The Tale of a Denatured Neighborhood

By Okachi Nyeche Kpalukwu

Daniel Ohahuru is a journalist, an environmental activist, and a native of Rumu-Orashi, a village in southern Nigeria, the Niger Delta to be specific. All his life, he has watched oil companies, such as Shell PB and Mobile Oil, plunder, pillage, and destroy the environment around his village. When he could not take it anymore, he resigned his te

• Language: English
• Publisher: Book Savvy International Inc.
• Release date: Apr 8, 2024
• ISBN: 9798891900547

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Copyright © 2024 by Okachi Nyeche Kpalukwu

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ISBN-13

Paperback 979-8-89190-053-0

eBook 979-8-89190-054-7

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023920630

Dedicated to Ken Saro-wiwa

&

To the men and women who died along with him while fighting for the preservation of the environment of Nigeria’s Niger Delta.

Chapter One

The Conference

My name is Daniel Ohahuru, a journalist by profession, environmental activist by necessity, and a citizen of Nigeria’s Niger Delta, Rumu-Orashi village, to be specific. I am here to tell you some truths about Nigeria, the Niger Delta, and Shell BP. I came to tell you what I know and have witnessed firsthand. My topic today is Environmental Injustices Perpetrated by Shell PB and Other Multinational Oil and Natural Gas Companies Operating in Nigeria. This was how a young, environmental activist from Nigeria began his presentation at the International Center at George Washington University in Washington, DC and got everyone’s attention immediately. His words were riveting, electric, and personal—for he named names! He spoke for about an hour about environmental injustices that have been taking place in Nigeria’s Niger Delta and how his village had been ruined as a result, and neglected.

Shell BP killed Rumu-Orashi village on October 1, 1989, he continued and arrested the moment immediately, as utter silence fell upon the room. Seeming startled, perhaps by the raucous uneasiness he had just caused with his utterances, this young man, for nearly five minutes, just stood there with his head bowed, not uttering a word, as if he was praying or having a private conversation with someone that only he could see and that the rest of us in the room were oblivious to. It was the most profound moment I had ever witnessed in a public gathering, for it was hypnotic and as well revealing of his ordeal as a journalist and a public servant. And the corrupt leaders of the Nigerian government were their willing accomplices, he finally signed, as if relieved, as he raised his head and looked straight at us, seeming almost consumed by the moment.

With these last words, he got not only everyone’s attention but also our hearts, as many in the room gasped momentarily, seeming baffled and at the same time amazed, perhaps because of what he had just said about his own country. But he didn’t seem fazed; instead, as we later learned, he was just warming up. There is more to come, he assured everyone, after perhaps sensing people’s unpretentious uneasiness at the charges he had just leveled against the leaders of his country and the multi-nationals, Shell BP and others, so sit tight and hear me out. The level of malpractice, no, malfeasance, he continued, correcting himself, and the subsequent negligence that followed the explosions of the oil and natural gas pipelines that rendered the livelihood of the people of Rumu-Orashi nearly nonexistent, which I am sure many of you are aware or have heard, is sacrilege, to say the least. Hours have gone by, months have gone by, and years have gone by, and still the dust has yet to settle at Rumu-Orashi, he added and took a sip of water. The room was still dead silent, as everyone looked on, seeming to take in every of his words. "Decades will soon fly by and no one will ever seem to care that Rumu-Orashi exists, or ever existed—not Shell BP, not the Nigerian government, not the people of the world whose appetite for oil never seem to slow down, even though advances in science and technology have made it possible for that to be possible.

As far as everyone is concerned, Rumu-Orashi and its people do not matter. Today, as I speak to you, he boomed, his smallness not-at-all matching the sound of his words, the eloquence, and the oratory that was accompanying it, the people of Rumu-Orashi can no longer fish their waters; they can no longer farm their lands; birds no longer fly above the sky of Rumu-Orashi with ease, nor do animals live in her forests. In fact, there are no more forests to talk about, for where there were once forests there are now dusty desserts; just dry, cracked earth, as nothing is growing in them. Her waters are no longer drinkable; to fetch a clean drinking water, the people of Rumu-Orashi now have to walk miles and miles to get it. In other places in Nigeria and around the world, rain still falls; at Rumu-Orashi dust, tar, and ashes fall instead of rain. And the people breathe and smell it. Their women no longer conceive children due to the toxic elements in their soil, foods, and waters. Those who manage to conceive bear stillborn, deformed, or brain-dead children. The lands—and the resources hidden in them—have become a curse to them, and the existence of these natural resources a tool for the good life of others around the world and the far-flung parts of Nigeria, while the people of Rumu-Orashi reap starvation, terrorism, and misery—all because of the world’s unquenchable thirst for oil and natural gas, he added and took another sip of water.

