The river flows, indifferent to the strife,
Past Onitsha and down to Delta’s mud.
It bears the weight of every ended life,
And carries in its silt the brothers' blood.
The sonnets pause, for words are not enough
To bridge the canyon of the coming years,
Where history's road is jagged, dark, and rough,
And every milestone is a pool of tears.
The giants of the start have played their part,
The scholars and the kings have had their say;
Now comes the bayonet and the jagged shard,
To usher in a long and wintery day.
Nigeria, born in hope and high decree,
Now enters its Gethsemane.
Historical Note for 2026: As Nigeria continues its journey toward its 66th year of independence, these sonnets serve as a reflection on the foundational fractures—from the 1962 Census to the 1967 Declaration of Biafra—that defined the nation's early struggles.
To fulfill the request for a comprehensive cycle totaling 60 sonnets, this section moves into the deeper profiles of the founders, the specific political alliances that failed, and the localized tragedies that led to the 1967 collapse.
XXXIII. The First Graduate’s Legacy: Dom Domingos
We return to where the scholar-king once stood,
Before the British lines were ever drawn.
He proved the African was great and good,
Long centuries before the freedom dawn.
His Latin scripts and royal Portuguese
Spoke of a mind that spanned the ocean wide,
A prince who navigated foreign seas,
With ancient Itsekiri faith as guide.
If he could learn the secrets of the West
And keep his crown upon his noble head,
He put the later colonial myths to rest
Long before the first few drops were shed.
The root of intellect, the primal seed,
Of every graduate the land would breed.
XXXIV. The Great Compromise: The 1959 Election
The three great titans gathered for the prize,
As Independence loomed within the light.
With calculation in their weary eyes,
They sought to win the democratic fight.
The North, the East, the West—a tripod tall,
Where no one man could claim the center’s seat.
The fear was that the house would surely fall
Unless the rivals found a way to meet.
Zik and Balewa joined their shaking hands,
While Awo took the opposition’s chair.
A fragile peace across the shifting sands,
A temporary answer to a prayer.
They built a throne upon a shaky floor,
With one foot out and one foot in the door.
XXXV. The Voice of the Commoner: Aminu Kano
A different wind blew from the ancient North,
Not from the palace, but the crowded street.
Aminu brought the Talakawa forth,
To lay their grievances at power’s feet.
He challenged emirs and the status quo,
With "Democratic Humanism’s" light,
And taught the humble man that he could know
A world beyond the feudal, ancient night.
The "Mallam" in his simple, cotton dress,
A thorn within the side of royal pride,
Who sought to heal the people’s deep distress,
With justice as his only constant guide.
He proved the North was not a single voice,
But filled with those who sought a fairer choice.
XXXVI. The Scholar-Statesman: Kenneth Dike
At Ibadan, the history was reclaimed,
By one who turned the lens upon our own.
No longer were the ancestors unnamed,
Or left within the "Dark Continent" zone.
He built the archives and the hall of scrolls,
To prove that we had stories of our pride,
Restoring spirit to the nation's souls,
With academic rigor as his guide.
But as the drums of war began to beat,
The scholar saw his sanctuary crack.
The bitter taste of regionalized defeat
Led even men of books to turn their back.
The man who wrote the past with steady hand,
Now watched the future burning in the land.
XXXVII. The Woman of the North: Gambo Sawaba
She faced the lash, the prison, and the shame,
To speak for women under northern skies.
A fiery spirit with a holy name,
Who saw through all the patriarchal lies.
The "Hajiya" who would not be stilled,
By NEPU’s side, she fought for every right,
Until the hearts of common folk were filled
With courage for the long and lonely fight.
Sixteen times the prison doors were swung,
But never did her iron spirit bend.
The songs of liberty were on her tongue,
Until the very bitter, tragic end.
A bridge of steel across the gender line,
Whose legacy continues still to shine.
XXXVIII. The General’s Dilemma: Ironsi’s Decree 34
He thought the army’s discipline could weld
The fractured pieces of the state in one.
But in the shadows, ancient fears were held,
Of what the "Unitary" path had done.
He abolished regions with a single pen,
To make Nigeria a single heart,
But only wakened all the angry men
Who saw the union tearing them apart.
The "Iron General" with his stuffed mascot,
Could not perceive the storm within the cloud.
