The Rescue of Ikenga

Dearest Gentle Reader,

Take my hand, and together we’ll journey far back to 1968, into the heart of the Nigeria-Biafra War. Along the way, we’ll encounter children with bellies swollen like drums, their heads small, and ribcages stark against frail skin—haunting echoes of kwashiorkor’s cruel grip. These little ones bore a striking resemblance to Alika, the figure from the 7UP commercials back in the 2000s. On the other side of the road, the bodies of our fallen heroes lie abandoned, their decaying flesh a grim feast for vultures circling overhead, savoring the spoils of war. Before us, starved children, clad only in tattered pants—their most cherished fabric—hunt lizards with catapults, their eyes hollow with hunger. Oh, how gory were the scenes of those war-torn days! At last, we arrive at the 20th Battalion camp, the beating heart of my tale.

It was a beautiful morning in Enugu, the then-capital of Biafra. The clouds parted like a curtain, and the mild sun beamed with a quiet joy. A ten-man team was tasked with rescuing Lieutenant Ikenga, who had been captured days earlier by Nigerian troops. We were summoned by General Ojukwu—a towering figure, his skin rich with melanin, his beard thick and dark like Bin Laden’s. Fortunately or unfortunately, I found myself among the ten-man squad. Upon reaching Ojukwu’s camp, we saluted our general and stood rigid as logs until he commanded us to stand at ease. 

“Good comrades,” he declared, his voice steady as iron, “you all know that Lieutenant Ikenga is held captive by the Nigerian troops. It is our sworn duty—our sacred bond as brothers-in-arms—to do everything in our power to set him free. To that end, I’m authorizing a sting operation tonight. Bring our brother back!” he Commanded.

I returned to my camp, lost in a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. Kedu ife mmadu ji isi kote bikonu?(1)I muttered instinctively, the words slipping out like a quiet plea. Just yesterday, I was hunting bush meat near the riverbed when Biafran troops ambushed me, conscripting me on the spot. Today, I’m gearing up for a sting operation with no military know-how or tactics to my name. My reverie shattered when Sergeant Mgefe—the closest thing I had to a friend—strode into my tent. I hadn’t been in this camp for more than twenty-four hours, yet Mgefe had already proven supportive, his concern a steady anchor. 

“Nna, ogini?”(2) he asked, his voice a deep baritone that rumbled like distant thunder.

I poured out my fears, and he chuckled—a rough, knowing sound. 

“It’s always like that on the first day,” he said. 

“The moment you pull the trigger, you’re initiated into the ‘all is fair in love and war’ gang. After that, no strings should tie you down once you take a life.” He grinned.

“Cheer up, my guy, get ready! Ife aga agba n’uzo tere aka,”(3) he added, patting my back gently as he headed for the door. 

But Mgefe’s visit only deepened my unease. His words hammered home the truth: tonight, I’d have to kill or be killed. Fear gripped me like a vice. Unable to bear the whispers of dread clawing at my mind, I collapsed into sleep.

Nightfall descended like a heavy shroud. It was time for action—time to kill or be killed without remorse. Nothing in me signaled readiness, but with my life hanging in the balance, I wouldn’t hesitate to claim another’s. I readied Odin, my gun—a name borrowed from the mythological god of war and death, a fitting christening in that desperate moment. Odin was an AK-47, a gift from Mgefe when I first stumbled into camp. Only four of us, including the General, wielded AK-47s; the rest carried (4)egbe ntu—locally forged guns packed with gunpowder. The less fortunate among us gripped only machetes—God rest their souls. For this mission, General Ojukwu, in a rare act of benevolence, lent his AK-47 to one of our team. For the night, he armed himself with his grandfather’s machete, its blade so sharp its gleam alone could slit a throat before the steel even kissed flesh. We piled into our squeaky vehicle and rattled along for two hours until we reached the Nigerian troop camp. The air reeked of unwashed men, a sour stench that clung to the dirty sprawl of war vehicles scattered everywhere. Mgefe, our commander for the sting operation, spoke: 

“Comrades, it’s time. Be brave! This night will be like any other—a routine stealth mission, nothing you haven’t faced before.” Nothing you haven’t faced before? I thought instinctively—I only arrived two days ago. Mgefe’s words offered little comfort, but in that moment, I needed none. Odin was with me, aimed forward, primed to kill.

Unfortunately for me and my troops, twenty men stood guard over Ikenga, each armed with an AK-47. We had four; they had twenty—a pitiful mismatch, like bringing a machete to a gunfight. We engaged them, and the clash erupted into a fiery storm as more Nigerian troops rushed to their comrades’ aid. It was a brutal ordeal. One by one, I watched my comrades fall, their bodies crumpling like felled trees. I fired Odin sporadically, my heart pounding, when a bullet’s breeze grazed my ear.

