Post by Prince Atanda (@princewriter01)

Why It Sucks to Be Born a Child Years Before the Biafran War.

1957. Enugu. Midnight. A baby is born.

That baby was you.

The news spread like wildfire. People filled your compound. Everybody covered their face with camwood powder. You looked around and thought, is this how human beings look? White face. Black body. Until one of the kids cleaned his face. That night you realized you had many siblings even though you were the first child of your mother and father.

At 2, your father was a teacher. Your mother farmed and traded. Your neighbor's child carried you to the farm. Children are raised together here. No single mothers. You thought, this is nice.

Evenings were for moonlit stories and dancing. You knew only love. You cried because they wouldn't take you to school. Your father said no.

At 3, mothers warned children about the forest. Superstition.

Then Nigeria gained independence. The village waved green and white. Joy.

At 4, your father ran home panting. Violence. Rigged elections. Your mother grew cautious.

At 5, the West was burning. You started school. The headmaster said you were too young. Your father boasted about your intelligence.

You made friends. Amaka. Obinna. They were older. They protected you.

Then came the coup. Igbo officers killed northern leaders. It failed.

At 6, peace died. No more moonlit dances. Your parents argued. "Let's move somewhere safe." But nowhere was safe.

Your mother warned you. Do not speak Igbo. Only English.

A Hausa officer stormed your classroom. He pulled you out. He asked, "Which tribe are you?"

Your father shouted, "Edo! She's Edo!"

He grabbed you. They let you go. He ran. Gunshots followed.

You thought of Obinna and Amaka.

Their family planned to flee. You left your village. Thousands were moving. You heard Igbo people were being killed in the North. You asked about your friends. No one answered.

You moved to Aba. Your great grandmother welcomed you. You were not alone.

Then Biafra was declared.

You asked, "Are we going home? Will I see Obinna and Amaka again?"

Comrades stormed your yard. They took your father. He said he was a teacher. They took him anyway. Your mother wept.

They led you to training camp. You feared you would never see your father again.

Enugu was bombed. Neighbors fled to your yard, crying.

Your mother received a letter. Your father was alive. He was a soldier now. "Teacher soldier." He said they were winning.

Young men in your compound disappeared. Their mothers wailed.

By 1968, starvation. Baked clay. Cassava leaves. Grass. You wished for death. Your great grandmother died. Friends died around you.

Your mother fought a neighbor over bread from a plane. A boy kicked you and stole your bread. Your mother abandoned her fight to save you.

Your mother said, "We're going to camp. There'll be food."

The road smelled of blood. Vultures circled. A migrant family joined your fire. They gave you meat. First meat in months.

A child whispered, "Mom, did we have to eat my brother?"

Your mother covered your ears. Your mother pulled you away.

For 2 years on your grandma's outskirt, the land was full of dead bodies.

You reached the camp. You realized you were thousands. They offered you water. You saw people being buried and dying instantly. You spent your day in camp waiting for food when they knew.

One morning, people moved. Your mother carried you for days.

You woke and asked, "Is it over?"

She said yes. And collapsed.

You woke in a hospital. Your father was there. His arm was gone.

You called, "Daddy."

He answered. You wept.

You returned home. Your neighbors were gone. Your father buried their bones in the yard.

You asked, "What happened to Obinna and Amaka?"

He said, "They are dead."

You realized. You are the luckiest kid alive. Not the strongest. Just the one who survived.

Now let me ask you.

How do you return to childhood after war teaches you how to bury the dead?

How do you survive when everything you love is taken from you?

Tribute to all innocent civilians who suffered the fate of resistance. I wept for your pain. It lives in us.

This is Prince Atanda.

Follow me for more untold stories.

#lekeelekee #BiafranWar #NigerianHistory #Survival #Unfiltered #Storytelling #Trending #NeverForget

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