Biafra: A People Betrayed
by Kurt Vonnegut
From Wampeters, Foma and
Granfalloons, 1979
THERE is a "Kingdom of
Biafra" on some old maps which were made by early white explorers of the
west coast of Africa. Nobody is now sure what that kingdom was, what its laws
and arts and tools were like. No tales survive of the kings and queens.
As for the "Republic of
Biafra" we know a great deal. It was a nation with more citizens than
Ireland and Norway combined. It proclaimed itself an independent republic on
May 30, 1967. On January 17 of 1970, it surrendered unconditionally to Nigeria,
the nation from which it had tried to secede. It had few friends in this world,
and among its active enemies were Russia and Great Britain. Its enemies were
pleased to call it a "tribe."
Some tribe.
The Biafrans were mainly
Christians and they spoke English melodiously, and their economy was this one:
small-town free enterprise. The worthless Biafran currency was gravely honored
to the end.
The tune of Biafra's national
anthem was Finlandia, by Jan Sibelius. The equatorial Biafrans admired the
arctic Finns because the Finns won and kept their freedom in spite of ghastly
odds.
Biafra lost its freedom, of
course, and I was in the middle of it as all its fronts were collapsing. I flew
in from Gabon on the night of January 3, with bags of corn, beans, and powdered
milk, aboard a blacked out DC6 chartered by Caritas, the Roman Catholic relief
organization. I flew out six nights later on an empty DC4 chartered by the
French Red Cross. It was the last plane to leave Biafra that was not fired
upon.
While in Biafra, I saw a play
which expressed the spiritual condition of the Biafrans at the end. It was set
in ancient times, in the home of a medicine man. The moon had not been seen for
many months, and the crops had failed. There was nothing to eat anymore. A
sacrifice was made to a goddess of fertility, and the sacrifice was refused.
The goddess gave the reason: The people were not sufficiently unselfish and
brave.
Before the drama began, the
national anthem was played on an ancient marimba. It seems likely that similar
marimbas were heard in the court of the Kingdom of Biafra. The black man who
played the marimba was naked to the waist. He squatted on the stage. He was a
composer. He also held a doctor's degree from the London School of Economics.
Some tribe.
I went to Biafra with another
novelist, my old friend Vance Bourjaily, and with Miss Miriam Reik, who would
be our guide. She was head of a pro-Biafran committee that had already flown
several American writers into Biafra. She would pay our way.
I met her for the first time at
Kennedy Airport. We were about to take off for Paris together. It was New
Year's Day. I bought her a drink, though she protested that her committee
should pay, and I learned that she had a doctor's degree in English literature.
She was also a pianist and a daughter of Theodor Reik, the famous
psychoanalyst.
Her father had died three days
before.
I told Miriam how sorry I was
about her father, said how much I'd liked the one book of his I had read, which
was Listening with the Third Ear.
He was a gentle Jew, who got
out of Austria while the getting was good. Another well-known book of his was
Masochism in Modern Man.
And I asked her to tell me more
about her committee, whose beneficiary I was, and she confessed that she was
it: It was a committee of one. She is a tall, good-looking woman, by the way,
thirty-two years old. She said she founded her own committee because she grew
sick of other American organizations that were helping Biafra. Those
organizations teemed with people 'who were kinky with guilt', she said. They
were trying to dump some of that guilt by being maudlinly charitable. As for
herself; she said, it was the greatness of the Biafran people, not their
pitifulness that turned her on.
She hoped the Biafrans would
get more weapons from somebody, the very latest in killing machines. She was
going into Biafra for the third time in a year. She wasn't afraid of anything.
Some committee.
I admire Miriam, though I am
not grateful for the trip she gave me. It was like a free trip to Auschwitz
when the ovens were still going full blast. I now feel lousy all the time.
I will follow Miriam's example
as best I can. My main aim will not be to move readers to voluptuous tears with
tales about innocent black children dying like flies, about rape and looting
and murder and all that. I will tell instead about an admirable nation that
lived for less than three years.
De mortuis nil nisi bonum. Say
nothing but good of the dead.
