Terror In My Country

By Simon Godwin Abighe

Terror in my Country demonstrates creativity at the highest level of performance. A prose fiction-laced with beautifully crafted poetry. It exudes such scintillating appeal that once you start to read it, you are likely to be glued to it till the end." Professor Bamidele Rotimi Badejo of the department of Language and Li

• Language: English
• Publisher: WorkBook Press
• Release date: Feb 16, 2024
• ISBN: 9781961845480

Simon Godwin Abighe

Simon Godwin Abighe attended Onidjo Primary School and Uwheru Grammar School, Ughelli North Local Government Area of Delta State of Nigeria, West Africa. He obtained his LL.B (Law Degree) from the University of Maiduguri And BL - Law from the Nigerian Law School. He is a Solicitor and Advocate of the Supreme Court of Nigeria

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Terror

in my

Country

Simon Godwin Abighe

Copyright © 2023 Simon Godwin Abighe

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.

This publication contains the opinions and ideas of its author. It is intended to provide helpful and informative material on the subjects addressed in the publication. The author and publisher specifically disclaim all responsibility for any liability, loss or risk, personal or otherwise, which is incurred as a consequence, directly or indirectly, of the use and application of any of the contents of this book.

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ISBN-13:  978-1-961845-53-4 Paperback Version

              978-1-961845-48-0 Digital Version

REV. DATE: 12/01/2023

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

PREFACE

ONE

POEM 1

Two

POEM 2

Three

POEM 3

Four

POEM 4

POEM 5

POEM 6

Five Temptation

POEM 7

POEM 8

Six Warri

SEVEN MAROKO

POEM 9

Eight

Nine A Journey by Air

Ten

POEM 10

Eleven

Twelve Restaurant Business

Thirteen

Fourteen

POEM 11

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

POEM 12

POEM 13

POEM 14

Nineteen SERVICOM

Twenty Last Prayer

Twenty One Tornado’s Profile

Twenty Two Trailblazer

Twenty-Three

Twenty Four

Twenty Five Smell of Death

Twenty Six Grave Yard

Twenty Seven

Twenty Eight

Vanity

Weather Forecast

Buccaneers

Ceropegia

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My gratitude to everyone that contributed to the success of this book. Martina, my dear wife, thank you. Tega and New world, my lovely children, thank you.

I saythankyouOnoriodeBarnabasOjah,mybrother. You have always seen the need toget the bookpublished.

Thank you, Hon. Ajokpoghene Emmanuel Egoh. I learnt alot from you.

PREFACE

TerrorinmyCountrydemonstrates creativityat the highest level of performance. A prose-fiction,lacedwithbeautifully-craftedpoetry.Itexudessuch scintillating appeal that once you start to readit, you are likely to be glued to it till the end. ProfessorBamideleRotimiBadejoroftheDepartmentofLanguageand linguistic, University of Maiduguri.

TERROR IN MY COUNTRY is a wealth of enchanting poetic expressions and felicities of language. It is animated with tropes. Dotted with more than  three  thousand  vocabulary items, it’s a vade mecum – a written guide to be kept all the time because of its academic usefulness. It has the blueprint for writing poems.

It is been noted that a native English speaker knows about 20,000 words and a university- educated person knows about 40,000 words. A university raduate who is not a native English speaker is expected to have a vocabulary of more than five thousand words both active and passive  vocabulary  but  because  of poor reading culture, many are lacking in this aspect. Therefore, taking the time to pore over this prose and poetic page-turner in lapidary style will no doubt enhance both your active and passive vocabulary, be you a degree holder or not.

Secondary School Students need it.

Undergraduates and graduates alike need it. Teachers and lecturers need it.

Researchers, Lawyers, Doctors, and Patients need it.

Since all of us fall under any of these categories, we all need it.

West African Examination Council and other related examination and professional bodies will soon find this book indispensable.

Terror in my Country is a prose write-up. There are eighteen poems in it, some of which are drawn from the prose narration, making it unique, different from most literature debuts which are either in whole prose or poems.

