed was to show me that he understood completely.

He looked at me sternly when I explained how I lost my pocket money, and as the frown cleared from his face, he very slowly told me that I was going to tell stories all my life, I explained.

Did he rebuke you or flog you after that?

No, Father, he did not mention it again, and when he gave me another money, he asked me to use it well, I replied.

Did you lose the first money? asked the priest. No, Father, I spent it on something important.

What did you spend it on? asked the priest.

It was then that the coincidence that brought out the whole story took place. Charity, Father, charity.

My friend Eme, at once, denied that the name of the lady he arranged last time was Charity.

"I heard somebody call her Joy before I explained what you wanted her for.

Charity may be the one you arranged before that of Joy," said Eme.

I never arranged anything, you and Ernest Offor arranged all six special services including this one, I countered.

Ehee! So that is how you show your gratitude?

Stop, commanded the priest.

He then sent Eme over to sit by the pulpit and asked me to continue. The charity I mean is that of giving something to people without asking for anything in return.

Please continue, urged the priest.

The story then flowed smoothly as I poured out my heart to the priest.

It was in the month of May at the resumption of the new school year that I became happy. Some weeks before that, I was plagued with incessant headaches that made me feel as if a thousand small but energetic prisoners were at work in my skull using machetes, grass cutters, shovels, and sharp spikes and occasionally burning whatever they gathered together. My head felt like a bakery oven at twenty-four hours a day and seven days a week service. When the lull came, my happiness bordered on euphoria. I would not eat, refused to attend lectures, and refused to leave my bed. My friends got worried and told the house prefect. He came to reason with me, but his reasoning appeared so infantile that I even broke my fixed grin and started laughing. The laughter, when my throat wearied, broke into a noisy cackle and earned me a beating. This, to the delight of some fun-loving students, did nothing to abate the noisy cackle for it continued at a higher pitch. It was joined by punctuating grunts and wheezes, connoting the pain and nothing mattered.

My principal was invited, and he tried to soothe me and discover the problem by asking me questions. I, in my newfound happiness and wisdom, discovered that he was not educated enough to be a school principal. I had always admired him and so I thought that the best way to help him out of his illiteracy and thus save his job was to make him versed in the works of William Shakespeare. I started quoting excerpts of Shakespeare’s works, which gave the marching music to his office. I was still at it when strong hands grabbed me and forced my unresisting body onto his table. Somebody pulled down my shorts, and I felt a sharp pain on my buttocks. It was not like the pain one experienced when honored with a lay on the principal’s table.

These happenings were related to me by my close friend and associate, Wilberforce Agu, on my return from the Psychiatric Hospital where I was admitted for treatment. The last thing I remembered was looking toward the array of canes in the principal’s office and wondering how come he had invented this new type of canning that made painful contact with only a small part of the buttocks.

CHAPTER TWO

Mike

I regained consciousness in the Psychiatric Hospital Enugu at about the middle of June. Everything looked new, and I could not remember anything about my life: nurses and doctors kept coming and going, but they all had one thing in common. They had a fixed grin and not one of them came close to me. Another feature I recognized was that the door, which was left ajar seemed to attract them anytime I tried to move. Eventually, I recognized Bike, my cousin, who I was later informed had been with me since the day I was admitted. It took about four days for me to put the whole picture together and realize that I had taken a trip to the land of lunacy. As I got better, my erstwhile emaciated body began to fill out again. The fixed grin that had started irritating me left the faces of the doctors and nurses, and our relationship became more cordial. However, with time, what I later discovered was that the safe distance they usually