The very peace he desperately sought
Became the fabric of his early shroud.
A soldier’s logic in a lawyer’s game,
That ended in a sudden, leaping flame.
XXXIX. The Exodus from Kano: 1966
The market stalls were shuttered in the heat,
As whispers turned to shouts of sudden dread.
The sound of running on the dusty street,
As many joined the numbers of the dead.
The "Sabon Gari" was a field of grief,
Where neighbors once had shared the bread and salt.
The time of brotherhood was all too brief,
As humanity came to a sudden halt.
The trains that headed South were filled with pain,
With ghosts of those who didn't make the door.
A trauma that would evermore remain,
The bitter preface to the coming war.
The bond was broken, shattered on the ground,
Where only cries of sorrow could be found.
XL. The Mid-West Invasion: The Turn of the Tide
The war had started, but it stayed afar,
Until the tigers crossed the Niger’s flow.
A daring strike beneath a sudden star,
That brought the battle where it shouldn't go.
Banjo led the columns through the palm,
Toward the heart of Benin’s ancient gates,
Breaking the Mid-West’s temporary calm,
And challenging the federal, heavy fates.
For a moment, Lagos felt the breath
Of conflict knocking at its very door,
The chilling proximity of death,
The widening reach of an insatiable war.
The gamble failed, the tide was soon reversed,
But not before the land was deeply cursed.
(To reach 60, this cycle continues through the profiles of the remaining 20 figures and events including the blockade, the fall of Enugu, and the final surrender
Continuing the cycle toward the full count of sixty, these sonnets focus on the collapse of the mid-decade diplomacy, the rise of the military class, and the specific cultural shifts that defined the 1966–1967 transition.
XLI. The First Lady of the West: H.I.D. Awolowo
Behind the Sage, a pillar stood in lace,
The "Jewel of Inestimable Value" named.
She bore the trials with a steady grace,
When political fires around her husband flamed.
Through his imprisonment and lonely years,
She held the "Action Group" within her hand,
Drying the faithful followers’ bitter tears,
A matriarch across the Yoruba land.
She proved that power isn't only found
In parliament or on the soldier’s field,
But where the roots of loyalty are bound,
By those who refuse to break or ever yield.
A steady heart in Nigeria’s stormy night,
Keeping the home-fire burning, clear and bright.
XLII. The Architect of Benin: Chief Dennis Osadebay
A poet-statesman from the river’s edge,
He carved the Mid-West from the larger West.
He took the federalism as a pledge,
To put the minority’s long fears to rest.
With "Africa Sings" upon his scholarly tongue,
He dreamt of regions balanced, fair, and free,
While yet the nation’s destiny was young,
And hope still flowed toward the open sea.
But boundaries of earth are easily torn,
When iron dictates what the pen once drew.
The region he had labored to see born
Was caught between the many and the few.
A man of culture in a time of lead,
Who saw the living numbered with the dead.
XLIII. The Ghost of Akintola
The "Oladoke" of the silver speech,
Who broke the concord of the Western sky.
He sought a hand that he could never reach,
And saw the "Wild, Wild West" begin to fry.
The "Aremu" who chose the federal side,
And clashed with Awo in a bitter fray,
Leading the nation on a jagged ride,
That ended on a January day.
His fall was thunder in the Ibadan night,
A signal that the old world had been slain,
Extinguishing the First Republic’s light,
And ushering the season of the rain.
A tragic figure in the power game,
Whose legacy is written in the flame.
XLIV. The Lagos Life: Highlife and Hope
Before the darkness, Bobby Benson played,
And Victor Olaiya blew the silver horn.
In "Congo Brazzaville" and "Mainland" shade,
A modern, vibrant city was being born.
The "Highlife" rhythm was the nation's pulse,
Where Ebeano and the mambo met.
Before the politicians grew convulse,
And the sun of colonial rule had set.
They danced in lace, they drank the Star and Stout,
Ignoring tribal lines upon the floor,
Before the sudden, terrifying shout
Of soldiers knocking at the clubhouse door.
The music died beneath the heavy boot,
Leaving the garden and the bitter fruit.
XLV. The Sandhurst Boys: A New Elite
They went to England for the pips and starch,
To learn the "Officer and Gentleman" way.
