There Was a Country: A Personal History of Biafra

by Chinua Achebe

  The most powerful memories of my father are the ones of him working as a catechist and a teacher. He read constantly and had a small library. My father also had a number of collages and maps hanging on the walls, and books that he encouraged his children to read. He would often walk us through the house telling stories linked to each prized possession. It was from him that I was exposed to the magic in the mere title of William Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream and to an Igbo translation of John Bunyan’s The Pilgrim’s Progress.

  The Bible played an important role in my education. My parents often read passages out loud to us during prayer time and encouraged us, when we were all able, to read and memorize several passages. Sunday school continued this tradition of Christian evangelical education, this time with several other children from the village. Education was so important to my father that he often would sponsor a bright child from an underprivileged background, reminding us that he too, as an orphan, had received providence’s benefaction.

  The center of our family’s activities was St. Philip’s Church, Ogidi, a large Gothic-style parish church that my father helped establish. It was constructed on an impressive, open ilo, or piece of open grass, on the outskirts of Ogidi. It was an imposing structure for its time, built with wood, cement, mud, and stone. Local lore holds that my father took part in the building of the church from its foundations. My father also helped conduct Sunday service, translate sermons into Igbo, and arrange the sanctuary and vestry. I remember waking up early to help out, carrying his bag for him as we set out at cock crow for the parish church.

  Eucharist on Sundays often lasted more than two hours. For those who were not asleep by the end of the proceedings, the fire and brimstone sermons from the pulpit made attendance worthwhile. There was an occasional outburst of uncontrollable laughter, when the rector, an Englishman, enthusiastically drank all the remaining wine at the end of communion, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. A crowd favorite was the inaccurate translations of Igbo words into English, such as the word ike, which is an Igbo word that can mean “strength” or “buttocks” depending on the skill or mischief of the translator!

  I can say that my whole artistic career was probably sparked by this tension between the Christian religion of my parents, which we followed in our home, and the retreating, older religion of my ancestors, which fortunately for me was still active outside my home. I still had access to a number of relatives who had not converted to Christianity and were called heathens by the new converts. When my parents were not watching I would often sneak off in the evenings to visit some of these relatives. They seemed so very content in their traditional way of life and worship. Why would they refuse to become Christians, like everyone else around them? I was intent on finding out.

  My great-uncle, Udoh Osinyi, was able to bestride both worlds with great comfort. He held one of the highest titles in all of Igbo land—ozo. I was very interested in my great-uncle’s religion, and talking to him was an enriching experience. I wouldn’t give up anything for that, including my own narrow, if you like, Christian background.

  In Igbo cosmology there are many gods. A person could be in good stead with one god and not the other—ogwugwu could kill a person despite an excellent relationship with udo. As a young person that sort of complexity meant little to me. A later understanding would reveal the humility of the traditional religion with greater clarity. Igbo sayings and proverbs are far more valuable to me as a human being in understanding the complexity of the world than the doctrinaire, self-righteous strain of the Christian faith I was taught. This other religion is also far more artistically satisfying to me. However, as a catechist’s son I had to suppress this interest in our traditions to some extent, at least the religious component. We were church people after all, helping the local church spread Christianity.

  The relationship between my father and his uncle Udoh was instructive to me. There was something deep and mystical about it, judging from the reverence I heard in my father’s voice whenever he spoke about his old uncle.

  My father was a man of few words, and I have always regretted that I did not ask him more questions. But he took pains to tell me what he thought I needed to know. He told me, for instance, in a rather oblique way of his one attempt to convert his uncle Udoh. It must have been in my father’s youthful, heady, proselytizing days! His uncle pointed to the awesome row of insignia of his three titles—ichi ozo, ido idemili, ime omaalor. “What shall I do to these?” he asked my father. It was an awesome question. He had essentially asked: “What do I do to who I am? What do I do to history?”

  An orphan child born into adversity, heir to the commotions, barbarities, and rampant upheavals of a continent in disarray—it was not at all surprising that my father would welcome the remedy proffered by diviners and interpreters of a new word of God. But my great-uncle, a leader in his community, a moral, open-minded man, a prosperous man who had prepared such a great feast when he took the ozo title that his people gave him a praise name for it—was he to throw all that away because some strangers from afar had said so?

  At first glance it seemed to me that my father, a deeply religious man, was not tolerant of our ancient traditions and religion. As he got older, however, I noticed that he became more openly accommodating of the old ways of doing things. By this time he had developed quite a reputation as a pious, disciplined, honest catechist. He was widely known as onye nkuzi (“the teacher”), and the villagers found him very trustworthy. Strangers would often drop off valuables at our house for Father’s safe-keeping.

  Those two—my father and his uncle—formed the dialectic that I inherited. Udoh stood fast in what he knew, but he also left room for my father to seek other answers. The answer my father found in the Christian faith solved many problems, but by no means all.

