The Sojourner: A Jeffrey Igwe and JoeBoy Amanze Novel

By Gideon Chuka Nwoko

At the dawn of a precarious post-civil war Nigeria, Jeffrey Igwe and JoeBoy Amanze, chummiest of Igbo pals from the eastern region of the country, surmised that opportunities for them to soar in their lives' dreams weren't guaranteed in an already rife, tribal, and nepotistic society, shrewdly skewed against the Igbos, who were tacitly deemed a bellicose race of people for allegedly igniting the heap of cinders and embers that eventually erupted into a full-scale tribal bloodbath between the Igbos and the Hausa, albeit the Igbos only audaciously fought the Hausa, the federal troops, to counter their subjugation and defend their people, dignity, and ancestral homeland in a civil war that raged from 1967-1970.

Gritty, fearless, ambitious, and contrarian, Jeffrey Igwe, who fought and survived the civil pogrom as a Biafran army captain, sought the recourse of JoeBoy Amanze as he transitioned from his ancestral provenance of Amaku to the metropolitan city of Lagos for the very first time.

The two chums eventually migrated to Dallas, Texas, where their lives as the years wore on took a dramatic turn, precipitated by avarice, machismo ego, love, passion, and a trail of bloodcurdling family betrayals, unforeseen maledictions, and tragedies.

The Sojourner is a historical romance, an emotion-laden, riveting, gripping, humorous, and erotic narrative of love lost and an enduring love found, such as Gavanka Garfunkel, a stunningly gorgeous, burgeoning, sultry jazz crooner, which culminated in a moon shot at the American dream that wound up shaping diametric destinies for the bosom friends in the United States, destinies that eventually, as the years wore on, made an impact on their extended menage back in Nigeria, in London, England, and in Rennes-le-Chateau, Southern France.

The saga continues to unfurl in this seven-book series to be published in the near future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 18, 2024
• ISBN: 9798887938011

Book preview

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The Sojourner

A Jeffrey Igwe and JoeBoy Amanze Novel

Gideon Chuka Nwoko

Copyright © 2023 Gideon Chuka Nwoko

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2023

ISBN 979-8-88793-791-5 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-88793-801-1 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

For the love and honor of Jack Agomuo Nwoko and Bessie Owonkor Nwoko, my beloved grandparents, who, fortunately for me, bequeathed their outpouring of boons upon me prior to their transition to the supernal realm. I'm eternally grateful for your spirits, which guide and watch over me in my dreams.

Acknowledgments

Pragmatic dreamers sentiently fathom they're sojourners in a quicksilver world, and for that, they are never deterred by the provenance or morass of life in their relentless pursuit of their dream, goal, passion, and purpose to spring forth in the ever luminous light of day.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Author's Note

About the Author

For the love and honor of Jack Agomuo Nwoko and Bessie Owonkor Nwoko, my beloved grandparents, who, fortunately for me, bequeathed their outpouring of boons upon me prior to their transition to the supernal realm. I'm eternally grateful for your spirits, which guide and watch over me in my dreams.

Acknowledgments

My boundless stream of gratitude, praise, and adoration is eternally reserved for Elohim, God, who graciously blesses us humankind every day with the incalculable, free gift of life and who, as well, blesses us with the sterling virtues of audacity, diligence, perseverance, patience, ability, and talent to tap into the deeper realm of our creative imaginations and to couch fictive tales of life that potentially entertain, enlighten, educate, inform, illuminate, and even possibly enhance our human experiences in the universe.

Marilyn Pumpkin Bailey Nwoko, you clairvoyantly foresaw the fruition of this literary endeavor several years ago; and through the arduous, rough-and-tumble journey of this project, you unflinchingly purveyed me with material, moral, and emotional recourse of the most kind. For that, I'm eternally grateful and indebted to you. You will always possess my love!

My beloved mother, Anna Chiafulamiro Ochu, whose celestial spirit did watch, guide, and protect me through this writing expedition, I'm eternally grateful to you. You're always on my mind and in my heart and soul with the deepest of love!

A very special thanks to Serena Verzhinsky, who professionally transcribed my scribbled narrative into a publisher-ready manuscript. Your buoyant memory and chirpy laughter will always remain with me.