The book teaches morals, resilience, determination, and courage in the face of overwhelming odds. The book got its name from the untold story of horrific bloodshed of ongoing Insurgency in Nigeria.

It features African cultures taking us on a tour of Nigeria from Ughelli, Delta State through Onitsha and Gongola State, now Adamawa and the Taraba States–from Warri to Maroko and Ilasamaja in Lagos State and from Lagos to Jos, Bauchi, Gombe, and Borno State.

This memoir resonating with emotions is the product of semantic research I undertook to make to find appropriate words to produce the summation of my reminiscences to turn my test to testimony from which someone can benefit. Happy reading!

Simon Godwin Abighe

ONE

In the River with Dad

Dad upped with a jerk and passed me with a machete. A fish basket drooped under his arm. I know he is out to get some fish. He had always left some nets in the nearby river.

I’ll go with you, Dad, I whooped with excitement. No, Simon. You will waste my time and slow down the journey. I want to hurry up, be back quickly and rest for tomorrow’s work, he said.

Dad had a party in his house the previous night. Everything about it was grand save that one of his town men came to him at the time. The man seems to have come to the party for a quarrel, yelled vulgar abuse at Dad, and initiated a fatal outburst. At the same time, he pointed a finger on which was a ring on Dad’s face.

He lunged menacingly and attempted to strike Dad a blow.

He balled his hands and threw punches in the air. He ran his index finger across his throat, ready to fight and kill somebody. What he least expected was the dirty slaps that doubled on his face and swept him of his feet.

The disgrace, humiliation, and rough handling were not what he anticipated. One of his challengers now quivering in rage was muscle- bound. His bulging biceps and chest muscles were convulsing as he pushes forward to take the intruder head-on but was restrained by others.

Dad was calm and didn’t get even with him.

There were those Dad had to restrain, those angered by the man’s unruly character. The Urhobo man was in litigation with a Yoruba man. From the paper trails available, it was odds-on that he was at fault.

Before the verdict of his guilt was handed down by the Judicial machinery of the Urhobo Progressive Union, through its quasi-judicial functions involving union members and non–union members, he met Dad in privacy and pleaded with him to decide the case in his favor.

Dad is the chairman of this judicial body. He reasoned with him that to do so would amount to a travesty of justice.

I’ll not like to betray the trust placed on me. All I can do for you is to give you pecuniary assistance if there is any imposition of fine, Dad explained.

I insisted on accompanying Dad to the river. Dad couldn’t understand why, why I was bent on following him. He felt I was being childish, stubborn for the sake of being carried on his shoulder.

While I have enjoyed the comfort of sitting on his shoulder to and fro the farm many times, I had no such reason this time.

A drive of premonition was more of a push that made me want to accompany my father to the river, I think. But what could an infant like me do to save a warrior like my father from danger except the immortals are involved?

Dad thought out a trick which I quickly

Okay, Simon, go and put on your  footwear, he said. I know he would be gone before I get them because the bathroom slippers were apart from each other. And I know that it’s one of those pranks to stop me from accompanying him to the river.

One of the pairs of the slippers was perhaps under the chair. And the other behind the door or under the bed. I didn’t know for sure where to find them.

I love Dad. I must not disobey him to avoid his displeasure. Like every other time, I obeyed, ran into the house aimlessly, and without seeing them, I leaped out, dazed, and thinking fast of what next to do. Dad was gone. I ran with persistent determination. Like a person who is handed to the gloom, I threaded the bush path all by myself, walking with the unknown, barefooted.

What would happen if Dad has gone far away into the river in his canoe before I could get there, deep in the jungle? I would be alone in this bush by the river so lonely and brooding, being Sunday. A strayed child could be used for rituals, being stories that percolate through to us now and then.

We’ve heard ritual jingles in the wood night and day, strange noise of stringed bells, and the mysterious sounds of cowries jingling from thatched shrines hidden in grasses.

Sometimes, the attention of a crying child was drawn to such strange noise to stop him from crying. And was told to either keep quiet or be handed to the forest thing. We’ve been told stories of the river sacrifices, offended angry gods, and ferocious night ghosts.