  As a young person my perspective of the world benefited, I think, from this dichotomy. I wasn’t questioning in an intellectual way which way was right, or better. I was simply more interested in exploring the essence, the meaning, the worldview of both religions. By approaching the issues of tradition, culture, literature, and language of our ancient civilization in that manner, without judging but scrutinizing, a treasure trove of discovery was opened up to me.

  I often had periods of oscillating faith as I grew older, periods of doubt, when I quietly pondered, and deeply questioned, the absolutist teachings or the interpretations of religion. I struggled with the certitude of Christianity—“I am the Way, the Truth and the Life”—not its accuracy, because as a writer one understands that there should be such latitude, but the desolation, the acerbity of its meaning, the lack of options for the outsider, the other. I believe that this question has subconsciously deeply influenced my writing. This is not peculiar or particularly unique, as many writers, from Du Bois to Camus, Sartre and Baldwin to Morrison, have also struggled with this conundrum of the outsider, the other, in other ways, in their respective locales.

  My father had a lot of praise for the missionaries and their message, and so do I. I am a prime beneficiary of the education that the missionaries made a major component of their enterprise. But I have also learned a little more skepticism about them than my father had any need for. Does it matter, I ask myself, that centuries before European Christians sailed down to us in ships to deliver the Gospel and save us from darkness, other European Christians, also sailing in ships, delivered us to the transatlantic slave trade and unleashed darkness in our world?

  Every generation must recognize and embrace the task it is peculiarly designed by history and by providence to perform. From where I stand now I can see the enormous value of my great-uncle, Udoh Osinyi, and his example of fidelity. I also salute my father, Isaiah Achebe, for the thirty-five years he served as a Christian evangelist and for all the benefits his work, and the work of others like him, brought to our people. My father’s great gift to me was his love of education and his re
cognition that whether we look at one human family or we look at human society in general, growth can come only incrementally.

  A Primary Exposure

  I began my formal education at St. Philip’s Central School, in 1936 or thereabout. The school had pupils from Ogidi and the surrounding towns. Most who attended classes there had to walk alone several miles every day to get to school. But things were simpler and safer in those days, and there was never a story of child abductions or any unsavory incidents that I can recall.

  I enjoyed school a great deal and was a hardworking pupil. I remember looking forward excitedly to new lessons and information from our teachers. Occasionally we received instruction from individuals who were not on the staff of St. Philip’s. One particular, humorous event stands out: On a hot and humid day during the wet season our geography teacher decided to move our entire class outside to the cool shade of a large mango tree. After setting up the blackboard he proceeded to give the class a lesson on the geography of Great Britain. The village “madman” came by, and after standing and listening to the teacher’s lesson for a short while, walked up to him, snatched the chalk from his hand, wiped the blackboard, and proceeded to give us an extended lesson on Ogidi, my hometown.

  Amazingly, the teacher let all this take place without incident. Looking back, it is instructive, in my estimation, that it was a so-called madman whose “clarity of perspective” first identified the incongruity of our situation: that the pupils would benefit not only from a colonial education but also by instruction about their own history and civilization.

  —

  The headmaster of St. Philip’s Central School was a colorful, extraordinary Igbo man—Jonathan Obimdike Okongwu. He was also known as: Ara eme ya eme na uno akwukwo Okongwu or Ara eme ya eme, for short.1 He was one of a handful of Nigerians who had attained the distinction of headmaster of an elementary school. His reputation as a disciplinarian sent chills down the spines of all pupils throughout the Eastern Region. St. Philip’s school lore holds that he once spanked every pupil in every class in each form of the entire school in one day—and continued the very next day where he left off!2 Okongwu’s unorthodox methods produced top scores on exams, which placed his students in the best boarding schools throughout West Africa, and made him one of the most sought after headmasters in the entire region.3

  Okongwu was transferred to St. Michael’s School, Aba, a well-regarded school in one of the largest commercial cities in eastern Nigeria. Chike Momah and Dr. Francis Egbuonu, who later became students at Government College, Umuahia, completed their elementary school education there. My wife, Christie Okoli, for a brief period, also attended that school. Christie recalls being the only one in her class to evade Mr. Okongwu’s cane during a spelling lesson. The word that produced a score of sore bottoms was “because.” For every word missed the pupil was “rewarded” with a spanking. The majority of the pupils came up with “becos, becus, or becoz.” They never forgot how to spell because ever again.

  Okongwu was a pillar of the Igbo community for his time. He was extensively admired for his achievements in education. It is difficult to convey just how important teachers like Okongwu, who were seriously committed to their work, were to the Igbo community, particularly as that is no longer the case today. Education, the white man’s knowledge, was a collective aspiration of the entire community. It was the path to individual and family success, and headmaster Okongwu and others like him held the proverbial keys to the kingdom.