The conference was about the impact of the Multinational Corporations like Shell BP on the lives of indigenous people around the globe—especially in the exact locations where these resources are extracted. As a journalist covering the conference, I had no claim to anything happening in the conference. I was sent there on assignment and my role there was to listen and write a story for The Washington Post newspaper, but this young man’s words brought tears to my eyes. In fact, I didn’t even know I was crying until a colleague pointed it out to me—that was how powerful his delivery was, and I was not alone in feeling the way that I felt that day. It was as though this young man poured cold water on everyone in the room. He spoke for about an hour, unrelentingly rendering the same biting, provocative words and invoking imagery after imagery of destruction and mayhem that he started with and many in the room, myself included, were appalled, appalled for the fact that anyone in the world would live under the siege of the type of environmental degradation that these people lived under—that is assuming that what this young man was alleging was the truth. But nothing in his words gave a hint of untruth; after all, stories like his have also been told by many others in the room from various parts of the world, as, before he spoke, we also heard from activists from Venezuela, Iran, Saudi Arabia, Democratic Republic of the Congo, Russia, Mexico, Angola, Cameroon, and even the United States. The truth, however, was that none of the stories were like his, which named his country’s leaders as accomplices to the environmental waterloo that was plaguing the lives of their fellow citizens—and, perhaps, his exceptional delivery, unlike others—made quite an impact as well, at least on me.

By the time he climbed down from the podium, many journalists, including me, were clamoring to have a one-on-one with him, but not many succeeded. Some randomly threw questions at him as he was walking towards his seat, and he responded kindly with a smile. Indeed, the impact of his words on me was quite strong that few hours after the conference I sought him out for a quick interview or a private conversation, whichever worked out, and what he told me during this brief moment was quite astounding. How did all this happen? I asked him. He looked at me straight in the eyes, hesitated a bit, perhaps trying to sense my intentions as well as assess whose side I was on. You see, I am white, American, a journalist, so he had every reason to give my questions a second thought, or, perhaps, I needed to make him feel at ease, so I took the initiative to officially introduce myself. "By the way, my name is Blake Stevenson, a journalist at The Washington Post and the one who covers environmental issues in the east coast of the United States and Canada, I said quickly as we shook hands. Your story was provocative. Please, tell me, I really want to know how all this began," I pleaded. With these words, and probably the urgency in my tone, he smiled at me and somewhat let his guards down immediately, and I saw comfort return to his demeanor.

Thank you for asking, Mr. Stevenson, he said, I will be glad to answer all your questions.

No, call me Blake, I interrupted.

"Ok, Mr. Blake, thank you. My name is Daniel Ohahuru.

Welcome to the United States.

Thank you.

Now, please tell me….

Well, he began, I pretty much laid it out there for the world to hear the plight of my people. It is mind-bugling, isn’t it?

Yes, it is, I know. I heard you, I said, but I know there is more—more that you would want to tell the world—about what happened in your village and what is still happening there today, and I want to work with you to tell it to the world. I want to work with you to tell your story to audiences here in the United States and around the world if you let me. I am fascinated by your story.

That is nice of you, Mr. Blake. But that will take all day, he whispered while partially covering his mouth with the palm of his hands.

Yes, I know, I whispered back to him with the same friendly gesture, and I will give you all day to tell it to me if you let me.

Then let us schedule a day, he said. You can meet me at my hotel room, and we can discuss all day if you like and I will tell you all about it if you have the time and a space in your ear to hear me out. This arrangement I gladly conceded to and we scheduled a day and time. Enthralled by the prospect, I departed.