My galactic gratitude to Alexa Cox, Rexene Ann Matusek, Obadiah Jackson, Joyce Morton, Rev. Wesley Jones, Joan Means, Ernestine Deming, Linda Green, Billy Ray Swain, Pastor Isaac Grant Sr., Gloria Davis, Mary and James Bibbs, Russ and Ann Dawson, Thomas and Gloria Natal, Fannie Sprigs, Mark and Christella Wilt, Claudio Partida, my literary agent Brian Droste, my publication coordinator Jenna Amy, and my beloved cousin Nkem D. Nwoko, chairman of Godson Publicity Services Ltd., Lagos, Nigeria. You, ladies and gentlemen, were all godsent human angels who purveyed me with all kinds of assistance while I trudged through this creative trajectory.

To you, Leonard Moore Jones, for all the shoulder and neck massages you cheerily gave me the days and nights I was utterly fagged out from writing, I do truly appreciate you for them.

And last but not the least, Leonardira Moore Jones, who in a paradoxical fashion actually taught me how to further flex the fibers of my forbearance and patience. Thank you as well for that.

Pragmatic dreamers sentiently fathom they're sojourners in a quicksilver world, and for that, they are never deterred by the provenance or morass of life in their relentless pursuit of their dream, goal, passion, and purpose to spring forth in the ever luminous light of day.

Chapter 1

After three years of involvement in ferocious military combat between federal troops and the Biafran army, the Nigerian Civil War finally wound to an end during the looming Harmattan season of the latter part of 1970. Thank goodness, the carnage and senseless bloodletting were finally over! The sinister assassination of Major General Kalu Ozumba, surreptitiously hatched and executed by the then top military brass of Hausa descent, wasn't an abrupt bewilderment to their minority Igbo military counterparts, who, by the way, had always felt marginalized by the Nigerian Army, Navy, and Air Force.

Prior to the brutal and mortifying murder of Ozumba, a massive clump of young, lusty, and illustrious Igbos living in the then northern region as merchants, artisans, and mere residents had been cold-bloodedly and heartlessly slaughtered, as if they were mere beasts, sporadically throughout the year 1966 by a bunch of rabid and bloodthirsty Hausa. And the tidal wave of these inhuman killings, like a whirlwind of fire, metastasized throughout east of the Niger River to their cities, towns, and hinterlands as their sons and daughters were ferried home for interment.

Anger, bitterness, and resentment were at a boiling point among the Igbos; and their bruised hearts and minds fiercely yearned for a pound of flesh and revenge against the Hausa. Their key military hero, Major General Ozumba, brutally and ignominiously butchered like a captured villain; their sons and daughters were ruthlessly hacked down in thousands to their untimely demise like animals.

Thus, it became very ostensible to the Igbos that these callous killings of their own were a calculated conspiracy and concerted, grand effort by the northerners, who dominated the army, air force, and navy, to subjugate and oppress the Igbos and perhaps debase them into second-class Nigerians in their own land of birth even though the economic mainstay of the country, crude oil, came from their region.

The bloodbath against the Igbos by the Hausa unfortunately spiraled to a melting juncture, where Colonel Chuba Aguocha, staunchly supported by most of the other ranking Igbo military comrades, publicly decried their deep-seated suspicion, injustice, and brazen subjugation of the Igbos while the federal government feigned a blind eye toward the blazing cruelty and annihilation in the land.

Therefore, given the state of imbroglio in the land and the lack of faith and trust in the Nigerian Union's capability to protect and secure the life, property, and mutual interests of the Igbos nationwide, Colonel Chuba Aguocha, military leader of the Biafran mutiny, declared the secession of the Igbos from the Nigerian nationhood. In layman's terms, meaning, he was declaring a full-scale war against the federal government of Nigeria, headed by Major General Zarman Gadasko.