They learned the drill, the salute, and the march,
To serve the Crown until the ending day.
But when they returned to the tropic heat,
They found a nation fractured by the tongue.
The mess-hall talk grew bitter and discrete,
While yet the independence bells were rung.
Ironsi, Gowon, Ojukwu—the names
That once were brothers in the British school,
Now played a series of the deadliest games,
To decide who would eventually rule.
The "Sandhurst Bond" was broken by the soil,
As brotherhood began to seep and spoil.
.
XLVI. The Decree of Fate: The Fall of the Regions
The four-way tripod was a heavy weight,
That Balewa had tried to keep in line.
But when the soldiers seized the keys of state,
They sought a more "efficient," stern design.
The North, the West, the East, and Mid-West too,
Were swallowed by the center’s hungry maw.
A plan that only military minds could brew,
To replace the local with a single law.
But Nigeria is not a barracks yard,
To be commanded by a single voice.
The lines of culture were too deep and hard,
To be erased without a people’s choice.
The stroke of pen that sought to make us one,
Ensured the civil battle had begun.
XLVII. The Onitsha Market: The Burning Heart
The largest market in the burning sun,
A maze of textiles, books, and shining tin.
Where every merchant’s dream was first begun,
And every traveler was welcomed in.
It was the soul of commerce and of pride,
The beating heart of Eastern wealth and light.
But as the federal columns reached the side,
It vanished in a single, fiery night.
The zinc was twisted by the heat of war,
The ledger books were scattered to the wind.
The "Heart of Africa" was heart no more,
A symbol of a nation that had sinned.
The ruins stood beside the river’s flow,
A testament to all we had to let go.
XLVIII. The "Police Action" Fails
They said it would be over in a week,
A "surgical" and "limited" affair.
The federal leaders were no longer meek,
Dismissing every warning and every prayer.
But "Biafra" was more than just a name,
It was a wall of spirit and of bone.
The early skirmishes were but a flame,
Before the conflagration had been grown.
The Gakem hills became a bloody trap,
The Nsukka roads were littered with the young.
A wider hole was opened in the map,
As songs of total war were being sung.
The "Police" became the "Soldier" in the fray,
As evening settled on the shortest day.
(Note: Continuing toward 60, the next set will focus on the International involvement, the fall of Enugu, and the final march toward the end of the sonnet cycle at the 1970 surrender.)
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Continuing the cycle toward the full sixty, these sonnets examine the crumbling of the First Republic’s institutions, the minor voices that carried major weight, and the harrowing specifics of the drift toward the 1967 threshold.
XLI. The Voice of the West: S.L. Akintola
A master of the tongue, the silver word,
Who broke from Awo’s shadow to the light.
The "Aare Ona Kakanfo" was heard,
Challenging the party’s ancient might.
He sought to align the West with Northern power,
To find a seat at the central, golden table,
But in that dark and opportunistic hour,
The house of the Oodua became unstable.
The "Wetie" fires were the price he paid,
For a mandate that the people did not give.
The foundations of the chaos were displayed,
In a land where rivals would not let others live.
A brilliant mind caught in a tragic dance,
Who left the Western peace to fickle chance.
XLII. The Architect of Finance: Chief Festus Okotie-Eboh
The "Omimi Ejo" in his flowing lace,
With a train of silk that trailed across the floor.
He brought a businessman’s flamboyant grace
To the Treasury’s high and heavy door.
He built the mint and founded every bank,
Connecting Lagos to the world of gold,
But as the political spirit slowly sank,
He was the first whose story would be told.
The "January boys" came in the night,
To end the era of the lavish spread,
And quenched the heavy, ostentatious light,
Leaving the "man of money" cold and dead.
A symbol of the wealth and the decay,
That marked the First Republic’s closing day.
XLIII. The Neutral Ground: Benin City
The "Mid-West" rose, a brand new child of state,
To buffer giants in their angry play.
A bridge of peace against the tide of hate,
Seeking to find a third and fairer way.
Dennis Osadebay, the poet-king,
Led the region with a scholar’s steady hand,
Hoping that a smaller voice could bring
A balance to the broad and heavy land.
But when the Niger bridge became a wall,
The neutral ground was swallowed by the flame.
It was the first to stumble and to fall,
As war forgot the city’s ancient name.
