“The oil boom in Nigeria has meant a doom for the Niger Delta…the
doom is now beginning to burst in blood.” -Ibiwari Ikiriko (1999)
I am an aborigine of the Niger delta, where our roads are rivers, decorated with lush mangrove (Angala) vegetation that house thousands of biodiversity. We don’t need those iron houses that people pull around these days, we have our boats and canoes. We are not hunters, we are fishermen, the only tools we use are nets. We only hear about guns, I have not actually seen one, except the one some village craftsmen construct. Our meals are always sandwiched with our sea friends from who we receive protein that sustain us, and even more enthusiasm to harvest them from their habitat.
My name is Alali but most people refer to me as Ala. I was five years old when they came, introducing to our king, the Amayanabo, the concept of the black gold. They brought machines that awed him and modernized drawings of how our village would look if they found this black gold where we dwell. He was enticed by their sugar coated words, because he did not refuse them, even after several warnings from the chiefs of the nine clans. They promised to give our youths jobs, jobs they claimed were not as stressful as our net drawing while fishing. This news came as fresh palm wine on the tongues of many lazy fishermen. They whispered the news to many, to get as much people as they could to buy the idea, to them it was a business of networking. Our young women paraded themselves as a new criterion had added to the list of “tall, handsome and God fearing men” as eligible husbands. It was now “He must be a multinational driller.”
My mother was a trader, a fish seller to be precise. Sometimes when papa had a very good catch, I helped her dry, roast and sell some fishes. My mother’s name was Iyingima which means “my mother” in my dialect. When I had first learned to understand and later speak my dialect, I asked her why everyone called her their mother, I was about the age of four then. She had thrown her head back and laughed really hard, like she was about to choke. I feared she would have a heart attack, as I watched her chest dance in rhythmic upheaves.
“They call me that because it is my name.”
“Can I call you that too?” I had asked innocently.
“Of course, I am your mother, your very own Iyingima.” She replied.
My father was a fisherman, just like most of the village men. He was a culture fanatic and so I was not surprised when I heard he was one of the men who opposed the idea of digging up our soils, in search of gold that was black.
“This foolishness must not continue, how can gold be black? We do not have enough lands to build and farm on, yet they seek to reduce the available ones to a searching ground.” I overheard him say to Iyingima the other day.
I did not have siblings, either because Iyingima and papa were too busy working that they didn’t have time to make babies, or because our lives changed when those multinationals discovered the black gold, in our village.
It was Sunday, the 16th of January 1956. A group of the multinationals discovered the black gold on one of the surveyed lands close to the river. The town crier, Iyaye went round the village announcing the news. The Amayanabo declared the week as the ‘Delta carnival’, he said we were to celebrate how rich our village would become.
The next day, the president of our country visited our village. There were so many reporters, tourists and some other strangers. Everyone seemed excited with the discovery of the black gold in our village, they said it would bring great wealth not only to our village, but to our country as well. Only the men in our village were allowed outside, women and children stayed home to receive any news when the men came home. Papa did not go out like the other men to meet with the president and possibly see what this black gold looked like. He said all the men who had gone out were people who could sell their souls to the devil.
The old-new news that crude oil, as they called it, had been found in the Delta was all people talked about for weeks. The phrase “crude oil” seemed to be sugar to every lip that could speak, and for every ear that heard, it was an entertaining news.
Our fantasies and excitement was short-lived when Kalayingi, a young woman who grew crops by the river went to weed her farm. Her scream filled the village and forced a meeting. There was black gold spills that had killed her crops. There were black gold spills everywhere. Many people complained about their dying crops, others feared it might destroy our lands and the fishermen screamed that the multinationals were emptying their wastes into the rivers, so fishes had moved and to get a good catch, if there was any catch at all, one needed to row deep into the river. Others complained that very few people were selected to work at the well stations. The Amayanabo listened as everyone stated their complaints, each voice trying to subdue the other. Then he waved his hand, signalling for silence.