Though of Plateau State origin, Gadasko was more or less perceived and deemed by the generality of the Igbos as a Hausa northerner, who allegedly precipitated the elimination of Ozumba, which, in turn, ushered him in as the incumbent military leader of the Nigerian nation when the civil war fully erupted in July of 1967. The Hausa, fighting under the umbrella of the Nigerian Army, were supposedly defending the Nigerian polity to remain as an indivisible, single entity while the Igbos audaciously and indefatigably fought as Biafrans in defense of their secession and proposed sovereignty from the Nigerian nationhood.

However, with no surprise, the British government militarily backed the federal side as the war raged, as they felt their national interest in their erstwhile colony's national resources, especially crude oil, was more protected by the Hausa's majority populace in the entire country. So the feds had a military might and upper hand, so to speak, in unleashing depredation and terror on the eastern region of the country.

That notwithstanding, though, the intrepidness, resilience, and ingenuity of Igbo scientists and engineers, who locally refined crude oil to man their armory, improvised means of radio communication to their battalions and platoons stationed at Oba, Enugu, and Umuahia and other covert bunkers and places around the region, tremendously enabling the Biafran soldiers to doggedly sustain the war the three long years it lasted.

Unanticipated, in the wee hours of December 11, 1970, there came a martial music blasting on the radio for about four minutes or so. And when the music eventually wound up, there squealed a grating voice on the radio. It was that of Major General Zarman Gadasko, pronouncing the civil war over. With the hovering tide that the Biafran warlord Colonel Aguocha had allegedly capitulated and for the safety and protection of his dear life, he had taken an impromptu flight to exile in the French-speaking West African nation of Ivory Coast.

The unexpected declaration by Gadasko was a fusion of jubilation and trepidation in the atmosphere at the same time. To the Biafran army and their civilian folks, it was, however, apparent that they had lost the civil war to the feds and the Hausa, and what that meant for the fate of the Igbos in the postwar epoch of the Nigerian nationhood became a very limpid guess.

Gadasko, in a palpable showcase of apt and clever diplomacy, for the sake and interest of healing wounds and dousing pent-up emotions and cranking up the engine toward national peace and stability once again, overall defusing the aftermath of hundreds of thousands of lives regrettably lost on both sides, and projecting a national aura that they were still one unified entity, one indivisible nation, declared the verdict of the civil war as, No victor, no vanquished!

Nevertheless, to the generality of the Igbo populace, it was somewhat obvious in their psyche that they had lost the three-year war. Though unverbalized in the nooks and crannies of the Igbo lands, it could, however, be inwardly felt in their spirits and, in a classified or covert manner, sealed their fate more or less as vicious traitors to the Nigerian Union, deserving to be invariably checked, contained, and suppressed by the rest of the country, particularly by the Hausa and the Yoruba, who constituted the ethnic majority of the country, together with the Igbos.

And given the trumped-up philosophy and perception of the Igbos, which was rife in the postwar environment, harsh engagement of tribalism, the quota system, and playing second fiddle became the classified modus operandi or unspoken strategy in some circumstances to check the presumed, visceral threat constantly posed by the bellicose Igbos for having the temerity to kindle a full-blown civil war on the nation in the very first place.

Biafran soldiers were finally retreating to their various battalions, platoons, and garrisons around the eastern region; and from there, they eventually journeyed their way back to their respective towns and homes and to their loved ones, hoping that their grandparents, parents, brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, children, cousins, and some distant relative or bosom friend hadn't unfortunately fallen casualty to the fierce bombardments by the feds' air raids or the Hausa infantry soldiers who methodically infiltrated and swarmed most villages and hamlets, as remote as they were in the east.

And I myself, as the young captain who had led and commandeered the Twenty-Second Infantry Division stationed at Oba, likewise profoundly contemplated what the fate was of my grandparents, parents, and four siblings in particular besides the other members of my vast relatives. I could only but wistfully hope that everyone luckily survived the civil war as I strutted down the nearby Oba motor park to catch public transportation to my village.

Good day, sir, Captain Jeffrey Igwe, hollered a raspy voice from behind at the motor park. You're Captain Igwe of the Twenty-Second Armored Battalion here at Oba?

Yes, I was, I stoically replied to the fully geared but weary-looking gentleman in Biafran military uniform. But I'm not a captain anymore, I highlighted. The war is fortunately over, so I'm headed home.

