Ngongo Chronicle 07

By Ron Singer

Chapter Seven.
Nairobi, 1988

At that point, the kettle whistled, so I brewed, then served Mr. N. his third cup of tea. Apparently sated, or substituting storytelling for food, he stopped stuffing his face with the biscuits. I noted with relief that there was still almost an entire layer remaining in the tin. When he had added the milk, blown on the steaming liquid, and taken a few sips, he resumed his narrative. Mr. J. wore an encouraging little smile on his face and did not interrupt again.

“Yes, that teaching position was a high point for me. I taught with enthusiasm and, after classes, I enjoyed the bachelor life with colleagues. Their ranks included a sociable American Peace Corpse and two Indians who taught Scientific subjects —Chemistry and Biology, as I recall. Although I drank beer with these ‘boys,’ unlike them, I resisted the blandishments of the bar girls, whom the locals called ‘ashawo,’ meaning something like ‘one who dresses skimpily.’ Not that I was never tempted! Like my friends, I was a lusty young bachelor. But pride kept me from indulging in this cheap form of gratification. Of course, the three other men, especially the two Indians, teased me mercilessly, even nicknaming me ‘Friar Mishach,’ as if I were a priest. The American was more polite; they often are. The other members of the faculty were divided into three groups: pro-Ndukwe, anti-, and neutral. The Brits, mostly observant Anglicans, were in the ‘pro’ camp. Shortly thereafter, in the year 1966, it was they to whom I would owe my very life!”

Thus far, I found Mr. Ndukwe’s tale moderately interesting. He was talking about life at a school, a subject familiar from my days at L’institut Pedagoque, in Fort Chaltin. Of course, whatever interest I felt came from “compare and contrast.” While my insitut and Mr. Ndukwe’s Anglican College were both secondary schools, they were in different countries, and our perspectives -- student versus teacher -- were also very different.

But, at the point when he mentioned owing his life to his British colleagues, the narrative took a sharp turn, and proceeded in a far more interesting direction. I noticed that, as the story reached this climax, his manner became more pedantic, as if we were in his classroom, and I represented now of his students. (What was Mr. J., then? A colleague? An administrator?)

“In Fall of 1966 -- early October, I think it was -- my life fell apart. This had already been, shall we say, a watershed year, the year of coups. First, in January, Igbo army officers had taken charge, massacring exclusively non-Igbo soldiers and politicians.”

Here I broke my vow not to interrupt. “But surely they had their reasons,” I said. “Had there not already been anti-Igbo pogroms in the Muslim north of the country?”

Mr. Ndukwe smiled in a knowing way. “Ah, young Pierre, I see that your instructors have taught you well. Of course, you are correct! At every stage in Nigeria’s tragic downward spiral, there was justification: each act of violence justified the next one. In other words, what happened was everybody’s fault or, you could say, nobody’s!”

Mr. J. intervened. “Please allow Mishach to continue uninterrupted, Pierre.” He added Smile #6 (from his repertoire of above twenty). Smile #6 meant, “This will be good, you won’t be sorry.”

Mishach continued. “Thanks, Eliyahu. As I was saying, the January coup, and its aftermath, sparked a second coup, which cynics called ‘the July rematch.’ This brought to power General Gowon. But it was preceded by further pogroms against easterners. These began in the North and spread to the West, to places such as Idare.

“During the first week of August, when the police brought me in for questioning, I knew enough to ‘bring cold watah,’ to offer, that is, a small gratuity, upon which I was released. But I knew that the town was no longer safe for me. For one thing, every riff-raff in the place seemed glad to insult me: spitting, name-calling, and such. Perhaps, my bribe was insufficient to purchase general immunity. At that time, I heard of several assaults on other easterners. One elderly market woman was badly beaten, and her entire stock of costly imported cloth, looted.

“Luckily for me, most of my colleagues at the College were sympathetic to my plight, or at least neutral. One of the Brits I mentioned, the Physics master, permitted me to hide for several days and nights in a shed behind his house. After that, on August 16, 1966, I reluctantly bade farewell to this, my new job -- and my new home, really -- and set out on local roads toward the southeast, toward Bonny. I avoided the highways because I heard rumors that police and soldiers at the roadblocks were robbing, assaulting, and even killing easterners.

“Well, I can say that this turned out to be a voyage through hell! For one thing, imagine a man like myself, hardly an athlete, forced to pedal an ordinary bicycle more than 350 kilometers! As to how I acquired food, and where I managed to rest, don’t ask! The only ‘silver lining’ to my plight was that I was still a single man, without a wife or children to encumber my flight. But that was my sole advantage, if you can call it that. The proliferation of chaos and violence in most of the places through which I passed meant that I was frequently forced to hide until nightfall, to backtrack, and to make long, exhausting detours.

“Finally, filthy and exhausted, riding on one tire and one rim -- just before reaching the Niger, I had had a flat, with no means to fix it -- and after that, to cross the river with what seemed thousands of other refugees! By then, my funds, too, were almost depleted, and most of my possessions had been discarded. Don’t even ask what that crossing was like! All I will say is it took me above fourteen months, in total, to make this bicycle trip through hell.

“And when, at last, I arrived in Bonny, what did I meet? My ‘home town’ was in chaos! By then, Colonel Ojukwu had led the breakaway -- Biafra -- and the shooting war had begun. Bonny was already under blockade by the Nigerian navy, and a combined army-navy assault was underway. This was my cherished destination, the hope that had kept me pedaling and pushing up hills for all those long days, weeks, and months!

“‘Home’ was no more! I arrived just in time to learn the news that the incursion had prevailed, and that the fierce and cruel warrior, Colonel Benjamin Adekunle, known as ‘Black Scorpion,’ had taken command of the town. Like myriad others, most of my relatives –- parents, cousins, uncles, aunts -- had fled to the bush. I was totally without funds or possessions. What could I do next?”

By this point, I was so taken with Mr. Ndukwe’s tale of woe that I forgot my master’s admonition, and again began to interrupt. “But …but… that is horrid, what happened to you, Sir! It makes one think…” Mr. J. made a “stop-sign” gesture, accompanied by Smile #3, the stern “Didn’t I tell you not to do this?” smile. Reluctantly, I obeyed, and Mr. Ndukwe looked ready to resume his story. By then, our allotment of biscuits had been consumed, but there was no thought of re-provisioning.

“So. What was I to do now?”

At that point, Mishach glanced at his wristwatch, and a look of panic crossed his face. “Oh, no!” he cried. “I’m late!” He stood up, brushed the crumbs from his clothing, and placed his still half-full teacup on the floor beside his chair. Grabbing his briefcase, he hurried to the front of the shop, calling back over his shoulder, “I’m scheduled for an interview in exactly …” (another glance at his watch) “…twenty minutes, at U.N. headquarters, in Westland. I’ll never make it in time. A pleasure, Pierre! Thanks, Eli. Bye, bye, Gentlemen!” And he bustled through the door, slamming it behind him.

In days to come, whenever I found myself in difficulties, I took solace by comparing them with those of Mishach Ndukwe, and thinking of the Acholi proverb, Nino pe giporo ki to’o, meaning “One should not liken sleep to death.”