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My Biafran Story

My Biafran Story .org website is a collection of eye witness accounts of the Nigerian-Biafran civil war.


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I was a Peace Corps Volunteer from December, 1966, till October, 1969. I lived and worked as an Agricultural and Rural Development Officer. I started in the Keffi/Nasarawa areas and later moved to Jos and trained Benue/Plateau State community development staff. I also had many Tiv and Idoma friends and spent time visiting those areas as well as doing work in some of those communities. So, a good portion of my time was spent on the fringe of the war area between North and South (Federal/Biafra). At the end of my stay (and late in the war) I led some refugee resettlement activities on the Idoma/Biafra boarder area. 

Let me start with a few recollections : 

“You must be Chinese.” 

As a Northern Nigeria Community Development Officer in the Middle Belt area (about November 1966 until about October 1969) I had a Morris Mini-Moke vehicle. I began as overseeing Community Development in the Keffi/Nasarawa area. Later, this was expanded to include the Lafia area, all just north of the Benue River. Later, I was moved to Jos and put in charge of Community Development and training of Nigerians for the area that included Keffi, Nasarawa, Lafia and then the Jos area.  When the War began I often traveled throughout the area of my responsibility and into areas south of the Benue River which became part of the new State that I was working with.

One event that characterized the environment in the early part of the war (probably about late 1968) involved my traveling towards Gombe together with another Peace Corps Volunteer who lived in Lafia. We were doing some travelling towards Gombe in my Mini-Moke vehicle. There were many road blocks throughout the middle belt and north of the area of fighting. As we were driving north, we were stopped at a road block. There had been a lot of publicity regarding the Chinese assisting and supporting the Biafrans. My Peace Corps friend was about 5’ 7” tall and had black hair. Once we were stopped, the soldiers at the road block told us they were on the alert for Chinese spies and they felt that my fellow Peace Corps volunteer was likely to be a Chinese spy - he was short and had black hair and “looked like” he might be Chinese. They held us for several hours until an Officer came and decided that he seemed to be a European rather than Chinese, so that we could go. Scary, with soldiers, who had guns and thought that we, or at least he, could be a spy and a sympathizer to the Biafrans. 


“Too late for a beer. Thank Goodness.” 

Early in the War I would be touring from Jos to check on Community Development project and personnel below the Benue River. There were lots of military and numerous road blocks, etc. I would usually go to Makurdi late in the afternoon and go to my Nigerian friend’s place. I’d usually wash (out of a bucket of water) and eat fufu with him and his younger brothers, and then we’d go to our favourite bar for a couple of beers and listen to live music. We had our favourite place where we’d so enjoy to spend time. This particular day I had started later and got to Makurdi later than usual. I washed, ate and then we talked and decided that it was too late, and I was too tired to go to our favourite place. That evening, a Nigerian soldier had been drinking and apparently was rejected by a women he fancied. He left the bar and then returned with a hand grenade and threw it into the bar. This is the bar we would have been at and the time we would have been there. We missed it. There were probably four to six killed and another dozen injured. 


“Refugee Resettlement, go home.” “What’s in it for me?” 

I was tasked with leading a group of Nigerian community development workers from the Benue-Plateau State to do refugee resettlement work in mid to late 1969.  We were sent to an area South of the Idoma area of Nigeria, what would be in and near what would be described as North Western Biafra. There were about a dozen Community Development trainees from Benue-Plateau State that I took into this area.  We were working in a border area of Biafra and Federal territory that traditionally had three ethnic groups - the Ezis, Ezas and one other group that I can’t remember. Two were sympathetic to the Federal Government and one to the Biafrans. They traditionally had not gotten along. In the early stages of the war the Biafran sympathizers together with Biafrian soldiers swept north and drove the Ezis [I think] and the other group out of their traditional areas. Basically, everything was destroyed. Later, as the Federal forces returned to the area, the Ezis and the other tribal group swept back in and destroyed everything else standing in the Ezas areas. So, here we were coming into an area that had had tens of thousands of people previously and now had almost no one living in these areas and nothing standing except perhaps two to three cement buildings.  Our job was to get people to move back, especially prior to growing season. Those moving back would be the Federal sympathizers at this time. There were no roads, no bridges, and no buildings (except perhaps two that we were staying in - sleeping on woven mats on cement floors). Nothing remained in this area. We worked to open rough bridges and roads, and get things ready for rebuilding and resettlement and have time for planting. Most of the pro-Federal populations had been driven and evacuated (I don’t know where the Biafrian sympathizers went). Most seem to have gone to the Idoma area to Oturkpo. They were put up there and fed and housed and given as much care as was available. As we tried to get people to move back to their “home area” we held meetings and tried to do what would make returning quickly possible. And what we found was that almost all the people who had been living out of their area said they didn’t want to come back if there wasn’t going to be running water (in Oturkpo there were pumps at the end of each street), or if there wasn’t going to be zinc roofs (they had lived with mostly thatched roofs), or if there wasn’t going to be electricity (they had electricity each day for about twelve hours), why should they come back and leave these things behind?  