If you don't mind, sir, where is home? I mean, your town? queried the young, snoopy soldier further.

I'm from Amaku Village in Mbato, I answered the young soldier with the uncommon jauntiness of a twenty-one-year-old who had just commanded his battalion in a battle against enemy troops. And what's your name, if I may ask?

I'm Sergeant Achike Ezeobi from Owerri.

And in what platoon were you stationed?

You mean you don't recognize my face?

A glower of disappointment suddenly etched across the soldier's brow like cracks on a sheet of ice as he quizzed me.

You sure do look familiar, though, I managed to blurt out to douse his somewhat bruised machismo ego as a young sergeant.

I fought under your battalion right here in Oba.

You don't mean it! I'm really sorry. You know, there were too many soldiers to keep up with each and every individual face. Anyway, I'm glad to see you survived the war.

Me too, sir. I'm very delighted to see my commander alive after the war is over.

Well, it's God's providence and protection. We're truly fortunate to be journeying home alive considering the massive number of soldiers we sadly lost.

Yes, sir. I thank God! Achike bellowed at the very cusp of his lungs inside the motor park, attracting the attention of the milling passengers about to embark on their journeys.

Achike, please, needless of the seniority protocol of answering me as sir, just call me Jeffrey or, preferably, Jeff for short. That'd be fine with me. And we're simply equal comrades and buddies from now on, I heartfully declared to him while from the corner of my eye I keenly observed the civilians, who were likewise watching our mild spectacle as surviving Biafran soldiers.

Well, you know military regimentation and mindset die hard. But if you insist, I'll simply call you Jeff from now on, Achike growled in his deep, husky voice.

As I perused my timepiece, I noticed it was almost 1:00 p.m., and out of the blue came the bus driver of the Toyota bus we were standing by for with the inscription on the body saying Emene Brothers' Transport. He motioned us to commence boarding.

At precisely seventeen minutes past 1:00 p.m., the bus driver, a sexagenarian-looking, bald-headed bloke with a shaggy, crinkly goatee, garbed in a threadbare ecru cardigan, black denim, and a pair of amber moccasins on his feet, cranked up his engine; and we screeched out of the motor park and headed to Owerri on a breezy but mildly cool day that obviously hinted that Christmas season was in the atmosphere.

Before long into the journey, I drifted off into a snooze, palpably from the heavy toll the civil bloodletting had inflicted on my frazzled body, even deep down to my very bone marrow and granular cellular tissues.

Chapter 2

The blaring sounds and honks of automobiles and the cacophonous, chattering noises and dissonant calls emanating from folks of all walks of life, typically heard and observed in most townships and cities across the east of Nigeria, abruptly woke me up from my snooze. I rolled down the window to my right and realized we had actually made it to the mushrooming city of Owerri.

I gently rubbed my sleepy and dreary eyes to ascertain what time it was on my timepiece. It was 4:58 p.m. I might as well say 5:00 p.m. At that time, I thought that we had virtually killed four hours just to journey from Oba to Owerri.

That realization sort of seemed eerie to me for a journey's distance that ideally took an hour and a half to two hours at the most, factoring in that it was about approximately a seventy-mile journey. But on second thought, I concluded that perhaps the bus driver was gassing at a snail's pace to forestall running into trenches, potholes, embers, and clusters of foliage improvised by our Biafran infantry soldiers as snares against the adversary troops on a neglected, ungraded roadway, lying there for decades.

I slowly came down from the front seat for my comrade, Achike, to disembark, for Owerri was his final destination. He reached for his breast pocket to fish for Biafran currency, if any, to pay the driver. But to our amazement, the driver asked him not to pay, and we both thanked the driver for his considerate magnanimity, having commonsensically read our circumstance as returning soldiers from the battlefront, who might not actually have a penny in their possession.

Can I get a pen and a piece of paper? I asked the kind driver.

No problem, Mr. Soja, said the driver.

He fetched me a pen and a piece of paper. I thanked him and gave the items to Achike to scribble down his name and address. That he did. We gave each other camaraderie hugs, and he handed me his address.

Jeff, God willing, we'll run into each other someday in the near future. Your village is only but an extra hour's drive from Owerri here.