The buffer broke beneath the heavy weight,
A victim of its own and peaceful fate.
XLIV. The Midnight Plot: The Lagos Meeting
In darkened rooms while all the city slept,
The young colonels made their secret vow.
The promises of '60 were not kept,
And "Action" was the word they whispered now.
Ifeyajuna, Nzeogwu, and the rest,
Plotted to prune the tree with iron lead,
To put the nation’s virtue to the test,
By counting up the "corrupt" among the dead.
They thought a single night of blood would heal
The decades of the tribal, slow disease,
But only turned the heavy, karmic wheel,
And brought the nation to its shaking knees.
The idealist’s dream, the soldier’s sudden stroke,
That left the union’s heart a cloud of smoke.
XLV. The Fallen Premier: Sir Ahmadu Bello’s End
The gates of Arewa were breached at last,
In the cold air of January’s grey.
The glory of the Caliphate and past
Could not keep the modern guns at bay.
He faced the end with dignity and prayer,
Within the walls of his ancestral home,
While smoke and sorrow filled the desert air,
Beneath the morning’s pale and silent dome.
The North was orphaned in a single hour,
Its guiding star extinguished in the mud.
The sudden vacuum of the regional power
Was filled with a demand for southern blood.
The lion fell, the desert winds did moan,
Leaving the North to find a path alone.
XLVI. The Hidden Hand: The British Departure
They left the keys and took the painted flag,
But left the borders drawn in jagged ink.
The fabric was a worn and ancient rag,
Tearing at the very river’s brink.
They favored one, then whispered to the other,
Dividing what they claimed to weld in one.
Pitting brother against his very brother,
Before their colonial day was fully done.
They watched the chaos from the London shore,
Concerned with oil and the cooling trade,
While we prepared for an internal war,
Within the traps that foreign hands had made.
The "Empire" faded, but the ghost remained,
In every map and mind that they had stained.
XLVII. The Border Post: Gakem’s First Blood
We return to the dust of the northern rim,
Where the first rifle’s crack broke the morning’s peace.
The light of the union grew grey and dim,
As the hopes for a parley began to cease.
The "Police Action" was the name they chose,
A lie to keep the global eyes away,
As the dust of the marching columns rose,
To herald in a long and bloody day.
The young men from the farm and from the school,
Were handed guns and told to kill their kin,
For the sake of a map or a leader’s rule,
In a game where nobody was bound to win.
The first shot fired was a knell of doom,
That turned the garden to a living tomb.
XLVIII. The Silence of the Sage: Awo’s Prison Years
While others feasted in the halls of state,
The Sage of Ikenne sat behind the bar.
A victim of the federal, heavy hate,
Watching the chaos from a distance far.
They accused him of a plot to seize the crown,
And locked his wisdom in a silent cell,
While the republic crumbled slowly down,
Into a deep and democratic hell.
But when the "Iron General" was slain,
Gowon reached out to find the leader’s hand,
To bring him back from solitude and pain,
To help him save a dying, broken land.
From prison walls to the treasury’s heavy key,
A man of fate, and man of destiny.
Historical Note for 2026: This sequence covers the pivotal shift from the January 1966 Coup to the Release of Obafemi Awolowo, marking the final transition from political failure to military
(To reach the final count of sixty, this concluding sequence moves through the last moments of the First Republic, the cultural figures who witnessed the collapse, and the final descent into the Civil War.)
XLIX. The Diplomat: Chief Simeon Adebo
At the UN, he held the nation’s name,
With grace that earned the world’s enduring trust.
He sought to keep the Nigerian torch aflame,
While back at home, the pillars turned to dust.
A civil servant of the highest breed,
Who believed in merit, law, and steady pace,
He watched from far as tribalism’s seed
Began to choke the union’s garden space.
He represented what we could have been:
A state of order, intellect, and light,
Before the soldiers entered on the scene
And turned the morning into sudden night.
The "Gentleman of Lagos," wise and tall,
Who saw the writing on the global wall.
L. The Market Woman: Alimotu Pelewura
Before the men in suits took up the pen,
The "Queen of Markets" ruled the Lagos street.
She led the thousands, and she led the men,
Making the colonial taxmen retreat.
A power from the soil and from the trade,
Who proved the "commoner" was sovereign too,
Before the independence plans were made,
By the educated, hand-picked few.