I returned to the US on home leave.....before any of this got worked out so, I don’t know what happened. But, at the time I left, hardly any wanted to come back “home”. And the Biafrans who had been in the area before all of this? I have no idea what happened to them.

--- John McComas




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Dear Vivian,

After so many years what I have written about my time in Nigeria during the Biafran war seems very slight but I hope it may be of some use to you. I'm always happy to answer any questions you might have, to elaborate or clarify anything if I can. Good luck with your project and please let me know the result.  

In the spring of 1966 Peace Corps group XX, which trained at the University of California of Los Angeles for two months, arrived in Nigeria where volunteers were spread throughout the east and mid-west of the country. Initially I was assigned to teach English at a manual arts cum teacher training college in Asaba but when the school closed I was reposted to a newly opened Catholic manual arts training school in Onitsha across the River Niger where I taught sewing and cooking to young girls. The school was funded and built by Father Anthony Byrne of the Holy Ghost fathers, a dynamic kindly man with a keen sense of humour, who became well known for his courage and initiative in food and medical relief flights from Sao Tome to Biafra. The supervisor for the domestic science program at the school was the bubbling, highly competent Sister Felicitas (I've forgotten her order) who also worked at the Borromeo hospital in Onitsha that was staffed by lay doctors and nuns. I later heard she dragged a water tank several miles on her own to help those in need at the height of the war.  

I had been in Nigeria not quite a year and a half when the war broke out. Tensions mounted, and one day the bridge across the Niger was closed, cutting us off from the rest of the country. There were food shortages and rumours flying that war was imminent, and a curfew was enforced. One morning a man from Peace Corps headquarters in Enugu appeared to say that I had an hour to collect a suitcase of belongings before the evacuation of PC volunteers in our sector of the eastern region of the country would begin. Those of us in Onitsha and close by crossed the Niger by boat and were met by a convoy from the US embassy headed by the consul, a Mr. Kennedy, who took two of us home to dinner. Eating shrimp jambalaya by candlelight off gold bordered plates with the US embassy seal seemed another world from what we had left behind, making the prospect of war seem unreal.   

A year and a half later when I was living in the US I was contacted by a former PC volunteer recruiting people to return to Nigeria as relief workers. I went back to Lagos in January 1969 to work for Unicef, seconded to the International Committee of the Red Cross who were coordinating relief efforts. The Nigerian civil war had been in the headlines constantly during my absence from the country, with harrowing stories of the suffering in Biafra, where I had once been, so I jumped at the chance to help. My job was to report to the head of mission in Lagos on food relief to children in areas near the border of the war, and supplied through Calabar. At this juncture most of the major relief agencies worldwide were operating in my area, such as Oxfam, Save the Children, USAID, Protestant church groups and CARE. The Catholic priests and nuns already in the country before the war stayed at their posts, except for a few such as Father Byrne.

I was stationed about 2 miles from the front in a small village that was occupied by relief agencies that used the buildings for accommodation and ware housing for relief goods, most notably the German Red Cross who had sent doctors and nurses and staff already experienced in disaster relief, all of whom seemed far better suited to their jobs than many people I met. They had their own well stocked warehouses containing donations of clothing, bedding, and much else that came from many sources from what I saw, including surprising things like patchwork quilts from the USA (I still have one I used as my bed). The German Red Cross carefully controlled the distribution of these goods, partly perhaps because of the inevitable siphoning off of so much aid that was being sold in local markets instead of being given to those in need. However, I remember feeling frustrated that we couldn't get the GRC to release more goods for distribution, even by trusted workers. There may have been corruption among the foreign aid workers, though I never heard of it. All distribution of food, medicine, clothing, etc. was supervised ultimately by Nigerian nationals, as required by the Nigerian government, so they were ultimately responsible for ensuring aid reached the people. One of the most disillusioning discoveries was the rivalry between some of the aid organizations, many of whose workers regarded aid work as a job like any other. We were all extremely well paid with all sorts of allowances apart from our generous salary, and time off for R&R.   