Yes, it is. I sure do hope we'll see each other sometime again, and I pray your folks are among the survivors of the war to welcome you home.

I really, really appreciate that, Jeff. And I wish you the same fate when you arrive home.

We shook hands once again, and Achike turned and headed down the gate, out of the motor park. I repositioned myself in the front seat for our onward journey to Mbato, my ancestral soil and place of birth, which I hadn't seen in three years.

The bus driver, meanwhile, informed me that he needed to wait for about forty-five minutes more to scout for fresh passengers to fill up the vacant seats before we continued on our final journey to Mbato.

Take your time, sir, I told him, because I didn't feel it was fair anyway for him to run half empty when there was chronic scarcity of fuel in the east due to the war. I only prayed that this time, the journey wouldn't elapse for an eternity prior to my arriving at Amaku Village finally.

Mbato, Mbato, Mbato, bellowed the driver into the air as he searched around for more prospective travelers headed for Mbato, and within thirty-five minutes or so, the vacant seats were fully occupied by commuters. I astutely observed that it took an extra seven commuters to fill up again.

I suddenly gazed up and studied the skies. The evening sunlight was gradually beginning to set, altogether juxtaposed by patches of clouds that implicitly suggested there could be a downpour later that night. But luckily, the weather dramatically took a turn for the better within a few minutes afterward. The cloudiness cleared up, and the temperature felt as if it was between seventy-six and eighty degrees with a perfectly cool and slightly Harmattan wind gust that abruptly swept through the center of the motor park.

The weather fluctuations, however, made me feel all the more nostalgic and utterly exhausted. I muttered a silent breath of prayer toward the heavens that I would be fortunate enough to meet and see my family folks all alive and that, by divine providence, I would once again be able to eat my favorite dish by my mother and grandmother—egusi soup prepared with grass cutter meat, stockfish, smoked fish, pumpkin, and waterleaf—and, of course, fufu to gulp it down with.

I was dreamily salivating to my food when the bus driver suddenly kindled his engine to life, engaging the gearshift to the drive position, and off we went, ultimately exiting the park and heading to Clifford Road, which stretched for about four miles down the roadway. And then we negotiated a left turn on Achalla Bend, which took us out of Owerri township and onto our route to Mbato.

Are you doing okay, Mr. Soja? the driver queried me in a gentlemanly and caring gesture.

Yes, I'm fine, sir, I responded. Just kind of too worn-out and famished.

You're fam—what? the driver questioned me back.

Oh, I'm actually saying that I'm very tired and extremely hungry. And beyond that, I'm wondering what the fate of my family would be, if they all fortunately survived the civil war.

Are you married?

No, I'm not! I mean my parents, grandparents, siblings, and other extended family relatives, I replied with a slight snarl, just like the battlefield commander I had been for three years. Immediately realizing how harsh and savage my tone of voice had sounded, I apologized to him, saying that I never meant any insult or disrespect to him.

Oh no, soja man. I truly empathize with you young men that'd been to the war front for three years, fighting to defend our Igbo cause, our freedom, our Biafra. So you don't have to apologize for anything. I truly understand the degree of stress and deprivation the long war had unleashed on our young men. That's why I told your friend not to pay the transport fare. It's my own little way and measure of showing gratitude to our gallant sojas coming back from the war front.

Oh, sir, I'm really short on the exact words to return my appreciation and gratitude too for your gracious words, wisdom and understanding, and more especially, your empathetic spirit. It made me reminisce of the way my grandfather Winston would normally speak and counsel me while growing up. So I'm kind of emotionally and mentally drained, hoping he's alive, together with the rest of my loved relatives.

As our vehicle continued to race down the highway with virtually all the passengers seeming to have slumbered to sleep, after a few moments of muteness from the driver, he eventually cleared his throat, breaking the sudden silence.

My instinct informs me all your relatives are alive, except for one of your uncles on your maternal side.

His firm declaration, like he had some sort of clairvoyant spirit, plunged me into a state of delirium and melancholy all of a sudden, because my mother's brothers were only two. If the driver's supposed epiphany was to be true, my heart and spirit fretted and agonized over which of the two didn't make it. Was it Uncle Moses or, rather, Uncle Ephraim? I had no inkling of premonition.