  Okongwu was a generous man and sponsored a number of children in various schools in Nigeria and abroad. There is a well-known story of how he sent one of his nephews to America to study. He clearly had great expectations for his nephew. In those days, men like Okongwu, who had the means, sent family members abroad to advance their education with the hope that they would return and improve the standard of living of their family and community. Apparently this nephew did quite well and earned his PhD. Sadly, just before he returned to Nigeria, he became quite ill and died. Okongwu was devastated.4

  The last time I saw Okongwu was at the train station in Enugu, the capital of the Eastern Region. He came there to see his son Sonny Chu Okongwu off to Government College, Umuahia. He was standing, leaning on the railing with his right hand holding on to the bars. He spotted me from a distance and called me over, introduced me to his son, and asked me to “take care of Sonny at Government College.” It struck me that the senior Okongwu appeared unhappy. The loss of his nephew clearly had taken a lot out of him.

  Leaving Home

  For a brief period I spent some time living with my older brother John, who was working at Central School, Nekede, as a teacher. My father had wanted John to follow in his footsteps and become a teacher too. John was a gifted student and successfully fulfilled that dream.

  It was John who, quite wisely, thought my own education would be enhanced if I lived with him in a school environment. So I packed up my few belongings and set out with my older brother to Nekede, near the present capital of Imo state, Owerri, about forty-three miles from my ancestral home of Ogidi. That was the first year I spent away from my parents, and at the time Nekede seemed like a distant country.

  John enrolled me in Central School, where I prepared for my entrance examination into Government College. The regional center for the exam was St. Michael’s School, and John helped me make the trip from Nekede to Aba. Before I arrived Okongwu apparently announced to the students of St. Michael’s, in Igbo: “Onwe nwa onye Ogidi ana akpo Albert Achebe, na akwadobe inene akwukwo-a; oga ama unu nmili.” (The loose translation is: “There is a young man called Albert Achebe from Ogidi, who is coming to take the entrance examination with the students in this school. . . . [H]e will beat all of you in all subjects in the examination.”1) This, clearly, did not endear me to my fellow pupils at St. Michael’s but piqued the interest of future longtime friends, like the brilliant Chike Momah.

  Afterward I returned to Nekede for the remainder of the school year. Nekede was a treasure trove of Igbo culture. Our ancient traditions continued to fascinate me, and I sought an alternative education outside the classroom, from the local villagers. The old men in Nekede spoke respectfully about the Otamiri River and the chief deity for which it is named. The Otamiri deity is a female who, according to legend, purified the land of evil and would claim the lives of interlopers who wandered into the area for mischief. It was said that no one had ever drowned in her waters unless they had committed evil deeds or contemplated diabolical acts.

  It was in Nekede that I was introduced to mbari and the sophistication of Igbo phenomenological thought. The Owerri Igbo, who lived near Owerri township, saw mbari as art engaged in the process and celebration of life. A mud house was often built with decorated walls and crowned with either corrugated metal or a thatch roof made of intricately woven palm leaves and spines. Inside, center stage on an elevated mud platform, an observer would find life-size sculptures of the constituent parts of the Owerri Igbo world: Alusi—deities—such as Otamiri and Ani, the earth goddess; and men, women, children, soldiers, animals, crops, and foreigners (mainly Europeans), all seated. The inclusion of the Europeans, a great tribute to the virtues of African tolerance and accommodation, was an example of the positive acknowledgment of strangers who had ventured into their midst. There would also be depictions from ancient mythology, as well as scourges, diseases, and other unpleasant things. The purpose of this art form was to invoke protection from the gods for the people through the celebration of the world these villagers lived in—in other words, through art as celebration.2

  The Formative Years at Umuahia and Ibadan

  It was not long after my foray into the metaphysical world of the Owerri Igbo that I was to leave my traditional classroom in the forests of Nekede for the second stage of my formal education, secondary school. There is a certain sense of mystery that I feel when I look back to those times, because things we encounter in l
ife that leave the greatest impressions on us are usually not clear.

  My elder brother John was a very brilliant man. I still say he was the most brilliant of all of us. He was very eloquent, and he would correct my spoken English. I often wondered about John. . . . How did he gain such control of the English language? John had not been to university but had received a secondary school education at Dennis Memorial Grammar School (DMGS) in Onitsha. All my brothers attended this legendary school, which had been built by the Church Mission Society—Frank had attended, John went there, and it was where Augustine was to go. The school was very imposing, with its red earth–brick, limestone-and-wood colonial architecture accentuated by Doric columns, and cathedral-height roofs. And their uniform—the dark red shirt, pants, and cap—was very impressive. DMGS was the place.

  In 1944, I took a national entrance examination for the British public schools of the day, and I also was admitted to Dennis Memorial Grammar School and Government College, Umuahia. Now when John was told that I had been admitted to both Umuahia and his alma mater, with full scholarships to both, he suggested I go to Umuahia. Though Umuahia’s location was very remote, its status as a “government college,” set up by the colonial government, reassured my parents. Following a period of deliberation and debate, the consensus in my family was that I go to this fairly new school in faraway Umuahia, even though we had no relatives there.