I have also seen crossroads strewn with the votive sacrifices of fresh eggs, coins, cooked food of fish and meat. None of that scared me now.

Dad was just pulling off from the shore when I arrived panting, hot and flustered. He couldn’t believe his eyes. He saw the last thing anyone expected to see in this woodland at this moment, his little son by himself vulnerable. He had no option but to put me in the canoe, even if for no other reason, at least for my safety.

The air is filled with the voices of happy birds now. Some chirping, others cooing. One bird would squawk, and a million others would answer with no dissenting voice.

Dad pressed the paddle into the quagmire, lowered his weight on it, and we shoved off.

The water is slate–grey, and crystal, moving in wavelet and rolling in bulges. Dad sat upright and dipped effortlessly and pulled. He let the paddle into the water and pulled again and again. First, to his right and then left and the canoe gained a steady momentum and glided on, leaving behind a million ripples, undulating in concentric circles. Pebbles moved up and down as if nodding greetings to the wave that crossed them into the vast expanse.

The seething river splashed water on us. Turbulent surf broke down again and again on the ground by the riverside and drew a long line of white foam and pebbles along its length.

The sun is beginning to show from its hiding far beyond the wood of massive trees, harsh and sweet on my face and bared skin. And the occasional droplets of water on my body from the paddle sent jolts of cold into my nerves.

Creepers cascaded in their tensile strength from tangled branches, trailing on their tendrils and touching the water on both sides of the river. The sun’s slanting rays struck the water surface at less than angle ninety. It played on the water and sent out refraction.

When the breeze came pushing against us, Dad would strain a bit on a stoop, dip and pull with some effort until the wind slacked and then we glided on effortlessly.

The panoramic view of luxuriant green and hues of blossoms on the wetland and far beyond on mountains that shelved steeply into the surrounding was breathtaking.

The butterflies splashed with maroon rosette, the vivid blue dragonflies, and the pond skaters. Birds squawking soulful songs, the buzz of insects, and vocalizing monkeys howling in the wood all made a perfect blend of the natural world in which we were.

Sometimes I looked at the water and became fearful of the unknown beneath the blue wave, ominous and unseen dept. What could be there? Children like me imagined seeing mermaids beneath. But I felt safe and coddled being with my father.

About half a kilometer of paddling the canoe, we got to the first net. As we approached it, Dad looked to his right and left and looked at me. I thought he was still angry with me for disobeying his order to remain at home. But the look on his face was more of confusion than anger.

Simon, are you seeing the fog around us? he asked. He looked woozy. No, Dad, I can’t see smoke or fog." He pulled part of the net out of the water sluggishly. There were many fishes entangled in it. Strangely, he left the net instead of picking out the fish for which we are here, and it slid back into the water without taking out any of the fish.

Simon, can you see? It’s dark, can you see? he asked in confusion. His face has changed, and his appearance has become miserable. No, Dad. Can’t you see the sun, the birds, and the trees? I said childishly. His eyes were open and as sharp as ever. Yet, he couldn’t see now, even when he faced the sun. Dad is blind all of a sudden, alone with me, his helpless infant on a boat in the heart of this turbulent river.

He bent to one side and gave the water a thwack and wiped his face with his wet palm. Dad raised the end of his shirt and dabbed his face, exposing his potbelly almost flaccid and trailing on his laps like a three-month pregnancy.

He blinked rapidly and clasped his eyes. A mixture of water and tear squeezed out. The canoe tipped sideways and let in a gush of water, now on the verge of capsizing.

Dad, stop it, we’re getting swamp! I wailed. He ran his hands on the edges of the canoe to determine its width and shifted himself to a central point on his seat. The canoe could sink now, though, balance with no more water coming in. I bailed frantically to get it out. That both of us could be dead if the canoe capsized was too real because I wasn’t sure I could swim then except dad, now blind, how could he?