I reported regularly to my superior in Lagos on the problems of food distribution, mainly to children, particularly powdered milk. The problem was to instruct the mothers how to prepare it properly, in the right proportions, using boiled water so as not to cause gastric problems. I remember seeing hungry people scurrying to eat milk spilled from a lorry, scooping it up with their hands. Milk and flour which made up the bulk of food distributed where I was, quickly spoiled in the extreme heat and humidity, resulting in a lot of waste. Grain was distributed, which posed a problem of grinding, and was shipped by helicopter from Calabar. I was often on the grain run, clinging to sacks branded with the USAID logo of two hands clasping with the motto: 'gift of the people of the United States'. One of the pilots had been in Vietnam, and another was reputed to be an ex-British mercenary. One evening for his amusement he allowed his pet mandril to jump on my shoulders and run his fingers through my hair, something I'll never forget.  

Much of the food aid that came to Nigeria during the war was not fit for consumption when it arrived, and often was inedible before it was shipped. This dumping, masquerading as 'aid', served as tax write-offs for companies or corporations apparently, but it kept coming. There was certainly malnutrition in the area where I worked, but no real starvation. We ourselves lived on American army K and C rations. Some workers drove their Land rovers on bush tracks into Biafran territory and possibly helped people if they could, though this was strictly forbidden by the Nigerian government, the explanation being that it would only prolong the war. I heard stories from workers who saw abandoned burnt out villages, with bodies rotting unburied. I once crossed the border into Biafra and remember the eerie silence of a village where the houses were peppered with bullet holes which was a shocking contrast to the peace and order I remembered when I used to travel in the bush near Onitsha, driving my Volkswagen van full of equipment, including an oven devised from a kerosene tin.  

I left Nigeria after four months and returned to Europe with my husband whom I'd met during this time. He was posted back to Lagos after the war had ended, and we stayed there for seven more years, during which time I saw the beginnings of a new Nigeria.  I had the chance to return to Onitsha once, driving cross country. I could hardly recognize the school compound where I had worked which was now a bombed out shell.  My thoughts went to Father Byrne, whose life's work had literally gone up in smoke.  

--- Laura Murison



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                                                                             Another Biafra Story

                                                                                    Allan Hall

                                                                              Abakaliki 1966/67


Dear Editor,

            It seems that the FON letters to the editor are becoming an archive repository for Biafra War stories so I will put my two cents worth in for future researchers.

I was part of Nigeria 24 (Ag/Rd) which trained at U.C. San Diego and flew to Nigeria in 1966. I was stationed in Abakaliki which was located near the Northern border. I partnered with Keith Hill and our job was to assist the Ministry of Works in constructing reservoirs using heavy earth moving equipment. The reservoirs contained water that was filtered so that villagers would have access to clean drinking and cooking water. We continued working on projects that were started by Dale Lamski whom we were replacing. He taught us a lot about the realities of Peace Corps life. We were housed in little tin shacks that we moved from project to project. One such location was in the same compound that former FON president Mike Goodkind lived.

            Soon after we arrived Biafra seceded the war broke out. Periodically while sitting around a rest house drinking beer and munching on ground nuts an ex-pat would come over and recommend that we should go to Enugu because things were about to get hot militarily speaking. Except for getting there it was great fun for us to stay at the Presidential Hotel, eat well and socialize all on the Peace Corps tab. But getting to Enugu was a challenge. In most of Biafra there were three types of roadblocks; Police, Army and Civil Defense. The Police roadblocks were the easiest as they were manned be police who were reasonably well educated, trained and fairly well informed. The army checkpoints were challenging and time consuming as they were suspicious, lower rank and well-armed. The Civil Defense roadblocks were the scariest as they were usually manned by uneducated elders (all the younger men having gone to the army) who were armed with Dane guns and who were full of rumored “information” about white mercenaries (or was it missionaries).

            Eventually the Biafran army came and commandeered the earth movers, tractors, dump trucks and anything else they could use in their war effort. The Peace Corp. took the stand that it was going to tough it out in this “police action” and not be seen as an organization that would cut and run at first sight of violence. After five or six trips back and forth between Enugu and Abakaliki we were finally advised that the total blockade around Biafra would be lifted temporarily so that we could evacuate. A Greek freighter was to sail into Port Harcourt in two or three weeks and all volunteers were to be transported out of the country and harm’s way.