I asked a Biafran how long his
nation had existed so far, and he replied, "Three Christmases, and a
little bit more." He wasn't a hungry baby. He was a hungry man. He was a
living skeleton, but he walked like a man.
Miriam Reik and I picked up
Vance Bouijaily in Paris, and we flew down to Gabon and then into Biafra. The
only way to get into Biafra was at night by air. There were only eight
passenger seats at the rear of the cabin. The rest of the cabin was heaped with
bags of food. The food was from America.
We flew over water, there were
Russian trawlers below. They were monitoring every plane that came into Biafra.
The Russians were helpful in a lot of ways: They gave the Nigerians Ilyushin
bombers and MIGs and heavy artillery. And the British gave the Nigerians
artillery too and advisers, and tanks and armored cars, and machine guns and
mortars and all that, and endless ammunition.
America was neutral.
When we got close to the one
remaining Biafran airport, which was a stretch of highway, its lights came on.
It was a secret. Its lights resembled two rows of glowworms. The moment our
wheels touched the runway, the runway lights went out and our plane's
headlights came on. Our plane slowed down, pulled off the runway, killed its
lights, and then everything was pitch black again. There were only two white
faces in the crowd around our plane. One was a Holy Ghost Father. The other was
a doctor from the French Red Cross. The doctor ran a hospital for the children
who were suffering from kwashiorkor, the pitiful children who had no protein.
Father.
Doctor.
As I write, Nigeria has
arrested all the Holy Ghost Fathers, who stayed to the end with their people in
Biafra.
The priests were mostly
Irishmen. They were beloved. Whenever they built a church, they also built a
school. Children and simple men and women thought all white men were priests,
so they would often beam at Vance or me and say, "Hello, Father." The
Fathers are now being deported forever. Their crime: compassion in time of war.
We were taken to the Frenchman's hospital the next morning, in a chauffeur-driven
Peugeot. The name of the village itself sounded like the wail of a child:
AwoOmama.
I said to an educated Biafran,
"Americans may not know much about Biafra, but they know about the
children."' We're grateful," he replied, "but I wish they knew
more than that. They think we're a dying nation. We aren't. We're an energetic,
modern nation that is being born! We have doctors. We have hospitals. We have
public-health programs. If we have so much sickness, it is because our enemies
have designed every diplomatic and military move with one end in mind — that we
starve to death."
About kwashiorkor: It is a rare
disease, caused by a lack of protein. Its cure has been easy, until the
blockading of Biafra.
The worst sufferers there were
the children of refugees, driven from their homes, then driven off the roads
and into the bush by MIGs and armored columns. The Biafrans weren't jungle
people. They were village people—farmers and professionals and clerks and
businessmen. They had no weapons to hunt with. Back in the bush, they fed their
children whatever roots and fruit they were lucky enough to find. At the end, a
very common diet was water and thin air. So the children came down with
kwashiorkor, no longer a rare disease. The child's hair turned red. His skin
split like the skin of a ripe tomato. His rectum protruded. His arms and legs
were like lollipop sticks.
Vance and Miriam and I waded
through shoals of children like those at Awo-Omama. We discovered that if we
let our hands dangle down among the children, a child would grasp each finger
or thumb—five children to a hand. A finger from a stranger, miraculously, would
allow a child to stop crying for a while.
A MIG came over, fired a few
rounds, didn't hit anything this time, though the hospital had been hit often
before. Our guide guessed that the pilot was an Egyptian or an East German.
I asked a Biafran nurse what
sort of supplies the hospital was most in need of.
Her answer: "Food."
Biafra had a George Washington
— for three Christmases and a little bit more. He was and is Odumegwu Ojukwu.
Like George Washington, General Ojukwu was one of the most prosperous men of
his place and time. He was a graduate of Sandhurst, Britain's West Point. The
three of us spent an hour with him. He shook our hands at the end. He thanked
us for coming. "If we go forward, we die," he said. "If we go
backward, we die. So we go forward." He was ten years younger than Vance
and me. I found him perfectly enchanting. Many people mock him now. They think
he should have died with his troops.