“I have heard you, we shall choose nine men from the nine clans as emissaries to these multinationals.” He said slowly. “They will state our complaints and give them the ultimatum: to do things right or leave our land!”
There were several ‘Yeses’ and ‘Mmns’ after the Amayanabo spoke.
Papa was one of the men who was chosen as emissaries. He told Iyingima and I that he would not rest until our Delta regained its lost glory.
The multinationals and the emissaries reached an agreement which stated that the multinationals would lay-off some indigenes who worked for them, stating that they needed “skills”, which was why they did things wrongly. The emissaries agreed, ‘if that would bring our Delta back’.
Two months later, there was yet another shriek that filled the village as everyone ran out to find Ibiye, a young fisherman in flames. Many things were done to stop the fire, but when the fire was out, he had already burned to death. He had tried to ‘take’ crude oil from the pipes that flowed. Someone offered to tell the story which we were all keen to hear. He was one of the workers the multinationals decided to lay-off, He was part of those lazy youths who did not want to fish. He decided to steal crude and start his own business. It was a sorry story. Papa was very upset when he heard the story.
“These people have destroyed us, they will not leave us until we are wiped off. That is why the gold is black, it is death’s gold. They have squeezed everything we once loved that we no longer pursue our goals but theirs.” He spat, pointing towards the charred corpse.
“Look away.” Iyingima ordered as I followed papa’s finger, but it was too late. I had seen and heard enough. Our Delta was sick and we did not know what medicine could heal it.
That week most of the villagers stayed at home, there were a lot of snoopy reporters everywhere, like vultures waiting on a carcass. They wanted to know Ibiye’s story, but no villager was ready to tell.
Months passed and things got even worse. Slowly, I watched our once plenteous biodiversity diminish. There were no soils left to grow crops on, there was crude oil litters everywhere. Even the Angala looked like it did not receive enough water, its leaves began to fall like it was dry season. Nobody went to the rivers to bathe or have a drink, the water was considered poison. Our fishes choked to death and you could see their bodies adrift the water, our youths became blood thirsty people who stopped at nothing to obtain this gold or at least get the supposed promise.
Papa left home about two months ago. Iyingima and I have not heard from him since then. We have been told he joined the new “men revolution” to protect our Delta’s interests. Two weeks before papa left, he had stopped going to the river to check his nets. He would come home really late, when the only noise outside were the crick-crick sound the crickets made. When he was at home, he had these visitors whom only spoke in whispers. Once I had peeked and saw one of them handing papa a metal object that looked just like the ones the carvers made, I suspected that it was a gun. I did not tell Iyingima because she worried a lot, but I kept wondering why papa had need for a gun.
Iyingima and I had gone to the market to sell the fish she had bought from some fishermen early this morning, when some men ran through the market shooting. People ran helter-skelter, some packing their wares first, and others who seemed to value their lives more ran to find shelter. Soldiers invaded our village and brutally closed down all the markets, physically abusing anyone who tried to oppose them. A lot of people were killed during the massacre. We later learned that some of the women were kidnapped by the shooters, people the news called militants, angry youths of the Delta.
Our village became a jungle, the shootings continued for weeks. Whenever we were away from our homes, we had to raise our hands while we were thoroughly searched by troops of soldiers for any suspicious equipment. My village became a silent den, if one whispered in their homes it could be heard miles away. Everyone grew quiet, even the birds chirped quietly, like they understood the need for silence. Iyingima grew from the once jovial person I knew to a very quiet and timid person. There were a lot of things we did not talk about at home, a lot of things we were silent about, until the silence became deafening. Things like why papa left and if he would ever return, things like how we had to buy fish before we could sell, unlike when papa provided the fish, the shootings in the village and the fear that was our strength, the fear that protected us and kept us alive each day, so when Iyingima asked if I still thought of papa, I was surprised.
“No, Iyingima you are double parent enough.” I replied, meaning every word.
There was no light in the room, save little flickers that flashed through the window from our neighbour’s coal lamp, but I could see that Iyingima’s eyes held water.
“You know he is a good man? He will come back home.” She said more to herself than me, “He will come back home.” she repeated, assured.