            The Peace Corp staff had mapped out every volunteer’s location and drafted pick-up assignments. I was in charge of one of the three or four van convoys. We were to drive from Enugu to Port Harcourt picking up volunteers on the way. The hardest part was coming into a village or small town, finding the PCV and informing them that they had about 20 minutes to pack 44 pounds of luggage say good bye to their friends, neighbors, chiefs, Headmasters and students they had lived with for months or years and leave. 

            Every convoy had a personal letter of passage signed by Col. Odumegwu  Ojukwu himself.  So we should have been able to breeze down the road through the roadblocks. Unfortunately, the ones manning them who could read did not believe that such a god like figure would write such a letter for mere mortals, so it was useless. My first passenger was not a volunteer but the director, Del Lewis, which was an asset except when, early on, we happened on a civil defense roadblock. Because Del, an African American, didn’t speak Igbo the locals were convinced that they had discovered a Hausa or Fulani. Seeing them put a Dane gun to his head was one scary sight. I didn’t realize that I could speak Igbo so fast to calm the situation but we got out of their by the skin of our teeth. What was both humorous and frustrating was coming upon three roadblocks in a row each within sight of the other (police, army and CD). Each one searching the suitcases or backpacks or purses. Mostly they were curious about what these Europeans hid in their boxes.

            After picking up our assigned volunteers we arrived in Port Harcourt in time to board the Greek Freighter. They had made rectangular markings on the floor of the ship’s hold and each evacuee was assigned a space for the trip to Accra, Ghana. I don’t recall much about the trip except that we drank a lot of wine and were fed peanut butter sandwiches and got sea sick. Once in Accra we were transported to University of Ghana in Legon. I remember a Peace Corps official, C Payne Lucas, giving us various choices of going home or to another country. He was especially convincing in the Peace Corps way of selling my group on going to Somalia (“they hate Americans, they spit on you and throw sand in your face”). So most of my group went there and I understand that that is pretty much what happened to them.

Four of us, Bob Claflin, Jon Seale, Jim Hammons and myself made our way to Malawi (where they didn’t throw sand in our face) to finish our Peace Corps careers.


(This account was first published in the Fall 2013 issue (Vol.18, No 1, page 12) of the Friends of Nigeria newsletter. It was sent to me via e-mail) 


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Hello again, Vivian, 

Just wanted to send a few notes about my own Biafran War encounters in 1967 while serving outside Abakaliki in what was then the Eastern Region/Biafra. 

Unlike most Peace Corps volunteers I was a rural development volunteer whose primary assignment was to establish oil palm cooperatives in the county just west of Abakaliki. After independence was declared, the people in my service area saw the potential upcoming chaos as an opportunity to revive old tribal loyalties. The people I worked with spoke a rural dialect of Igbo. We were, as I recall, about 10 miles from the Northern Region Border, whose residents were non-Hausa plateau people. While at peace for many years, the groups on both sides of this remote, rural border, apparently had festering antagonisms. When independence was declared a consequence was that the national police were reluctant to provide routine enforcement and patrols on the regional borders. One day a month or so before my termination from the Peace Corps, I drove with my Nigerian counterpart to a village where we had made contact throughout my two years but had no active projects. I forget exactly why we made the trip, but it might simply have been to bring my time to closure with the people who lived there. When I arrived at the local elementary school I saw a soccer game in progress. When I approached closer, one of the local Igbo men approached our jeep and pointed out that the ball they were using was in fact the recently severed head of one of their "neighbours" who lived across the border in the north. This moment was simply opportune to carry on long simmering hostilities.

This incident which seemed to have little or nothing to do with the contemporary Igbo/Hausa conflict was a good illustration of unintended consequences of war. 

A few years later I served as an artillery crewperson in the U.S. Army in Vietnam, where the political communist vs.democracy tensions served a rationale for a fairly major world conflict. The troops I knew saw little difference between the communist enemy we were fighting and the often corrupt South Vietnamese whom the American government touted as the torch bearers of freedom and civilization. Both my Nigeria/Biafra and Vietnam experiences were clear lessons about the complexities of war. In fact they were lifelong lessons. I have not been back to either Vietnam or Nigeria, but I'm hoping that those of us who were affected by war more than a half century ago are able to use our experiences to make something better than the horrors of war out of understanding the nuances of the world around us. 