Maybe so.
If he had died, he would have
been one more corpse in millions.
He was a calm, heavy man when
we met him. He chainsmoked. Cigarettes were worth a blue million in Biafra. He
wore a camouflage jacket, though he was sitting in a cool living room in a
velveteen easy chair. "I should warn you," he said, "we are in
range of their artillery." His humor was gallows humor, since everything
was falling apart around his charisma and air of quiet confidence. His humor
was superb. Later, when we met his second-in-command, General Philip Effiong,
he, too, turned out to be a gallows humorist. Vance said this: "Effiong
should be the Number two man. He's the second funniest man in Biafra."
Jokes.
Miriam was annoyed by my
conversation at one point, and she said scornfully, "You won't open your
mouth unless you can make a joke." It was true. Joking was my response to
misery I couldn't do anything about. The jokes of Ojukwu and Effiong had to do
with the crime for which the Biafrans were being punished so hideously by so
many nations. The crime: They were attempting to become a nation themselves.
"They call us a dot on the map," said General Ojukwu, "and
nobody's sure quite where." Inside that dot were 700 lawyers, 500
physicians, 300 engineers, 8 million poets, 2 novelists of the first rank, and
God only knows what else -- about one-third of all the black intellectuals in
Africa. Some dot. Those intellectuals had once fanned out all over Nigeria, where
they had been envied and lynched and massacred. So they retreated to their
homeland, to the dot. The dot has now vanished. Hey, presto.
When we met General Ojukwu, his
soldiers were going into battle with thirty-five rounds of rifle ammunition.
There was no more where that came from. For weeks before that, they had been
living on one cup of gari a day. The recipe for gari is this: Add water to
pulverized cassava root. Now the soldiers didn't even have gari anymore.
General Ojukwu described a typical Nigerian attack for us: "They pound a
position with artillery for twenty-four hours, then they send forward one
armored car. If anybody shoots at it, it retreats, and another twenty-four
hours of bombardment begins. When the infantry moves forward, they drive a
screen of refugees before them."
We asked him what was becoming
of the refugees now in Nigerian hands. He had no jokes on this subject. He said
leadenly that the men, women, and children were formed into three groups, which
were led away separately. "Your guess is as good as mine," he said,
"as to what happens after that," and he paused. Then he finished the
sentence: "To the men and the women and the children." We were given
private rooms and baths in what had been a teachers' college in Owerri, the
capital of Biafra. The town had been captured by the Nigerians, and then, in
the one great Biafran victory of the war, recaptured by the Biafrans. We were
taken to a training camp near Owerri. The soldiers had no live ammunition. In
mock attacks, the riflemen shouted, "Bang!" The machine gunners
shouted, "Bup-bup-bup!"And the officer who showed us around, also a
graduate of Sandhurst, said, "There wouldn't be all this fuss, you know,
if it weren't for the petroleum." He was speaking of the vast oil field
beneath our feet. We asked him who owned the oil, and I expected him to say
ringingly that it was the property of the Biafran people now. But he didn't.
"We never nationalized
it," he said. "It still belongs to British Petroleum and Shell."
He wasn't bitter. I never met a bitter Biafran. General Ojukwu gave us a clue,
I think, as to why the Biafrans were able to endure so much so long without
bitterness: They all had the emotional and spiritual strength that an enormous
family can give. We asked the general to tell us about his family, and he
answered that it was three thousand members strong. He knew every member of it
by face, by name, and by reputation. A more typical Biafran family might
consist of a few hundred souls. And there were no orphanages, no old people's
homes, no public charities and, early in the war, there weren't even schemes
for taking care of refugees. The families took care of their own, perfectly
naturally. The families were rooted in land. There was no Biafran so poor that
he did not own a garden.
Lovely.