I was only ten but I knew that even if it was what mama wanted the most, papa was not coming back, I did not want him to come back either. Sometimes his fanaticism with culture made him mistreat Iyingima. These months he was gone, she had put on weight and looked healthier.
“Iyingima, there are mangoes growing on our tree.” I said enthusiastically, hoping to shift Iyingima’s mind from papa. It seemed to work as her countenance brightened.
“I noticed yesterday, but you can’t pluck them, it isn’t our tree, it belongs to someone else. We only use it as shade when roasting the fishes your father catches.”
The next day, Iyingima and I were having lunch when some men knocked at our house fiercely thundering “wari e?” Iyingima asked me to hide in the kitchen as she asked who they were “tubo e?” They did not reply, everywhere was silent until I heard the banging sound the door made as it hit the floor.
“She’s his wife.” I heard a man’s voice and I peeked to see them drag Iyingima by the hair out of the house.
I did not hear from them or Iyingima again.
I was by the river checking some of papa’s nets the other day when I heard some women talking.
“Poor ereminitoku” the older one said, pushing her lips towards me as she dragged her net out of a canoe. The other one shook her head.
“Some say her mother is dead, that the men killed her because her father is part of the people opposing them.”
“Hush!!” the older woman warned. “She might hear you.”
It had been two weeks since I last saw Iyingima, since those men dragged her out of our house, but I had never felt her absence as much as I did now. Tears stood at the corners of my eyes, threatening to drop. Iyingima had always told me that crying solved problems most times, but I felt crying wasn’t enough at times like this. I blinked really hard to push the tears back in, gathered the fishes the net had caught and ran as fast as I could to our tree. I didn’t mind that Iyingima had said it wasn’t ours, to me it always will be. It gave me warmth and assurance that Iyingima was always with me. I stared at the very ripe mangoes and for once I thought I could disobey Iyingima, I stretched my hands and plucked one of the closest to me… It was as tasty as it looked. I made the fire and started roasting my fishes.
A lot of things had changed since Iyingima was taken. Apart from the troops of armed soldiers that still filled the village, the shootings had reduced. Our villagers had regained their lost voices. I now lived with Iyingima’s sister, aunt Boma.
We had been told that the women who were taken captives had been released and we could go to the river to wait if we had any captive relations. I was very excited. I sang loudly as I had my bath that morning, I hardly sang, but I was so excited that I forgot breakfast and hurried to the river to see Iyingima.
We were so many waiting for our loved ones. We waited until the sun began to sleep, until many people gave up and went home. I was determined to see Iyingima, something told me she would come back to me, and so I ignored the rumbles my stomach made for hunger and the stabbing pain in my head.
Just as the stars began to shine, I saw some men rowing furiously towards the shore. Everyone had gone home except me. Then they stopped just before the shore and began hauling several ‘things’ into the river. I came closer to the bank of the oil stained river and watched the many lifeless bodies litter the river. I sighted Iyingima’s body, as it floated to the shore. I saw the men strap themselves to their boats and continue their journey, like nothing had happened, like I had not watched them roll my mother’s body out the boat and unto the water. I turned back to walk home, my eyes were too heavy with pain to cry, or maybe I feared that my tears would be the colour of the river, greenish-black as the oil that was spilled in it. I did not know who to be angry at, the government who had said there were laws to protect our interests, the Amayanabo, who had sold us out, the multinationals who had destroyed the delta or the blood thirsty asemini awo (youths) who they now tagged militants, the same people that had killed Iyingima. They were aborigines just like me, but they had lost who they were, their identity, just like our Delta has.
PS: Tales by Irene has always and will always be a strictly inspirational blog. This story was shared to give hope to the Niger Deltans of Nigeria in Africa. This entirely fictional story was created by the author’s imagination… Any resemblances to existing individuals are mere coincidences.