Oga, driver, sir, I called him.

Hmm, by the way, my name is Mr. Agaba, Johnson Agaba! he quickly shrieked to me.

Mr. Agaba, you speak with such certainty in your voice. Do you have extrasensory perception of things or events yet to be seen or known by other ordinary folks?

Um, most of the time, he confidently responded. I can see your whole family members and most of your indigenes screaming, sobbing, and jubilating for your survival and safe home return, he assuredly underscored with a geezer's grin on his visage as he shot a cocky look to my face.

Meanwhile, Mr. Agaba's claim to séance, in a way, slightly beefed up and solaced my weary and depressed heart, which was racing and thumping sixty miles per minute, to eventually pace down and slow. And once again, I muttered brief, silent prayers under my breath that Agaba's revelations were factual, albeit he had foretold that I had lost an uncle in my maternal family.

I glanced to my side to ascertain if I could read the mileage signs on the highway, but the night had fallen way darker this time to possibly scrutinize anything crystal clear on the roadway. I asked Agaba where we were. He gladly informed me that we had just passed the Imo River, meaning we had already killed half of the journey's distance.

At the driver's announcement, my heart and spirit bucked up again in a wave of exhilaration and trepidation simultaneously, realizing that in another half an hour or so, I would hopefully be ardently embracing and pecking my folks and beholding the homeland I had left three years ago. Tepid tears of love, joy, and anxiety started trickling down from the corners of my eyes.

A profound emotion I had invariably fought back and buried in my subliminal consciousness for three years all of a sudden felt as if it was all about to implode from inside me, and I quietly rolled my head backward on the seat's headrest and shut my teary eyes so that Agaba and the middle-aged lady sitting in between us wouldn't discover that I was shedding tears.

A few minutes subsequently, I fell back into another episodic snooze. But this time, it was deeper than the former.

For freedom's sake, I lost my love into the unknown horizon.

For Biafra's destiny, my fate and dream cling on the tottering balance.

Ooh, cruel weapons of war and battle and the dark shadow and depth of death, why swallow the love and sunshine of my life? Jeff! The charming prince of my soul!

Spirits of our ancestors, fight for your sons and daughters now.

Preserve your bloodline that your progeny and legacies may eternally survive and remain, that my heart and hero may come back to me alive.

Jeff, may the heavens spare and bring you home, back into my loving and warm arms once again.

I'll be prayerfully and patiently waiting.

I, your heartthrob, Beverly, won't ever give up till I see you home alive!

I was in a dream. The sultry and seductive voice of Beverly Ebo, my sweetheart, abruptly jolted me up from what appeared like a semi-dead sleep. But actually, I was dreaming. Yes, indeed, I was dreaming about my one and only true love. Beverly was speaking a poetic rendition to my unconscious state of mind and head to please make it home alive and whole-bodied and hale and hearty.

Unfortunately, the brutality and drudgery of the three-year bloodbath had inadvertently drifted my passionate love and softie side for Beverly to the rather dark side of my psyche. It was not necessarily that I had utterly forgotten about her and our blossoming relationship before the war had erupted, but for a young soldier faithfully fighting for his freedom and a cause he was ready to lay down his precious life for if need be, I felt no tinge of remorse for never stewing over my girlfriend, Beverly, at the war front.

Anyway, Beverly's sensual, poetic squeal in my dream state of mind made me abruptly jerk and spin my head around in puzzlement of where I was. Was I still alive in the land of the living? Or rather, had I crossed over to the realm of the dead? By then, deep darkness had totally shrouded us in the journey. The utter darkness plunged me into sudden disorientation and loss of bearing. It had been three years since I last set my eyes on that region of the east, I reminded myself, after all.

Mr. Agaba, where are we now? I demanded.

Um…um…soja, we're getting close to Mbato Central Motor Park.

Thank goodness! I exclaimed as I took a deep breath into my arid lungs and exhaled profusely like a toddler whose mother had been gone long to the community's market day and eventually made it home.