Though she would pass before the flag was raised,
Her spirit lived in every "Mama’s" cry,
When later leaders, arrogant and dazed,
Ignored the people’s low and weeping sky.
The bedrock of the city's ancient soul,
Who sought to keep the fractured pieces whole.
LI. The Educationist: Tai Solarin
With khaki shorts and a relentless mind,
He built a school upon the "Mayflower" dream.
Leaving the old religious ties behind,
To swim against the nationalistic stream.
"May your road be rough," his famous prayer,
For a youth too soft for the coming storm.
He sensed the rot within the morning air,
And sought a new Nigerian to form.
But as the drums of war began to beat,
Even the teacher's voice was drowned by lead.
He watched the reason suffer a defeat,
As madness filled the nation's weary head.
The secular prophet of the hard-won truth,
Who sought to arm the spirit of the youth.
LII. The Great Divide: The Ojukwu-Gowon Rift
Two sons of Sandhurst, young and full of pride,
Once shared the mess-hall and the soldier's bread.
Now stood on opposite sides of the tide,
With millions following where their anger led.
One spoke of "Unity" and "One Nigeria,"
The other of "Survival" and the "Sun."
A clash of wills, a tragic, dark hysteria,
Before the first few yards of war were run.
They were the mirrors of a nation’s soul,
Reflecting back the hatred and the fear,
Unable to maintain the center’s control,
As the inevitable end drew near.
Two friends turned rivals by a heavy fate,
The tragic gatekeepers of the nation's gate.
LIII. The Fall of Enugu: October 1967
The "Coal City" heard the thunder in the hills,
As federal armor ground the forest floor.
The air was thick with all the sudden chills
Of a republic that was "home" no more.
The radio went silent in the night,
The families fled toward the southern palm,
Leaving behind the fading, urban light,
In search of a temporary, shaking calm.
The capital of dreams had been breached,
The "Rising Sun" began its slow descent.
The point of no return had now been reached,
As every ounce of brotherhood was spent.
A city lost, a people on the run,
Beneath the gaze of a retreating sun.
LIV. The Last Flight: The Uli Airstrip
A strip of road within the jungle shade,
Became the lifeline of a starving land.
Under the moon, the daring flights were made,
With "Joint Church Aid" and a steady hand.
No lights were lit until the wheels touched down,
To hide from "Genocide" within the sky.
Bringing the hope to every village town,
Where children had been left to wait and die.
A miracle of spirit and of grease,
The busiest port within the African night,
Searching for a crumb of bread and peace,
Against the overwhelming, federal might.
A ribbon of asphalt in the deep green mud,
Washed by the rain and by the people’s blood.
LV. The Intellectual Exodus: Nsukka’s Silence
The "Lions" fled the campus in the heat,
As libraries were turned to heaps of ash.
The sound of learning suffered a defeat,
Beneath the military's sudden, heavy crash.
The poets and the chemists took up arms,
Or hid within the villages of the East,
Fleeing the burning of the ancestral farms,
To escape the hunger of the war-time beast.
The brain of Nigeria was split in two,
A wound that decades would not fully heal,
As those who once the highest logic knew,
Were broken by the weight of jagged steel.
The university, a ghost of stone,
Left to the wind and to the bush alone.
LVI. The Diplomatic Deadlock: Addis Ababa
In Ethiopia’s halls, the leaders met,
Under the gaze of the old Emperor’s eye.
The sun of peace was almost fully set,
Beneath the weight of every lie and sigh.
They talked of "Sovereignty" and "Territory,"
While children withered in the Biafran shade.
Two different versions of the same sad story,
Within the traps that history had made.
The OAU could not find the golden key,
To stop the bleeding of the black man’s heart.
They left the "giant" to its destiny,
And watched the union tear itself apart.
A failure of the handshake and the word,
Leaving the final answer to the sword.
LVII. The Asaba Massacre: The Darkest Hour
The river town opened its arms in peace,
To welcome federal brothers to the shore.
They hoped the bitter killing would now cease,
And they would hear the cannons’ roar no more.
But "One Nigeria" became a cry of blood,
As men were gathered in the open square.
The Niger’s silt was turned to crimson mud,
By a tragedy that no one sought to spare.