Families met often, men and
women alike, to vote on family matters. When war came, there was no
conscription. The families decided who should go. In happier times, the
families voted on who should go to college to study what and where. Then
everybody chipped in for clothes and transportation and tuition. The first
person from the area to be sponsored by his family all the way through graduate
school was a physician, who received his doctor's degree in 1938. Thus began a
mania for higher education of all kinds. This mania probably did more to doom
the Biafrans than any quantity of petroleum. When Nigeria became a nation in
1960, formed from two British colonies, Biafra was part of it----and Biafrans
got the best jobs in industry and the civil service and the hospitals and the
schools, because they were so well educated. They were hated for that—perfectly
naturally. It was peaceful in Owerri at first. It took us a few days to catch
on: Not only Owerri but all of Biafra was about to fall. Even as we arrived,
government offices nearby were preparing to move. I learned something: Capitals
can fall almost silently. Nobody warned us. Everybody we talked to smiled. And
the smile we saw most frequently belonged to Dr. B. N. Unachukwu, the chief of
protocol in the Ministry of Affairs. Think of that: Biafra was so poor in
allies at the end that the chief of protocol had nothing better to do than woo
two novelists and an English teacher, He made lists of appointments we had with
ministers and writers and educators and so on. He sent around a car each
morning, with a chauffeur and guide. And then we caught on: His smile and
everybody's smile was becoming slightly sicker with each passing day. On our
fifth day in Biafra, there was no Dr. Unachukwu, no chauffeur, and no guide.
We waited and waited on our
porches. Chinua Achebe, the young novelist, came by. We asked him if he had any
news. He said he didn't listen to news anymore. He didn't smile. He seemed to
be listening to something melancholy and maybe beautiful, far far away. I had a
novel of his, Things Fall Apart He autographed it for me. "I would invite
you to my house," he said, "but we don't have anything." A truck
went by, loaded with office furniture. All the trucks had names painted on
their sides. The name of that one was Slow to Anger. "There must be some
news," I insisted.
"News?" he echoed. He
thought. Then he said dreamily, "They have just found a mass grave outside
the prison wall." There had been a rumor, he explained, that the Nigerians
had shot a lot of civilians while they'd held Owerri. Now the graves had been
found. "Graves," said Chinua Achebe. He found them uninteresting.
"What are you writing
now?" said Miriam.
"Writing?" he said.
It was obvious that he wasn't writing anything, that he was simply waiting for
the end. "A dirge in Ibo," he said. Ibo was his native tongue.
An extraordinarily pretty girl
named Rosemary Egonsu Ezirim came over to introduce herself. She was a
zoologist. She had been working on a project that hoped to turn the streams
into fish hatcheries. "The project has been suspended temporarily,"
she said, "so I am writing poems."
"All projects have been
suspended temporarily," said Chinua, "so we are all writing
poems."
Leonard Hall, of the Manchester
Guardian, stopped by. He said, "You know, the closest parallel to what
Biafra is going through was the Jews in the Warsaw ghetto." He was right.
The Jews of Warsaw understood that they were going to get killed, no matter
what they did, so they died fighting.
The Biafrans kept telling the
outside world that Nigeria wanted to kill them all, but the outside world was
unimpressed.
"It's hard to prove
genocide," said Hall. "If some Biafrans survive, then genocide hasn't
been committed. If no Biafrans survive, who will complain?"
A male refugee came up to us,
rubbed his belly with one hand, begged with the other. He rolled his eyes.
"No chop," we said.
That meant, "No food." That was what one said to beggars. Then a
healthy girl offered us a quart of honey for three pounds., As I've already
said, the economy was free enterprise to the end.
It was a lazy day.
We asked Rosemary about a
round, bright-orange button she was wearing. "Daughters of Biafra,"
it said. "Wake! March!" In the middle was a picture of a rifle.
Rosemary explained that
Daughters of Biafra supported the troops in various ways, comforted the
wounded, and practiced guerrilla warfare. "We go up into the front lines
when we can," she said. "We bring the men small presents. If they
haven't been doing well, we scold them, and they promise to do better. We tell
them that they will know when things are really bad, because the women will
come into the trenches to fight. Women are much stronger and braver than
men."
Maybe so.
"Chinua, what can we send
you when we get back home?" said Vance.