I'd have let you nap all the way knowing how tired you said you were, but you've to stay awake and alert now, soja. In less than ten minutes, we'll be in your town, Agaba firmly hinted as though he had been to my town over a million times and, therefore, knew my town's geography beyond suffice on his fingertips. But not for the past three years of crisis and chaos in the land, I contemplated.

Just as Agaba said, within ten minutes, there we were, pulling into what seemed to be a mildly dilapidated and rubbled Mbato Central Motor Park. Glancing further around post-civil war Mbato that night, as far as I could see through the darkness, it was a far cry from what I had previously thought. Luckily, our town hadn't encountered as much severe devastation and pillaging from the enemy's bombardments and shelling.

Everybody, wake up! We're at Mbato Park! shouted Agaba.

By then, it seemed as if it was suddenly dawning on me that after all, other commuters were in the bus with me, exhausted, and they had snoozed like I had. Folks were scrambling to their feet, yawning and stretching for dear strength and verve.

As I proceeded to pull the door open, an idea abruptly struck in my head, and that was to persuade Agaba to drive me further to my village, Amaku, and perhaps spend the night with my family, because it was dead dark, and it would be a perilous drive to journey back to Oba at that late hour of the night. The time was 9:47 p.m., a time considered very late in village communities around the east.

As Agaba got through collecting his money from the passengers, I beckoned him sideways to the front of his vehicle.

Oh, soja, don't worry about the transport fare, by the way, he kindly told me.

Mr. Agaba, I could never thank you enough for your kindness to me and my friend. Meanwhile, considering how dark and risky it is to travel right back to Oba through the dead of night, I suggest you follow me to our village, to my family compound, so that you can spend the night, get some rest. And you can journey back to Oba in the morning.

Agaba pulled his scraggly goatee and looked up at the dark clouds, pensively contemplating my suggestion. He inhaled and exhaled deeply like a chimney.

Soja man, I think I'll heed your hospitable suggestion. And thank you so very much, soja!

Oh, needless to mention, sir. I just couldn't bear seeing you travel back to your town all alone this late at night. You know, that's kind of dangerous. The civil war has barely come to an end. Needless taking that kind of unnecessary risk tonight. I want you safe and sound back to your family tomorrow, I preached to him.

So which way is to your village anyway?

As soon as we pull out from the park, take your immediate right to Igu Road. That'll lead straight into my community. And then at the local market square, pass it and take the second muddy roadway to your left. That'll take you straight into my hamlet, to the Igwes' family compound. Should be about seven to ten minutes' drive, and we'll be in Amaku Village.

That's the name of your village?

Yes, it is.

At that very moment, it dawned on me that I hadn't formally introduced myself to Mr. Johnson Agaba, who through the journey had nicknamed me soja or soja man.

My name is Jeff, Jeffrey Igwe, by the way. And I'm sorry it took toward the end of the journey to formally introduce my name to you, I said, sounding apologetic, as though I was obligated to do that from the onset of the journey, factoring in how Agaba had been magnanimous to me and Achike.

Oh, please, nothing to be sorry about, Mr. Igwe. In fact, I highly respect and honor your bravery as one of the young men that enlisted in the Biafran military force. That's why I'd preferably been calling you soja, because I hold them in high esteem as courageous future Igbo leaders.

Agaba's generous veneration toward me as a soldier momentarily puffed up my ego and pride. Afterward, it was just me and him, headed on our way in the very dark hours of the night to my home sweet home, to Amaku.

Chapter 3

It was almost 10:00 p.m. when Agaba and I pulled up in front of the Igwes' family compound. For a village with no electricity, 10:00 p.m. was deemed dead hours of the night. We were completely shrouded in darkness as soon as Agaba turned his ignition off. All that could be faintly seen was the flicker of an almond-shaped light emanating from an oil lantern via the living room window of the Igwes'. Ear-piercing, chirping sounds of night crickets filled the air.

Thank goodness! At least my family's compound appears to still be intact and erect, I thought as I groped and squinted swiftly to scrutinize the ancient brick house with a thatch roof built by my grandpa during his heyday in the 1940s.