Irene I. Ikiriko ©2016
VISIT: https://inspireneyou.wordpress.com/ for more of Tales by Irene
I am an aborigine of the Niger delta, where our roads are rivers, decorated with lush mangrove (Angala) vegetation that house thousands of biodiversity. We don’t need those iron houses that people pull around these days, we have our boats and canoes. We are not hunters, we are fishermen, the only tools we use are nets. We only hear about guns, I have not actually seen one, except the one some village craftsmen construct. Our meals are always sandwiched with our sea friends from who we receive protein that sustain us, and even more enthusiasm to harvest them from their habitat.
My name is Alali but most people refer to me as Ala. I was five years old when they came, introducing to our king, the Amayanabo, the concept of the black gold. They brought machines that awed him and modernized drawings of how our village would look if they found this black gold where we dwell. He was enticed by their sugar coated words, because he did not refuse them, even after several warnings from the chiefs of the nine clans. They promised to give our youths jobs, jobs they claimed were not as stressful as our net drawing while fishing. This news came as fresh palm wine on the tongues of many lazy fishermen. They whispered the news to many, to get as much people as they could to buy the idea, to them it was a business of networking. Our young women paraded themselves as a new criterion had added to the list of “tall, handsome and God fearing men” as eligible husbands. It was now “He must be a multinational driller.”
My mother was a trader, a fish seller to be precise. Sometimes when papa had a very good catch, I helped her dry, roast and sell some fishes. My mother’s name was Iyingima which means “my mother” in my dialect. When I had first learned to understand and later speak my dialect, I asked her why everyone called her their mother, I was about the age of four then. She had thrown her head back and laughed really hard, like she was about to choke. I feared she would have a heart attack, as I watched her chest dance in rhythmic upheaves.
“They call me that because it is my name.”
“Can I call you that too?” I had asked innocently.
“Of course, I am your mother, your very own Iyingima.” She replied.
My father was a fisherman, just like most of the village men. He was a culture fanatic and so I was not surprised when I heard he was one of the men who opposed the idea of digging up our soils, in search of gold that was black.
“This foolishness must not continue, how can gold be black? We do not have enough lands to build and farm on, yet they seek to reduce the available ones to a searching ground.” I overheard him say to Iyingima the other day.
I did not have siblings, either because Iyingima and papa were too busy working that they didn’t have time to make babies, or because our lives changed when those multinationals discovered the black gold, in our village.
It was Sunday, the 16th of January 1956. A group of the multinationals discovered the black gold on one of the surveyed lands close to the river. The town crier, Iyaye went round the village announcing the news. The Amayanabo declared the week as the ‘Delta carnival’, he said we were to celebrate how rich our village would become.
The next day, the president of our country visited our village. There were so many reporters, tourists and some other strangers. Everyone seemed excited with the discovery of the black gold in our village, they said it would bring great wealth not only to our village, but to our country as well. Only the men in our village were allowed outside, women and children stayed home to receive any news when the men came home. Papa did not go out like the other men to meet with the president and possibly see what this black gold looked like. He said all the men who had gone out were people who could sell their souls to the devil.
The old-new news that crude oil, as they called it, had been found in the Delta was all people talked about for weeks. The phrase “crude oil” seemed to be sugar to every lip that could speak, and for every ear that heard, it was an entertaining news.
Our fantasies and excitement was short-lived when Kalayingi, a young woman who grew crops by the river went to weed her farm. Her scream filled the village and forced a meeting. There was black gold spills that had killed her crops. There were black gold spills everywhere. Many people complained about their dying crops, others feared it might destroy our lands and the fishermen screamed that the multinationals were emptying their wastes into the rivers, so fishes had moved and to get a good catch, if there was any catch at all, one needed to row deep into the river. Others complained that very few people were selected to work at the well stations. The Amayanabo listened as everyone stated their complaints, each voice trying to subdue the other. Then he waved his hand, signalling for silence.
“I have heard you, we shall choose nine men from the nine clans as emissaries to these multinationals.” He said slowly. “They will state our complaints and give them the ultimatum: to do things right or leave our land!”
There were several ‘Yeses’ and ‘Mmns’ after the Amayanabo spoke.