Dad was solemn. I saw him in tears for the first time in my life. He didn’t talk to me for some time, perhaps thinking of how best to handle the situation. His strange behavior unnerved me and triggered an upswell of emotion that got the better part of me. I choked, cried, and gasped for air in a pang of fear. Dad was more concerned about my life than his now.

Stop crying, son. Is the tide surging or receding? He asked. I think is rising, I said amidst intermittent jerking of my diaphragm as I fought back the tears.

The paddle was too heavy for me to lift, let alone direct the canoe with it. Somehow, we drifted back to where we came from since the water current was flowing in that direction. After some time, I saw the very place we boarded the canoe. The river continued beyond that point, and we could float to a place of no return.

Dad, that’s where we entered the canoe, I said while pointing to it as if he was seeing me.

A woman who knew Dad sighted us from the shore. She had come to the waterside to scout for firewood. And noticed we were behaving strangely, having difficulty controlling the canoe. Godwin, what’s the problem with you? she asked. Dad recognized her voice.

Titi, I can’t see, help! Dad yelled. The woman plunged into the water without thinking twice just to save us. She couldn’t swim and was drowning, splashing feverishly out of control. Who will save who now?

I sat between Dad’s legs, served as eyes for him, and guided him. At last, we scrambled the canoe to the shore and jammed its prow into the riverside grasses. We disembarked and tied up to a branch.

We slashed our way through the wild bush, creepers, and lush green grass along the river’s curves to a beaten track that led us into the bush path. The woman came to us drenched. Only God knows how she got out of the river alive. She held Dad’s hand and led him, while I was in front of them.

What if I were not with my dad in the river when he became blind? It’s unimaginable sometimes to see how God saves through unbelievable means. Dad was grateful that I was with him in the river and was short of words, how God used his little child to save him.

Silence hanged in the air now except for the chirping and squawking of birds as we trudged our way to the town. We could hear the cooing of doves, rustling of leaves, and the scrunch of our feet on the gravel. The silence was only broken when Titi sounded out a heavy belch from her bulging stomach filled with water she swallowed when she was drowning.

After trekking for some time, Dad drew his hand away from Titi and stood still. I can see now, Titi; can’t you see we’re standing on gravel? he said. Can’t blind persons feel gravel under their feet? Titi asked rhetorically, demanding visual proof. Dad looked directly at a palm tree, a few metres away, sky- high, and pointed unerringly at a bird that perched on a pointed frond. That’s a weaver bird, he said cheerfully.

Oh yes, Titi replied, very sure that Dad has regained his sight.

Soon, the news spread in the town that Godwin was blind, and many people came to our home for condolences, some with unfamiliar faces. One of the sympathizers was a native doctor, remotely known to Dad. He came up to Dad and opened his eyes with his fingers. He pressed the eyelids and held them apart for a while and gazed intently into the eyes. This is my spell; How could Papa Dele do this? So, he got the ring from me to commit evil on a person I know! he exclaimed.

Papa Dele had quarreled with Dad the night of the party. He admitted to having cast a spell on Dad at the party when he pointed his finger with a ring at his face. He also confessed to having thrown the ring into the same river where Dad got blind to prevent a reversal of its effect.

Without the ring, it’s impossible to reverse the damage done by the spell, the physician said. It did not take long before the news came that Papa Dele was dead.

The first approach to finding remedies was a visit to a native doctor. Dad had consulted a native doctor many years ago, when his childhood soulmate, Mr. Commander, had a freak accident.

The accident occurred when Commander and Dad went fishing in the same river some years ago. They both parted for different sides of the river on that normal day. Commander had stretched his net across the river and came down from the canoe to peg it.

A hunter was stalking bush pigs from inland to the shore and came to where Commander was tying his net to a stick with bended knees. What he saw was a shaking shade of bushes, shading Commander from his view. The hunter stopped to prowl, motionless. Stock–still, he watched to identify the quarry completely shaded from his sight.

Tangled branches drooped above, creepers cascaded, and massive trees loomed and eclipsed light, creating a blinding gloom beneath their foliage. Such was the veil, opaque tight. The hunter froze to avoid being noticed. His eyes were focused, poised like a gecko on the move for a catch. Experienced hunters are well aware of the swift nature and agility of wild beasts. It is a business. No hunter would want to take chances.