And Chinua said,
"Books."
"Rosemary," I said,
"where do you live?"
"In a dormitory room not
far from here. Would you like to see it?" she said.
So Vance and I walked over
there with her, to stretch our legs. On the way, we marveled at a squash court
built of cement block—built, no doubt, in colonial times. It had been turned
into a Swiss cheese by armor-piercing cannon shells. There was a naked child in
the doorway, and her hair was red. She seemed very sleepy, and the light hurt
her eyes.
"Hello, Father," she
said.
All of Owerri seemed out for a
walk on either side of the street in single file. The files moved in opposite
directions and circulated about the town. There was no place in particular for
most of us to go. We were simply the restless center of the dot on the map
called Biafra, and the dot, was growing smaller all the time.
We strolled past a row of neat
bungalows. Civil servants lived there. Each house had a car out front, a VW, an
Opel, a Peugeot.
There was plenty of gasoline,
because the Biafrans had built cunning refineries in the bush. There weren't
many storage batteries, though. Most private cars had to be started by pushing.
Outside one bungalow was an
Opel station wagon with its back full of parcels and with a bed and a baby
carriage tied on top. The man of the house was testing the knots he'd tied,
while his wife stood by with the baby in her arms. They were going on a family
trip to nowhere. We gave them a push.
A soldier awarded Vance and me
a salute and a dazzling smile. "Comment ça pa?" he said. He supposed
we were Frenchmen. He liked us for that. France had slipped a few weapons to
Biafra. So had Rhodesia and South Africa, and so had Israel, I suspect.
"We will accept help from
anyone," General Ojukwu told us, "no matter what their reasons are
for giving it. Wouldn't you?"
Rosemary lived in a
twelve-by-twelve dormitory room with her five younger brothers and sisters, who
had come to see her over the Christmas holidays. Rosemary and her
seventeen-year-old sister had the bed. The rest slept on mats on the floor, and
everybody was having an awfully good time.
There was plenty to eat. There
were about twenty pounds of yams piled on the windowsill. There was a quart of
palm oil for frying yams. Palm oil, incidentally, was one of two commodities
that had induced white men to colonize the area so long ago. The other
commodity was even more valuable than palm oil. It was human slaves.
Think of that: slaves.
We asked Rosemary's sister how
long it took her to fix her hair and whether she could do it without
assistance. She had about fourteen pigtails sticking straight out from her
head. Not only that, but her scalp was crisscrossed by bare strips, which
formed diamonds—strips around the hair in the pigtails. Her head was splendidly
complicated, like a Russian Easter egg.
"Oh, no, I could never do
it alone," she said. Her relatives did it for her every morning. It took
them an hour, she said.
Relatives.
She was an innocent, pretty
dumpling in a metropolis for the first time. Her village hadn't been overrun
yet. Her big, cozy family hadn't been scattered to the winds. There were peace
and plenty there.
"I think we must be the
luckiest people in Biafra," she said.
Rosemary's sister still had her
baby fat.
And now, as I write, I hear
from my radio that there was a lot of raping when the Nigerian army came
through, that one woman who resisted was drenched with gasoline and then set on
fire.
I have cried only once about
Biafra. I did it three days after I got home, at two o'clock in the morning. I
made grotesque little barking sounds for about a minute and a half, and that
was that.
Miriam tells me that she hasn't
cried yet. She's tough about the ways of the world.
Vance cried at least once,
while we were still in Biafra. When little children took hold of his fingers
and stopped crying, Vance burst into tears.
Wounded soldiers were living in
Rosemary's dormitory, too. As I left her room, I tripped on her doorsill, and a
wounded soldier in the corridor said brightly, "Sorry, sah" This was
a form of politeness I had never encountered outside Biafra. Whenever I did
something clumsy or unlucky, a Biafran was sure to say that: "Sorry,
sah!" He would be genuinely sorry. He was on my side, and against a bloody
trapped universe.