The next day, at the appointed time, when I arrived, a group of journalists gathered around Daniel at the balcony of the hotel where he was staying. He was responding to their questions, so I quietly joined in. But when Daniel saw me, he excused himself and we hurried upstairs to his room. At the table in the middle of the room were two cups of coffee and two chairs set side by side. Books and newspapers were all over the place. It was as if he had been reading and studying all night.

That is for you, he pointed at one of the cups, grabbed his with his two hands, and took a sip.

Who? Me?

Who else? he asked with a smile. Do you have anyone else here that I don’t see? he joked.

No, but I wasn’t expecting it.

I know you weren’t, but what good is life if we can’t drink and talk together? Maybe it is an African thing, he said, African hospitality!

Indeed, I agreed and took my seat opposite him as I grabbed the cup of coffee.

Welcome, he said.

Thank you.

So, what is on your mind this morning, my friend?

Well, I would like us to continue our conversation from where we left off yesterday.

Where were we exactly if you don’t mind reminding me?

Well, I wanted to know more about what you were talking about yesterday at the conference and also what brought you into the world of environmental activism.

Injustice! he said, I think we can start from there.

Injustice?

Yes, injustice, he echoed.

How do you mean? What about injustice?

It is hard to be me and not do what I am doing, he said.

How so?

Well, let me tell you, my friend, he said. Imagine that you are one of the few academically educated people in a village of nearly five thousand people. And in that village everyone looked up to you for guidance. If they receive a letter, they sought you out to read it for them. If they receive a large sum of money, they called you to come and count it for them to make sure that they have not been cheated. If they want to send their children to higher education, they sought your advice. If their water is polluted, they gathered at your doorstep, begging you to do something before their lives are totally ruined by foreign companies that are digging all over their farmlands and giving them nothing in return. In short, they regard you as their eyes and ears. That, my friend, is my position. It is why I am here. What I am telling you is just a tip of the iceberg, as they say. If you hang around me longer, you will hear more, even worse stories than you have now heard. It keeps me awake at night, and when I think about it, I can hardly put food in my stomach due to worry. Yes, worry, my friend, real worry. This worries me! he pounded his fist on the table and began to sob. It gives me nightmares! he added.

This behavior shocked me, but I could see and feel the pain and the extent of the burden he bears fighting for his people’s livelihood. It shocked me not because I had not cried before or because I had not seen my fellow man cry before. No, that was not why it shook me. It shook me because I saw nothing but bravery in this small man. He has a small stature and was only about five feet tall and a few inches more. But he spoke like a giant, and when he spoke his voice boomed all over the room, like a loud metal gong. He needed a moment, so I gave him a moment and took mine in the process, for only a stonehearted human being would hear what this man had to say and not feel a thing or two. So, I felt a thing or two, and then moments later we resumed our conversation.

My apologies, he said, smiling.

No, don’t mention it, I said. I clearly understand.

You see, Mr. Stevension, he continued, if you have not experienced anything in life, you will have no story to tell. I have seen things. I have seen people’s lives ruined, turned upside down, just to make other people happy if you know what I mean. I have seen death destroy innocent young men and woman in their prime because they ate contaminated food or drank contaminated water from the moment they were born, and as they grew older the contaminants began to have deadly effects. These people want no riches. These people want no wealth. They do not want skyscrapers, nor do they care about cars and what not. All they want is to be left alone so they can grow food on their lands, fish their waters, and live peacefully like others around the world.

True, I said and nodded my head, you are right.

I have experienced things in life, he continued, and I have a story to tell. What got me into environmental activism was seeing my people suffer in the hands of the Nigerian government and these so-called Multinational giants, Shell BP, Agip, Chevron, Elf, Mobile Oil, and all the others. As a child growing up in my village, I saw these companies spread their wings unfettered and take over what was once ours—our lands! We own the village, but they own the resources in it; they now tell us what to do in it. We cannot farm certain lands—a land where our ancestors had farmed long before we came along—because Shell BP had found oil on the land, and the other companies have found natural gas on the land. But what kind of oil did they find? my people would ask. What do they use it for, some would ask? If they need oil to cook, why don’t they use the same palm oil we use? Why do they have to dig it up from the soil? some would ask naively. Imagine that, my friend, imagine those questions, he said and looked at me and shook his head. Those are questions coming from innocent people, innocent people who were broken into, violated unnecessarily! They did not ask for this. They did not ask to be violated, but who cares? Who cares if they cried and blood, instead of tears, came out of their eyes? Who cares if they died? Who cares if they can no longer fish their waters or even drink it?