“M-ga-so-nna!” Mgefe bellowed, stretching each syllable of my name. 

Before the war, only my mum called me that way—Mgasonna, my birth name—whenever she sent me to fetch nri ewu(5) for the goats; my friends knew me as Mgasochukwu. How could I explain to Mgefe that Odin had turned wild in my hands, raging to drag souls to Valhalla alongside me if I fell that night? By some miracle, Mgefe and I were the last standing—I thought I’d be the first to die. I saw him throw what seemed a sack of grenades, and for a fleeting moment, silence roared in our ears. Swift as lightning, he drew his pistol, unleashing acts of valor that burned into my memory. Now I understood why he was among the few entrusted with an AK-47. The handful of survivors from the grenade blast met their end with his precise headshots, his body weaving through their bullets like a dancer dodging rain. It was a sight to behold—a live-action epic unfolding in blood and smoke. Though he’d taken a bullet, Mgefe, with agonizing grit, freed Ikenga while I stood in awe, my jaw slack with admiration. 

“Nna, bia ka anyi puo eba before they call for reinforcements!”(6) he yelled.

I scrambled to the car and, for the first time in my life, gripped the wheel. More than anything, I focused on throttling down, coaxing every ounce of speed from the engine. Mid-flight, a burning sting hurt my left leg. I reached down—my fingers met a warm, slippery patch. Blood. 

“Hewu chim!”(7) I gasped.

“I’m bleeding!” I cried out. 

“I’m bleeding too! Keep driving!” Mgefe shouted, firing at the vehicle tailing us.

He punctured their tire, and with my raw, newly minted driving skills, we slipped free. Back at camp, we were greeted with warm yet somber cheers—Ojukwu proud, yet mournful, our ranks thinner than when we’d left. That morning, we lit candles for our fallen heroes. Word came that Red Cross nurses were already among us, ready to tend our wounds. That’s how I met AMARACHUKWU(8).

I woke the next morning on something that neither qualified as nor came close to a proper bed. Pain gripped me, a relentless echo of last night’s ordeal, and I suspected the bullet wound in my left leg was festering, its heat whispering of infection. Yet, despite it all, I was grateful to draw breath. There in my tent, I inhaled freshly brewed oxygen, crisp and pure as the breath of life itself—a quiet promise of renewal. It felt like a good omen. Little did I know, I was on the verge of meeting someone who would alter the course of this narrative and, with any luck, my life forever.

“Good morning, Mgasonna,” a sonorous voice echoed from behind me, rich and melodic as a dawn hymn. 

I turned, and there she stood—Amarachukwu. Calling her beautiful would be an injustice; the word falls flat before this damsel. She was the goddess of beauty incarnate, its very epitome. Her nursing white dress hugged her curves flawlessly, a lapel pin glinting with her name—Amarachukwu—prompting me to call her Amara in my dazed reverence. Her hair was neatly bundled, black leather shoes gleaming with polish, long white leggings framing her form. Her skin glowed smooth, a canvas of God-given melanin, and the smile she wore—soothing as a balm—made the pains from my wound go away. Her dark brown eyes darted like gentle probes, peering into my soul with kindness, as if whispering, “I’m here now; the pain will fade.” And fade it did, even without a touch of treatment, for I was lost in her radiance. How could anyone exude such beauty? I wondered. How could her mere presence radiate healing? Damn, she was breathtaking. They say beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder, but hear me well: all who gaze upon her—sighted or blind—behold beauty and kindness. Even a blind man, though he cannot see, would sense the presence of an angel. 

“Good morning, Mgasonna,” she said again, her voice pulling me back. 

“Go…oo…d mor…ning, Amara,” I stammered, my tongue tripping over itself. I nearly blurted, “Good morning, my angel,” but bit it back just in time. A tremble coursed through me, akin to Joseph’s awe when the Angel Gabriel brought tidings of Mary.

“Who the hell is this? What’s goin’ down here, man?! Goddamn it, get outta my body, nigga! Why you out here sharin’ my skin with me, huh? Get the fuck up outta here, fam!” Thomas Bigger’s voice roared in my skull, raw and wild.

Gentle reader, unfortunately I must end here. Thomas Bigger, the black American teenager I possessed to tell this tale is gradually regaining consciousness. However know this if you must: I shot myself on the right foot with Odin just to see Amara again; what didn’t I do for love at first sight? I went for another rescue mission but fate wasn’t kind-I couldn’t make it. Should you make it to the silver City or Valhalla, I’ll tell you more about my adventures during the war, every scar, every detail. For now though-shalom y’all!

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WORD GLOSSARY

1. What did I get myself into?
2. My friend what is it?
3. The journey is long
4. Locally made gun with gun powder
5. Goat’s food
6. Come lets leave immediately
7. Oh! My God!