Vance came into the corridor,
dropped the lens cap of his camera. "Sorry, sah! said the soldier again,
We asked him if life has been terrible at the front. "Yes, sah!"he
said. "But you remind yourself that you are a brave Biafran soldier, sah,
and you stay."
A dinner party was given in our
honor that night by Dr. Ifegwu Eke, the commissioner for education, and his
wife. They had been married four days. He had a doctor's degree from Harvard.
She had a doctor's degree from Columbia. There were five other guests. They all
had doctor' degrees. We were inside a bungalow. The draperies were drawn.
There was a Danish modern
sideboard on which primitive African carvings were displayed. There was a
stereo phonic phonograph as big as a boxcar. It was playing the music of
Mantovani. One of the syrupy melodies, remember, was "Born Free."
There were canapes. There was a
sip of brandy to loosen our tongues. There was a buffet dinner, which included
bits of meat from a small native antelope. It was dreadful in the way so many
parties are dreadful: Everybody talked about everything except what was really
on his mind.
The guest to my right was Dr.
S. I. S. Cookey, who had taken his degree at Oxford and who was now provincial
administrator for Opobo Province. He was exhausted. His eyes were red. Opobo
Province had fallen to the Nigerians months ago. Others were chatting prettily,
so I ransacked my mind for items that might encourage Dr. Cookey and me to
bubble, too. But all I could think of were gruesome realities of the most
immediate sort. It occurred to me to ask him, for instance, if there was a
chance that one thing that had killed so many Biafrans was the arrogance of
Biafra's intellectuals. My mind was eager to ask him, too, if I had been a fool
to be charmed by General Ojukwu. Was he yet another great leader who would
never surrender, who became holier and more radiant as his people died for him?
So I turned to cement. I
remained cement through the rest of the evening, and so did Dr. Cookey; Vance
and Miriam and I had a drink in Miriam's room after the party. Owerri's diesel
generator had gone off for the night, so we lit a candle.
Miriam commented on my behavior
at the party.
"I'm sorry," I said.
"I didn't come to Biafra for canapes.
What did we eat in Biafra? As
guests of the government, we had meat and yams and soups and fruit. It was
embarrassing. Whenever we told a cadaverous beggar "No chop," it
wasn't really true. We had plenty of chop, but it was all m our bellies. There
was a knock on Miriam's door that night. Three men came in. We were astonished.
One of them was General Philip Effiong, the second funniest man in Biafra. He
had a tremblingly devoted aide with him, who saluted him ten times a minute,
though the general begged him not to. The third man was a suave and dapper
civilian in white pants and sandals and a crimson dashiki. He was Mike Ikenze,
personal press secretary to General Ojukwu.
The young general was
boisterous, wry, swashbuckling, high as a kite on incredibly awful news from
the fronts. Why did he come to see us? Here is my guess: He couldn't tell his
own people how bad things were, and he had somebody. We were the only
foreigners around. He talked for three hours. The Nigerians had broken through
everywhere. They were fanning out fast, slicing the Biafran dot into dozens of
littler ones. Inside some of these littler dots, hiding in the bush, were tens
of sands of Biafrans who had not eaten anything for weeks and more. What had
become of the brave Biafran soldiers? They were woozy with hunger. They were
palsied by shock. They had left their holes. They were wandering.
General Effiong threw up his
hands. "It's over!" he cried, and he gave a laugh that was ghoulish and
broken.
He was wrong, of course. The
world is about as un-shockable as a self-sealing gas tank.
We didn't hear guns until the
next afternoon. At five o'clock sharp there were four quick peals of thunder to
the south. The thunder was manmade. No shells came our way.
The birds stopped talking. Five
minutes went by, and they began talking again.'
The government offices were all
empty. So were the bungalows. We were waiting for Dr. Unachukwu to take us to
Uli Airport, the only way out. The common people had stayed to the last, buying
and selling and begging— doing each other's hair.
They, too, stopped talking when
they heard the guns. We could see many of them from our porches. They did not
start talking again. They gathered together their property, which they put on
their heads. They walked out of Owerri wordlessly, away from the guns.