If only, Commander would cough by chance or raise himself for any reason to show that a human is there? But none of that happened.

The hunter aimed his Dane gun at the base of the shaking lush of a plant without seeing any animal. All he saw was shaking plants and feared that whatever was there would scurry into the unreachable thicket, never to be seen. He fired a shot and hit his target. He shot Commander.

Commander was hit by a hail of bullets, pieces of iron meant to bring a warthog or a buffalo to its knees within minutes, or else turn around and tear its attacker to pieces in retribution of terror. This sort of savagery and ferocious temperament is typical of a vicious beast.

Commander gyrated and let out a drawn-out yelp in a daze of the gun pellets, squealing like a dying pig in the intoxication of a gunshot. He stopped whirling and started to run.

He ran impulsively toward the river. Instead of boarding his canoe he jumped over it and shot into the river leaving his canoe behind. He paddled across in a sprint without his canoe and came down on the dry ground.

He started to run along a bush path without knowing where he was going, running and grunting with each grunt fainting into a wheeze. Friends and neighbors grabbed him and rushed him to a native doctor when they realized what happened.

Meanwhile, Dad heard the gunshot and the squealing but thought was of a hunter who had shot a bush pig.

The hunter realized what he has done, saw the man he thought was a bush pig. He has shot a human. He knew what that meant if he could be identified and so lowered himself behind tall grasses for a cover and fled without ever being known.

Dad had barely entered the town when he learned of the mishap and made his way to the place Commander was taken to.

Commander lay on his back. Dad saw him breathing very fast with a distended stomach on a mat.

The physician reached out for a vessel that sat at a corner and fetched liquid substance for him. Commander was forced to drink it while being supported in a sitting position on the floor. His stomach rumbled for some hours, and he started to pass out black, liquid waste.

All that came out of him was blood, and his stomach went down like a deflated balloon. The physician carefully circled each split on Commander’s body with clay chalk. He then placed a short broom on each point where a piece of iron cut into his body and lifted it slowly.

About a quarter of a ruler stretch, a piece of metal burst through the skin and fell. The process was repeated until pellets that got into him from the gun were removed from his body. He did not seem to feel pain in the process because he did not scream. It was done in the African way, and it amazed all and sundry that a human could survive such an ordeal.

Commander’s precarious condition is the result of sheer accident, judging from the circumstance of the freak accident. Armed with this experience, Dad thought it wise to pay a visit to the same man to seek an ocular solution.

A visit was made. But it was fruitless. All that the physician did was predict that Dad would be blind in three days and would remain so all his life.

Kith and Kin held a close consultation and agreed unanimously that a visit to Ibadan Teaching Hospital was vital to seek conventional medications.

Florence went with Dad to the Teaching Hospital. Florence is the third child of my father. The line-up of my father’s children is as follows: Gaius – male, Eka – female, Florence – female, Evwiemeteno – female, Emuobonuvie – female, Dorcas – female, and Eretareomavoro – male born for Dad by the first wife. The younger wife is my mother. She had me and Obevweamredje – a daughter for Dad. Obevweamredje died in the eighties from a brief illness leaving behind a daughter – Tobore.

It was morning in the Teaching Hospital. The sun was yet gentle and generous, giving its glorious rays, mellowed on those in need of it. Dad was in a place close to one of the wards of Ibadan University Teaching Hospital, waiting for an oculist. He felt like taking his breakfast. There was no restaurant around there. He called on Florence and sent her on an errand to buy some rice and beans for him. Florence left, and Dad was alone.

Dad stood up and moved away from the cold shadow of the corridor for the warmth of the sunlight, to soothe his tired muscles, shivering in the early morning cold. As he plodded into the sun all by himself, he stepped into a soakaway under construction – a pit nobody had talked to him about because nobody would think a blind person like him would venture out of the veranda without a guide and so he knew nothing of it. Father couldn’t see it and didn’t envisage it.