So, seeing these things and witnessing mayhem manifest are what got you started as an environmental activist? I asked the moment he stopped talking.

Yes, you can say that, but, really, I had no choice, he declared. "The situation chose me. I could not bury my head in the sand and pretend not to care because these are my people and, quite honestly, I do care. I do care about their livelihood. I do care about their survival like everyone else in the world. Whatever happens to them happens to me. We went to bed one night, we had a life; we woke up the next morning, we had no life. That is where we are. Where has it ever happened in the world but in Nigeria? Where has it ever happened before but in Africa? A leaderless people!

Yes, he said, animatedly, this was how my environmental activism began. When I was a schoolboy, I saw these things happening in my village. I was small, toothless and could do nothing about it. Now I am old enough and a journalist by professions. I write stories about what is happening to other people, why can’t I write and expose what is happening to my people? I will fight these bastards until I die! he declared. Even if it takes my life, I don’t care! he said. I will die fighting! I will fight Shell BP! I will fight Agip! I will fight the Nigerian government! On behalf of my people, I will fight until I die! he cried. Now, I will tell you the story behind the story, he continued, calming himself down a bit. The time has come when I must come down to earth and explain, perhaps, the unexplainable, he said, leaning back on his chair; you see, my friend, he began.

But, wait, I interrupted. Before you begin, please tell me, why do you call what you are about to tell me the ‘unexplainable’?

Because not everyone will understand it, that’s why. And if they do understand it, they will never know the feeling or how it feels to experience it.

I see. Ok, go on.

Thank you, he said and leaned forward towards me and began to whisper as if he was telling me a secret that he did not want someone listening from the next door to hear. The difference between the gods and human beings is wide, and not many people know this. The gods are sensitive and caring; in fact, more sensitive and caring than human beings can ever pretend to be. Are you listening to me? he asked.

Yes, I am, I replied. But I don’t understand? What do you mean by ‘gods’? I asked.

I will explain but not now, he said. Right now I want to take you to the spiritual realm of this struggle. You see, he continued, the difference between the gods and human beings is this: To the gods blood is important—and even more important to them is the blood of human beings! For that, they don’t take it lightly. To them blood is life itself; it is the closest thing to the air we breathe. Therefore, they do not play with it. The indigenous people all over the world, by that I mean people who grew up in the land either as tillers or farmers, know this—yes, they know this about the gods because they pay attention to them! Therefore, whenever you are engaged in an activity that will involves the killing of another human being, such as war, the gods will always warn you against it. And they will not stop there; they will do whatever is within their powers to discourage you. Instead of fighting and killing one another, they will encourage you to offer sacrifice to them (the gods) and to the Almighty, to assuage the pain—just because they do not want to see massive bloodletting. To human beings, on the other hand, the spilling of the blood of their fellow human beings has become nothing. Therefore, in times of war, leaders do not see the value and importance of preserving the human blood at all costs, so they send soldier to fight and kill mercilessly—they even send them to fight a war they know they are not winning and may never win. They fight out of pride, not out of necessity, all because they do not care about the blood of their fellow human beings. But the gods do.

But why? Why do you think that is? I asked.

Simple. Wickedness, replied Daniel. The level of human wickedness is madness and it surpasses anything you can imagine. I know this because I fight it every day, human wickedness that is, and it is exhausting! But I will not be exhausted. I will never be tired of fighting this human evil, he said. Sometimes I sit back and ponder the extent of the evil that pervade the human heart. How some people are ever so willing, without an iota of remorse, to destroy the lives of others, so they can live their own coveted lives! Sometimes I sit back and ponder how some people are so comfortable that they are eating three square meals daily and others are starving, barely surviving, with nothing to eat, not even a clean drinking water to quench their thirst. Sometimes I sit and ponder how some people can think they are so superior and, therefore, so deserving of living, and others are so inferior and, therefore, so deserving of dying. They are happy living in their luxurious mansions, driving their luxurious cars and careless, careless that the people who live in the places where they extract the oil they use every day to live their luxurious lives are dying in poverty and are barely able to breathe the free air that God provided us all. Even that free air the oil companies have polluted to the extent that it is no longer breathable to my people. They forget that in the end, all of us will die. Whether you lived in a mansion in the suburbs of New York or Los Angeles or London, or in the shanty towns near Kingston or Lagos or Nairobi, when death comes knocking, you will die. We tend to forget that. Sorry, I digressed a bit.