Dr. Unachukwu, our official
host, did not come, and did not call. It was spooky in Owerri. We were now the
only people there. We didn't hear the guns again. Their words to the wise were
sufficient.
Owerri's diesel generator was
still running. That was another thing I learned about a city falling silently:
To fool the enemy for a little while, you leave the lights on.
Dr. Unachukwu came. He was
frantic to be on his way, but he smiled and smiled. He was at the wheel of his
own Mercedes. The back of it was crammed with boxes and suitcases. On top of
the freight lay his eight year-old son.
I have written all this
quickly. I find that I have betrayed my promise to speak of the greatness
rather than the pitifulness of the Biafran people. I have mourned the children
copiously. I have told of a woman who was drenched in gasoline.
As for national greatness: It
is probably true that all nations are great and even holy at the time of death.
The Biafrans had never fought
before. They fought well this time. They will never fight again.
They will never play Finlandia
on an ancient marimba again.
Peace.
My neighbors ask me what they
can do for Biafra at this late date, or what they should have done for Biafra
at some earlier date.
I tell them this:
"Nothing. It was and is an internal Nigerian matter, which you can merely
deplore."
Some wonder whether they, in
order to be up to date, should hate Nigerians now.
I tell them, "no."
ONITSHA BRIDGE
PROMISED UPON PROMISE
ONITSHA BRIDGE
PROMISED UPON PROMISE
ONITSHA BRIDGE
This is the Bridge that leads
to every 25 Provinces of Biafran Land, name them:
1. Enugu,
2. Awka,
3.
ONITSHA,
4.
NNEWI
5. OJI RIVER,
6. ABAKILIKI
7. ORLU
8. OKIGWE
9. UMUAHIA
10. AGBOR
11. ABA
12. OWERRI
13. IKOTEKPENE
14. UYO
15 .OGOJA
16. EKET
17. CALABAR
18. YENEGOA
19. WARRI
20. AHODA
21 UGHELI
22. DEGEMA
23. PORT-HARCOURT
24. ASABA
25. ANNAN
THESE ARE THE BIAFRANS
PROVINCES; EVERY BIAFRAN MUST PASS THROUGH THIS RIVER NIGER BRIDGE BEFORE GOING
TO OUR FINAL LOCATIONS!
Now, you can see how the
Federal Government of Nigeria were marginalizing the Biafra, following the
Biafrans with all lies, false promises from the Military Regimes down to Civilian
Regimes.
In the same Biafran land, they
drilled crude Oil and used to money to develop other parts of Nigeria.
Here are all their Promises:
Gen.Ibrahim Babangida I will build
second Niger Bridge
Gen.Sani Abacha I will build second
Niger Bridge
Abdulslami Abubakar I will
build second Niger Bridge
Olusegun Obasanjo i will build
second Niger Bridge
Yaradua I will build second
Niger Bridge
Good luck Jonathan I will build
second Niger Bridge
Mohammadu Buhari, I will build
second Niger Bridge
Who are they deceiving? The
question is the IGBOS are deceived
Second Niger Bridge the story
of the gods
2023 Igbo Presidency and second
Niger Bridge looks alike. A dream that never comes true only the fools among the
greedy Igbo politicians are deceived by Hausa Arewa. SAY NO TO IGBO PRESIDENCY
2023
Do not hope on 2023 Igbo
Presidency because they can never give it to you, even the vice cannot come
near any pure person that walks in Igbo ness, they may likely give the Vice
President to any person that serving them, obeying all what they say, even if
it requires the lives of Biafrans, the person will agree!
Be wise and wake up from your
slumber, because the time has come for us to know that Fulanis are using us,
even all the oil blocks in Biafra were owned by them, not even one was owned by
the owners of the Oil-the Biafrans, unless you are serving them as Our
southeast governors are serving them treading with the blood of Biafrans. Stop
paying appendage to the terrorist Government of Nigeria!
All Hail Biafra now and
forever! Iseeh! Iseeh!! Iseeh!!! Biafra Ga-adi!!!!!!!!!
Support Biafra Freedom
GOD BLESS BIAFRANS
.