Agaba watchfully stood akimbo behind me. I guessed he was wondering why the sound of his automobile never prompted anyone from my household to maybe rush outside and verify who it was. Just like other natives in the hamlet, it was too dark and late to be storming outside at will at the slightest or loudest heard sound, looking for who had suddenly pulled up or struck a sound. Besides, since the war had barely ended, there still could be a handful of Hausa soldiers who had infiltrated our community who might be oblivious to the end of the civil bloodbath. So I sensed and aligned with the state of mind of my folks for not storming outside.

Jeff, why not proceed to the front door and knock? Agaba slightly growled as if befuddled and lost.

Yes, I will, I said in a soothing tone, and I strutted the four strides to our front door.

Bang, bang, bang. I knocked as hard as I could.

Who's that? roared my father, Fredrick, like a stormy thunder, obviously agitated by the bang at that dead hour of night.

It's Obinna, I screamed at the top of my lungs.

Who again?

Papa, it's Jeff, your son! I screamed louder with wild exhilaration and happiness in my voice.

Oh! Oh! Oh my God, Obinna, my son!

The front door burst wide open.

Sarah, Sarah, Ugonna, Olachi, Martin, John, your brother Obinna is here! my old man announced in an uncontrollable euphoria.

From all the rooms in the house, my mother, Sarah; two sisters, Ugonna and Olachi; and two brothers, Martin and John, all stormed out and swarmed upon me like an army of bees that found their lost hive at long last. Screaming and wailing and exhilaration and jubilation were synergistically all over the air in the compound. There were out-of-control, emotional outbursts of tears, joy, and commotion from everyone, most especially from my mother, Sarah.

At a corner in the living room, my father had his two hands raised to the heavens, sending an abundance of thanksgivings and praises to God for his divine protection and providence and the preservation of his son's life in a civil bloodbath during which hundreds of thousands of other soldiers inevitably died.

My mother and two sisters, meanwhile, were still holding me tightly and declined to let go. They were hysterically quivering and sobbing, drenching my shoulders with their stream of tears, and I wrung them tightly too to sustain my gait.

Jeffrey, my son! howled my mother.

Yes, Mama, it's me, I joyously responded.

My good God never slumbers. He always hears the prayers of the faithful! Our gracious Father in heaven, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah! Glory, glory, glory to you for sparing and preserving the lives of your little children in this civil war, especially my son, Jeffrey, who has been in the war front for three years now. My sweet, darling Jesus, hallowed be thy name for saving and preserving my entire household, and may your glorious name be uplifted and adored forever and ever and ever.

Amen! Amen! And amen! my family hollered in unison to the litany of prayers by Sarah.

We all opened our eyes to see that our compound had been crowded by other families, kinsmen, kinswomen, youth, and toddlers from our hamlet. And like a plague of bees, this time around an overkill onslaught on a human who had dared to venture into their honeycomb, my hamlet folks descended on me. And abruptly, I discovered myself gasping for dear breath to breathe and space to unwind or at least to sit my overly worn-out and abused torso down.

Welcome home, Jeff. Welcome home, Obinna was thunderously echoed in the whole house, and by that point in time, my siblings had lit up more local oil lanterns and candles, and the ambience in the house had suddenly metamorphosed to, rather than a dead night, one of festivity and gaiety.

Ugonna, where's Grandpa and Grandma? I demanded from my senior sister and my parents' firstborn child.

Here they come, replied Ugonna.

Hah, hah, hah, uh, uh, uh, is that my agu Jeff? questioned my grandpa Winston in a slightly grating voice.

Yes, Grandpa. It's Jeff! I yelled and rushed to passionately embrace him.

Oh my goodness, is that Obinna? squealed my beloved grandmother Ella.

Yes, Grandma, it's Obi.

I scampered over to her and knotted her in a tight hug, resting my head on her plus-size natural milk reservoir.

Glory and all honor to my Alpha and Omega God! Obi…mama?

Yes, Grandma.

Now I can finally leave this earth in perfect peace! Ella delightfully squealed, and I wondered what had become of her, if she was sick or something as serious.

Grandma, don't say that! I retorted. Are you sick or what, talking about peacefully leaving this earth?

"No,