Papa was one of the men who was chosen as emissaries. He told Iyingima and I that he would not rest until our Delta regained its lost glory.
The multinationals and the emissaries reached an agreement which stated that the multinationals would lay-off some indigenes who worked for them, stating that they needed “skills”, which was why they did things wrongly. The emissaries agreed, ‘if that would bring our Delta back’.
Two months later, there was yet another shriek that filled the village as everyone ran out to find Ibiye, a young fisherman in flames. Many things were done to stop the fire, but when the fire was out, he had already burned to death. He had tried to ‘take’ crude oil from the pipes that flowed. Someone offered to tell the story which we were all keen to hear. He was one of the workers the multinationals decided to lay-off, He was part of those lazy youths who did not want to fish. He decided to steal crude and start his own business. It was a sorry story. Papa was very upset when he heard the story.
“These people have destroyed us, they will not leave us until we are wiped off. That is why the gold is black, it is death’s gold. They have squeezed everything we once loved that we no longer pursue our goals but theirs.” He spat, pointing towards the charred corpse.
“Look away.” Iyingima ordered as I followed papa’s finger, but it was too late. I had seen and heard enough. Our Delta was sick and we did not know what medicine could heal it.
That week most of the villagers stayed at home, there were a lot of snoopy reporters everywhere, like vultures waiting on a carcass. They wanted to know Ibiye’s story, but no villager was ready to tell.
Months passed and things got even worse. Slowly, I watched our once plenteous biodiversity diminish. There were no soils left to grow crops on, there was crude oil litters everywhere. Even the Angala looked like it did not receive enough water, its leaves began to fall like it was dry season. Nobody went to the rivers to bathe or have a drink, the water was considered poison. Our fishes choked to death and you could see their bodies adrift the water, our youths became blood thirsty people who stopped at nothing to obtain this gold or at least get the supposed promise.
Papa left home about two months ago. Iyingima and I have not heard from him since then. We have been told he joined the new “men revolution” to protect our Delta’s interests. Two weeks before papa left, he had stopped going to the river to check his nets. He would come home really late, when the only noise outside were the crick-crick sound the crickets made. When he was at home, he had these visitors whom only spoke in whispers. Once I had peeked and saw one of them handing papa a metal object that looked just like the ones the carvers made, I suspected that it was a gun. I did not tell Iyingima because she worried a lot, but I kept wondering why papa had need for a gun.
Iyingima and I had gone to the market to sell the fish she had bought from some fishermen early this morning, when some men ran through the market shooting. People ran helter-skelter, some packing their wares first, and others who seemed to value their lives more ran to find shelter. Soldiers invaded our village and brutally closed down all the markets, physically abusing anyone who tried to oppose them. A lot of people were killed during the massacre. We later learned that some of the women were kidnapped by the shooters, people the news called militants, angry youths of the Delta.
Our village became a jungle, the shootings continued for weeks. Whenever we were away from our homes, we had to raise our hands while we were thoroughly searched by troops of soldiers for any suspicious equipment. My village became a silent den, if one whispered in their homes it could be heard miles away. Everyone grew quiet, even the birds chirped quietly, like they understood the need for silence. Iyingima grew from the once jovial person I knew to a very quiet and timid person. There were a lot of things we did not talk about at home, a lot of things we were silent about, until the silence became deafening. Things like why papa left and if he would ever return, things like how we had to buy fish before we could sell, unlike when papa provided the fish, the shootings in the village and the fear that was our strength, the fear that protected us and kept us alive each day, so when Iyingima asked if I still thought of papa, I was surprised.
“No, Iyingima you are double parent enough.” I replied, meaning every word.
There was no light in the room, save little flickers that flashed through the window from our neighbour’s coal lamp, but I could see that Iyingima’s eyes held water.
“You know he is a good man? He will come back home.” She said more to herself than me, “He will come back home.” she repeated, assured.
I was only ten but I knew that even if it was what mama wanted the most, papa was not coming back, I did not want him to come back either. Sometimes his fanaticism with culture made him mistreat Iyingima. These months he was gone, she had put on weight and looked healthier.
