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Again, it came as no surprise to us that the Federal Government had invited our compatriots in
the creeks, who, though highly educated, espouse the concept of returning forceful entry into our
lands with forceful eviction from them no matter the legal contraptions that ‘justified’ such entry,
to the constitutional conference convoked and financed by President Obasanjo in 2005/2006.
Despite several representations made by our group of twelve PHD holders and others of similar
convictions, no representatives of the non-violent arms received the nominations of government.
To be fair, our region was not less represented at the parley for this reason. There were men of
impeccable character and sound convictions who gave good accounts of themselves, men like
Itse Sagay, Gamaliel Onosode, Kiagbodo Clarke and Dokubo Spiff. They spoke until they went
hoarse but they were not heard; some scorned them and yet, some others betrayed them.
The last incident was the killing of the grandmother of our director, the very last but one member
of his entire family and that one, he, the underemployed environmental activist. The poor lady,
who was 78 years old, was dragged out of her kitchen by naval ratings, cuffed with about 42
others rounded up in the village and handed over to a special police unit at Yenagoa on charges
of ‘economic sabotage.’ It was after her demise from hunger and dehydration four days after, that
the wailing detainees were informed a pipeline lying about 10 miles North of their village, had
been vandalized by youths suspected to have launched their operations from that village.
It was an unhappy spectacle. When we demanded why the detainees were not being fed, the
officer in charge of the unit replied us coolly that his boys would commence feeding them when
the crude oil they ingested had digested properly. There was no point arguing further. We went
into the Ijaw hinterland and came back ‘big’ a day after. We released all the detainees and
dispersed them to several villages, arrested the officer and the particular officers who raped and
tormented some of the detainees. We took them to the bursted pipeline and fed them on crude
until like our friend’s grandmother, they died of indigestion owing to excessive crude consumption.
I am dreaming again as I usually do to take away the apprehension, not fear, when our patrols
require us to stay in the same position for several hours but I cannot indulge any further because
the river is flowing more rapidly towards the shore: There is traffic even though very distant.
Soon, we can hear the distant rumbles of engines. Our commander, a 52-year-old classical
musician who left wife and kids in Vienna, Austria, to join this Struggle, is moving slowly in the
swamp, his right hand forming a cup under his ear to gauge the direction of the sounds. Abruptly,
he turns and signs at us: stay in position. The sounds increase and soon, they must pass
through this creek. Wrong! They are heading directly for our end of the creek. Our commander
signs at us again: get ready but for my signal.
And then it comes into full view, a 10 tonner, complete with gun ports bearing about 25 soldiers,
five sailors and her captain; a boat like any other but rigged for warfare.
“This is the position,” a voice rings out. An imperceptible sigh escapes from our ranks.
Treachery, the measure of ingratitude. About four hours ago, a civilian boat bearing expatriates
had passed through this creek. Our commander had approached it and hallowed to the captain; “
Hey, hostage-takers ahead. Navigate to the open seas.” We do this all the time as the Cause is
fast losing credit because of hostage-taking but obviously, the last crew had radioed the Nigerian
Army and given up our position.
The river has ebbed, being tidal and we, buried in the alluvial foreshore, our commander in the
thick mangrove have very little to worry about.
“They must have moved off,” another voice suggests. The boat is idling and the bow lookout is
adjusting his binoculars.
“Anchor, let’s disembark.“ This apparently is the officer in charge. They disembark and walk
towards a very short coconut tree on the embankment. All the soldiers except the seamen on the
boat have walked past us, the prospect of coconut drink and paste quickening their steps. There
is a huge explosion, their boat is in flames and the naval ratings are in the water yelping aloud.
The soldiers on foot have all turned round, mouths agape eyes almost popping; they are facing
muddy wraiths bearing ugly looking walking sticks. Us!
“Drop your weapons!” Our commander’s voice barks out from an unexpected direction.
“Do as he says,” the young lieutenant instructs.
”Why do you always beat us? You obviously did not receive the quality military training the Army
gave us. “ We are around them under the coconut tree, having fed them upon dispossessing
them of their weapons. Our commander is without arms and is sitting astride the young lieutenant
on a wooden contraption. They are sure they would live though the naval boys are seared with
burns.
“We always beat you because your hearts are not in this fight while we are all steeped in it, this is
our land, our heritage and we have a knowledge of it by primitive instinct bred in our genes that
you cannot have no matter the quality of briefing you get.”
“You are obviously too educated, sir, for this role. Why don’t you join the fight through the ranks
of the intelligentsia?
“Young man, did you not study military history? People don’t listen to words until there is
sufficient insecurity to unbalance the normal existence of the rich. Nigerians relate more to
violence or the effects of it than to words of wisdom.” You know, our commander like everyone of
us, is well schooled in the justification of the preference for the forceful eviction of the destroyers
of our environmental stability.
“So why didn’t you just kill us? It would have made your statement,” the young lieutenant persists.
“I have made my statement by letting you live to tell of our resolve and capability, by reducing the
number of your implements of war. In any event, your death and the death of these,” he sweeps
his hand to indicate the non-coms who are seated within a heap on the ground, “cannot advance
the cause of the Niger-Delta.
“This young coconut tree was planted when this generation of activists fired the first shot in
protest against the conditions in the Niger-Delta. You shall remain under it with your men and
feed of its produce until you are discovered. Certainly, it will be here when the last parasites on
the resources of this blessed land have all gone.”
And so they remained, huddled around each other under the coconut tree as we marched
Eastward to retrieve our wooden boat moored 2 km from our position and motored by the silent
but effective paddles hewn out of the staid trees of the Niger-Delta.