Just some quick notes, Vivian. My best wishes for success with your project. 

--- Mike Goodkind


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                                                                 A Mass Murderer of Children


                                                         Tom Hebert, Nigeria 04 (1962-1964)


                          An Afterword of Far Away In The Sky: A Memoir of the Biafran War by

                                                              David Koren, Amazon, 2012

In the Peace Corps, Nigeria 1962-1964, I first taught English in a poor but progressive Moslem high school in Ibadan, the capital of the Western Region. For my second year, I transferred to the University of Ibadan to help found the new School of Drama. While Nigeria was then a vibrant, ringing place, living as we were in an official “state of emergency,” soon we all knew the country was hell-bent for civil war.


Biafra, initially rising out of resistance to Northern Nigeria’s ancient Arab-Muslim expansionism, with a sometimes romantic but short-lived existence (about 20 months), the nation began with an egalitarian, progressive Igbo culture that traditionally had encouraged independent thinking, enterprise, and personal, collaborative, and communal creativity, and learning.


This new country had entered the war with hope, skilled talent, a competent leadership combined with a practical vision for the future. Indeed, it’s hard to disagree with Odumegwu Ojukwu, the erstwhile leader of Biafra speaking in 1994: “In three years, we became the most civilized, the most technologically advanced black people on earth."


If Biafra had succeeded, dependent as it was on invented appropriate technologies —small scale, labor intensive, energy efficient, locally controlled, and people centered all contrived in the storm of war, today Biafra would likely be an African Silicon Valley or minor Switzerland.


The entrepreneurial piece of the vision was summed up in the Principles of the Biafran Revolution, commonly known as the Ahiara Declaration, a document written by the National Guidance Committee of Biafra and delivered by President Ojukwu as a speech on June 1, 1969. 


“Finally, the Biafran revolution will create possibilities for citizens with talent in business, administration, management and technology, to fulfill themselves and receive due appreciation and reward in the service of the state, as has indeed happened in our total mobilization to prosecute the present war.”


In a 1994 retrospective speech Ojukwu demonstrated the fruits of Igbo/Biafran ingenuity:


“During those three years, we built bombs, we built rockets, we designed and built our own delivery systems. We guided our rockets, we guided them far, and we guided them accurately. For three years, blockaded without hope of imports, we maintained engines, machines, and technical equipment. The state extracted and refined petrol, individuals refined petrol in their back gardens, we built and maintained airports, we maintained them under heavy bombardment. We spoke to the world through a telecommunications system engineered by local ingenuity. The world heard us and spoke back to us. We built armored cars and tanks. We modified aircraft from trainer to fighters, from passenger aircraft to bombers. In three years of freedom, we had broken the technological barrier.”


Unfortunately for the future of Africa, where such a model for dismantling colonial empires along positive cultural lines was, and is, a desperate requirement, Biafra’s dominant image to the world was not a political one, but an image set by the competing relief agencies: starving, pot-bellied Igbo children, dying it was reported, by the millions. Which wasn’t true: hundreds of thousands only.


But the talented Biafrans didn’t have control of the relief effort. On Sao Tome, at least, it was mostly run by church-related Europeans who incessantly squabbled amongst themselves as they often do on their own constantly shifting turf. So while we UNICEF volunteers tried to get on with everyone, it was tough to blink the obvious that the war’s infernal famine could be at least ameliorated with some proven American know-how. 


So, hearing that somehow a retired American Air Force general had been sent to Sao Tome to advise the airlift, I went looking for him. In a dingy cubicle I found Joe Smith, who had been the officer commanding the history-making Berlin Airlift during the 1948-1949 Berlin Blockade. According to Wikipedia, General Smith organized an airlift that flew over 200,000 flights in one year, providing up to 4700 tons of fuel and food to the Berliners whose supply had been cut by the Soviets. 


Given my recent work in Vietnam (founding and directing combat-base USO Clubs), both of us were schooled in American logistical superiority. Yes, a former Air Force general and a former Peace Corps Volunteer with some experience of war had much to talk about. We understood that if Americans were running the show — had control of the airlift — jingoism aside, with even few aircraft a few can-do, cut-to-the-chase Americans could damn sure have got the job done. But it wasn’t in the cards.