Dad felt his body drop into the gaping abyss as he stepped into the open yard and then went blank like a fellow under a curse and nemesis – the sticky end haunted him into his grave.

Dad is blind and now has tumbled into this dry pit. One misfortune after another!

Florence came back from the errand but couldn’t find Dad. Her senses could not tell her to look into the pit. She searched for a while, looking for him before she raised the alarm. Her cry caught the attention of doctors, nurses, and other health care workers. Yet, Dad wasn’t found. It was a passer-by who moseyed on beside the waterless pit that saw a human body lying still in it.

Why would a dead person be thrown here? he wailed. Florence heard him and peered into it to find Dad’s body lying in a still–numbness with a broken elbow. The arm bone could be seen visibly white, protruding out of the elbow.

Every drop of his blood was now a red membrane, blanketing his immediate surroundings in the pit. He had lost much blood. Dad was brought out of the suckaway, drenched in his blood, and rushed to the emergency ward where Doctors, nurses, and professors lined on him to locate a vein for drip. They worked hard on him.

When Dad dropped into the gaping hole, he was comatose. In a floating sensation, he found himself in a forest and saw a villa with a striking look in an open area of grass in the wood. He could see very clearly now and decided to move closer to it. In a stone’s throw to the house, a very muscular man, of extraordinary physique emerged from it.

We don’t need you here, Godwin? the man said. Whether you like it or not, I’ll be there, Dad said in a counterblast, daring him.

Don’t tire out my patient, the man retorted. Dad backed off and began to leg back into the forest in hot pursuit.

An undergrowth interlaced Dad. He lost his footing and went sprawling. As his body came alive from his unconsciousness and sensed the warmth around him, he felt his body thrown into baking heat suddenly. He turned, kicked, and parried. Then he heard a voice; be calm, it’s alright, it’s okay. It was the Doctor assuaging him.

He moved his limbs, trying to turn, swathed in bandages. The drips swayed, trailing on the hospital bed above him. Dad was sure he heard the voice of the living. He is now conscious, and his head is clear.

Florence, he yelled as if calling from the bottom of a pit. Maybe he thought he was still in the suckaway and has to shout to be heard. Florence sobbed and sniffed while she held Dad’s hand. Sympathizers greeted him from one side of his bed. It was a clinical death. He was dead and has returned to life, to consciousness from hallucination.

Dad recovered from the pit accident before he consulted an oculist who couldn’t give a medical explanation for his blindness.

POEM 1

OKPETU WITH THE UNKNOWN

Safe as he was in the night

Okpetu snuggled in a refuge

Coddled and walled in hands

4 Midst barricade of doors

Then the echoes for Enuresis

Mother’s practiced voice Door,

she unbolted

8 And drowsed on the threshold

And the somnambulist

Stepped into the gloom

Blindfolded in somnolence and naked

At night floating sensation

Treading the bush path

Barefooted in clear darkness

Walking with the unknown

Amidst ritual jingles

River sacrifices

Offended angry gods

19 And ferocious night ghosts

Eerie peel of stringed bells

Midnight jingles in the wood

The sounds of cowries

23 And the herald of the pantheon

At the fork, met by the hunters

Okpetu they took for wraith – a bugaboo

26 And a fiend in levitation,

Transfixed, they fired a gun

Gave him the willies

Cry asphyxiate him

30 And collapsed in arms of bondage

His body flopped lifelessly

Picked by the hunters for transferral

34 Now in the arms of Mum at last

Two

Unsung Hero

My family had  no better  option  than  to relocate to our hometown-Uwheru. Dad spent the last days of his life as an evangelist. My admission to primary school wasn’t a difficult one. Dad bore the expenses. He bought the books and paid for the school uniform.

On my first day  in  school,  I  passed  the  only entrance  interview  conducted.  I wasn’t the only newcomer to the school that day. Some were older, and others were younger than me. It came to my turn.

Step forward, Simon, the Headmaster yelled an order. Place your right hand across your head and touch your left ear. I did as ordered while my head rested on my right shoulder. This made it easier for my right hand to