“Iyingima, there are mangoes growing on our tree.” I said enthusiastically, hoping to shift Iyingima’s mind from papa. It seemed to work as her countenance brightened.
“I noticed yesterday, but you can’t pluck them, it isn’t our tree, it belongs to someone else. We only use it as shade when roasting the fishes your father catches.”
The next day, Iyingima and I were having lunch when some men knocked at our house fiercely thundering “wari e?” Iyingima asked me to hide in the kitchen as she asked who they were “tubo e?” They did not reply, everywhere was silent until I heard the banging sound the door made as it hit the floor.
“She’s his wife.” I heard a man’s voice and I peeked to see them drag Iyingima by the hair out of the house.
I did not hear from them or Iyingima again.
I was by the river checking some of papa’s nets the other day when I heard some women talking.
“Poor ereminitoku” the older one said, pushing her lips towards me as she dragged her net out of a canoe. The other one shook her head.
“Some say her mother is dead, that the men killed her because her father is part of the people opposing them.”
“Hush!!” the older woman warned. “She might hear you.”
It had been two weeks since I last saw Iyingima, since those men dragged her out of our house, but I had never felt her absence as much as I did now. Tears stood at the corners of my eyes, threatening to drop. Iyingima had always told me that crying solved problems most times, but I felt crying wasn’t enough at times like this. I blinked really hard to push the tears back in, gathered the fishes the net had caught and ran as fast as I could to our tree. I didn’t mind that Iyingima had said it wasn’t ours, to me it always will be. It gave me warmth and assurance that Iyingima was always with me. I stared at the very ripe mangoes and for once I thought I could disobey Iyingima, I stretched my hands and plucked one of the closest to me… It was as tasty as it looked. I made the fire and started roasting my fishes.
A lot of things had changed since Iyingima was taken. Apart from the troops of armed soldiers that still filled the village, the shootings had reduced. Our villagers had regained their lost voices. I now lived with Iyingima’s sister, aunt Boma.
We had been told that the women who were taken captives had been released and we could go to the river to wait if we had any captive relations. I was very excited. I sang loudly as I had my bath that morning, I hardly sang, but I was so excited that I forgot breakfast and hurried to the river to see Iyingima.
We were so many waiting for our loved ones. We waited until the sun began to sleep, until many people gave up and went home. I was determined to see Iyingima, something told me she would come back to me, and so I ignored the rumbles my stomach made for hunger and the stabbing pain in my head.
Just as the stars began to shine, I saw some men rowing furiously towards the shore. Everyone had gone home except me. Then they stopped just before the shore and began hauling several ‘things’ into the river. I came closer to the bank of the oil stained river and watched the many lifeless bodies litter the river. I sighted Iyingima’s body, as it floated to the shore. I saw the men strap themselves to their boats and continue their journey, like nothing had happened, like I had not watched them roll my mother’s body out the boat and unto the water. I turned back to walk home, my eyes were too heavy with pain to cry, or maybe I feared that my tears would be the colour of the river, greenish-black as the oil that was spilled in it. I did not know who to be angry at, the government who had said there were laws to protect our interests, the Amayanabo, who had sold us out, the multinationals who had destroyed the delta or the blood thirsty asemini awo (youths) who they now tagged militants, the same people that had killed Iyingima. They were aborigines just like me, but they had lost who they were, their identity, just like our Delta has.
PS: Tales by Irene has always and will always be a strictly inspirational blog. This story was shared to give hope to the Niger Deltans of Nigeria in Africa. This entirely fictional story was created by the author’s imagination… Any resemblances to existing individuals are mere coincidences.
Irene I. Ikiriko ©2016
VISIT: https://inspireneyou.wordpress.com/ for more of Tales by Irene
Copyright TALES BY IRENE.
All rights reserved. This material, and other digital content on this website, may not be reproduced, published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed in whole or in part without prior express written permission from TALES BY IRENE.
All rights reserved. This material, and other digital content on this website, may not be reproduced, published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed in whole or in part without prior express written permission from TALES BY IRENE.