Gearing up to write this, I went to my cold and musty storage unit and pulled out fading files of my Biafra experience. Reading them for the first time in generations, on a torn, crinkly piece of primeval copy paper I first made out a barely legible newspaper article by the reporter Martin Gershen with his photograph of “Tom Hebert, an ex-Peace Corps worker sitting atop his baggage at Lisbon Airport, just after being expelled from Sao Tome.”


Part of Gershen’s interview on Thursday, October 28, 1968 during a return night flight to Lisbon on the Grey Ghost — a legendary gunrunning Biafran Lockheed Super Constellation — as published in the Staten Island Advance on November 17, 1968, “Nobody here asked for us...”:


“I could have stayed in Sao Tome forever if I went to work in the warehouses. But that job has the odor of a white man’s burden. I think the people in Sao Tome could do that job just as well,” Hebert says. “I guess the reason I’m in trouble is that I decided I wasn’t needed. UNICEF wants to make its presence felt but just doesn’t know how.” Hebert feels embarrassed because he was expelled. “I did nothing wrong. All I tried to was go to Biafra,” he says. “But the Biafrans were able to solve their own problems. Nobody here really asked for us and nobody knew what to do with us,” Hebert says. We parted in Lisbon, where the plane landed. We were taxied to a remote part of the field where it was instantly placed under guard by the Portuguese police.”


I also found my copy of the following letter, dated October 24th, 1968:


Biafran Special Representative

Biafra House, Sao Tomé.


Mr. Osuji


Dear Sir:

Today we are informed that Mr. Hebert’s clearance for Biafra has been obtained. Mr. Hebert would like to go in tonight to report to Dr. Middlecoop.


Yours respectfully,

Axel V. Duch, Captain,

Chief of Operations, NORDCHURCHAID


Well, that clearly didn’t happen. The letter grew out of my earlier chance midnight encounter with Mr. Osuji on a silent foggy street in colonial Portuguese Sao Tomé, softly lit by a bent old street light. In a strangely intimate scene, we talked of the war which was not going well for Biafra and the relief effort that chewed up so much money and energy and almost all of the world’s attention. As noted, the war had become not a fight for independence much like America’s own, but of relief planes and children with stomachs bloated from protein starvation — kwashiorkor. Mr. Osuji and I quietly shared a bitterness that night.


This TELEX, sent a day after my forced return to reality from a relief co-worker  to UNICEF in New York:




Then, this November 4 TELEX to UNICEF from Mona Mollerup, of NORDCHURCHAID, a Danish non-profit much involved in the airlift:




The last is not all that Mrs. Mollerup said. From my notes: “Tom Hebert is a mass murderer of children!”


Well, that’s a load off.


Looking back, like Koren’s, my particular Biafra became the place my adult life really began — my training had ended. In a space of maybe three weeks, from the time of my arrival to my abrupt departure, my experience on Sao Tome underwent a sea change. Because I came to realize that the relief effort was a distraction, that what Biafra most needed was  1) political recognition and 2) rifles and cannons. Those were the co-themes of the First Nigeria/Biafra International Conference which a group of Returned Peace Corps Volunteers soon put on at Columbia University. I remember walking down a Senate hallway with several other RPCVs escorting an agreeable Sen. Ted Kennedy to a Senate meeting on recognizing Biafra. We also lobbied Nixon's White House which, because of the media drumbeat of starving African children, was much concerned about Biafra to the point that recognition seemed possible. And I even rode up in an elevator with the famous Igbo novelist, Things Fall Apart and No Longer At Ease, Chinua Achebe!


But oddly, except as yet another African failure, Biafra has never since meant much to either Nigeria or the world at large. On a much later 1978 visit to Nigeria’s south-eastern region with a State Department team, I met with a state governor who had been a high Biafran official. Letting the others leave the room, I said, “Hail Biafra!” Stunned, looking to see if we were alone, he returned the salute,  “Hail Biafra!” As we talked that afternoon, for us Biafra had become a melancholy thing, with little impact—few noticeable effects and no heritage. Just a slight perturbation—a wobble—in Nigeria’s orbit — the one steadily degrading since 1962 to a Brechtian (nihilistic expressive) end. Shortly before the country, now a burnt-out case, likely crashes into the sun.


For me, could it be have been better? Yes. I could have been with David Koren in Biafra. 


Tom Hebert (Nigeria 1962-1964), lives on the Umatilla Indian Reservation outside Pendleton, Oregon. For many years he has been a consultant (and gadfly) to the Umatillas on tribal horse programs and other policy issues related to healing a sovereign nation originally meant to fail. 

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