No, it is no digression at all, I said. It is interesting to hear your take, go on.

Yes, well, what I was trying to get at was that this is not just a fight between two human beings. It is also a fight between human beings and the gods.

How do you mean?

I will explain.

Pardon me, sorry, go on.

You see, my friend, when we do things, especially things that are not rational to the human intellect, or that are hurtful to our fellow human beings or to the land we live in, we think the matter ends there. But that is not true. Spirits are involved too. People, individuals, have spiritual powers, and collective individuals have collective powers. When the powers combine, it becomes something bigger, something much more phenomenal. The land we live in have spiritual powers as well, and so does everything contained in that land, including the trees, the water, the oil, the minerals, the insects, and the animals. When you put all their individual powers together, you have a collective power, and their collective powers are more powerful than you and I can ever imagine. And this power can be destructive when provoked or when not managed carefully. And that is what we are witnessing here—the abuse! Yes, the abuse of that collective power is what we are witnessing in that part of the world, and there is a price to pay somewhere, mark my word!

What do you mean?

Chapter Two

When the gods Cry

Daniel and I meet again on the second day. Our conversation began in earnest, just like the conversation between two friends but, quickly, it turned serious. Shell PB and the Nigerian government ruined my village, said Daniel, as he locked his fists together and supported his chin with it, looking intently at me, eyes wide open. At first I didn’t know what to make of such an explosive statement, but then it was no different than what he said hours ago at the conference.

How? I asked.

The Earth moans in pain in southern Nigeria! he declared further, and deliberately, as he robbed his fists together, relieving them temporarily from supporting his chin. You see, he continued, standing up slowly, then animatedly as he spoke, "the people of Rumu-Orashi village had always known that there was a god living underneath their village."

A god? What do you mean by a god? I interrupted, wide-eyed and nervously adjusting myself on my seat.

Yes, a god, a collective power, replied Daniel calmly. Do you remember what I was telling you yesterday about the ‘gods’?

Yes, but you did not finish your story.

"I will finish it today. They call him Ivu-eli."

What are you saying? I grunted. They have a name for him, too? And he is living underneath them!?

Yes, living right underneath them, repeated Daniel casually as if what he just said was normal.

How? I asked. "How did they know there was a god living underneath them?" And when you say a god, what do you really mean? Is it the same collective power you were referring to yesterday?" With this barrage of questions coming from me, Daniel merely mustered a smile and then went on to answer the questions, taking his time in the process.

Yes, it is the same collective power I was talking to you about yesterday. To answer the rest of your questions, well, he said, they hear him hiss, they hear him sneeze, and, sometimes, they hear him….

Hear who hiss? I interrupted again. Who hiss?

The god, replied Daniel with a smile, …and he even heaves from time to time, almost lifting the earth from underneath the village, perhaps to telegraph his presence, but they didn’t know what to do about him. Yet, they knew he meant no harm, for the god himself, through information passed down from our ancestors, have assured them that much, so there was no cause for alarm.

What do you mean, Daniel? I asked. What you are saying now is spooky and giving me goose bumps. How did he assure them?

Through the divination of native doctors, or what you people in the West would call voodoo or witch doctors.

How?

During consultation with the gods and the ancestors.

So, your ancestors consulted with them?

Yes, just like your own ancestors did?

Whose ancestors?

Yours, of course, said Daniel. I know you think those things only happen in Africa, but you and I know better, unless you don’t read deep or do your research.

I don’t know what you are talking about, Daniel, but go on please, I pleaded. So you said they consulted with the ancestors and then what?

"Yes, they did, as is always the case when an omen or something out of the ordinary happens to the ordinary people of the village. And that consultation cemented the relationship between the god and the people. And so, every seven years or so, just as their ancestors had always done and had stipulated they continue to do, they sacrificed a