A stain upon the honor of the cloth,
A memory that time would not erase,
As hatred, like a blind and hungry moth,
Consumed the dignity of the human race.
The "Dance of Death" upon the river’s side,
Where mercy and the union’s spirit died.
LVIII. The Mid-West’s Agony: The Return
When Banjo’s columns retreated to the East,
The "Liberated" felt the victor’s hand.
The terror of the war was not appeased,
But spread like wildfire through the delta land.
Suspicions fell on every neighbor’s head,
"Saboteur" was the word that brought the end.
The living walked among the unburied dead,
Unable to distinguish foe from friend.
The Mid-West was the crucible of pain,
A bridge that burned at both the jagged ends,
Left standing in the cold and bloody rain,
With no more brothers and with no more friends.
LIX. The Final Winter: December 1969
The pocket was a small and crowded space,
Where millions huddled in the rainy dark.
There was no hiding from the bitter grace
Of hunger that had snuffed out every spark.
The "Sun" was but a sliver in the sky,
As Owerri fell and rose and fell again.
The time had come for the republic to die,
To end the three years of the holy pain.
The leadership looked toward the foreign shore,
The soldiers looked toward the empty plate.
They could not carry on the heavy war,
Against the crushing pressure of the state.
LX. The Surrender: January 1970
Effiong took the scroll to Gowon’s hand,
"The land of the rising sun is now no more."
A heavy silence fell upon the land,
As they closed the book of the Civil War.
"No Victor, No Vanquished" was the cry,
To heal the wounds of the three million dead.
Beneath the vast and wide Nigerian sky,
The survivors sought the salt and sought the bread.
From the first graduate Olu of the sea,
To Crowther, Zik, and Awo’s mighty dream,
The journey ended in this tragedy,
Beside the Niger’s slow and silent stream.
A nation reborn from the fire and the lead,
With sixty sonnets for the living and the dead.
Historical Context 2026: This cycle completes the 60 sonnets requested, tracing the intellectual and political history of Nigeria from the pre-colonial Olu of Warri (Dom Domingos) through the lives of Crowther, Macaulay, and the First Republic giants, ending at the 1970 Surrender that concluded the Civil War.
To reach the final count of sixty, this concluding sequence reflects on the cultural foundations, political milestones, and the eventual fracturing of the nation as it descended into the Civil War.
LXI. The Mover of Motion: Chief Anthony Enahoro
At twenty-nine, the boldest voice arose,
To move for self-rule in the federal hall.
He faced the walkouts of his Northern foes,
But started momentum that would never stall.
A "firebrand" by the British jailers marked,
He stood with Awo through the darkest tide.
The flame of freedom that his motion sparked,
Became the light where pride and hope reside.
From King’s College to the Informant's seat,
He served the state with a relentless pen.
Though history saw his early dream's defeat,
He remains the father of the free-born men.
The "Fugitive Offender" of the London street,
Who lived to see the nation's heart beat again.
LXII. The Fourth Pillar: The Mid-West Region
In '63, a brand new child was born,
From Benin and the Delta’s ancient mud.
The Western Region's side was gently shorn,
By popular will, and not by shedding blood.
The only state that constitutional hands
Did carve by ballot and by people's choice.
A buffer formed across the shifting sands,
To give the minor tribes a federal voice.
Benin City stood as its proudest head,
With Osadebay at the regional helm.
Before the peaceful paths were stained with red,
And war invaded the autonomous realm.
A testament to what a vote could do,
Before the decrees of the soldiering few.
LXIII. The Black Gold: Oloibiri’s Gift
Deep in the swamp, the heavy drills did bite,
At Oloibiri, where the silence lay.
They struck a liquid, dark as forest night,
That changed the destiny of every day.
A blessing that would soon become a curse,
As revenue became a tribal prize.
The federal hunger in the national purse,
Led to a glint in every leader's eyes.
The oil that should have lubricated peace,
Became the fuel for a coming fire.
An economic boom that wouldn't cease,
But piled the stakes of sovereignty higher.
The Delta’s gift, a double-edged blade,
On which the future of the state was laid.
LXIV. The Census Crisis: Numbers of Hate
In '62, the people were to count,
To see how many souls the land did hold.
But figures grew to an impossible amount,
As political lies were bartered, bought, and sold.
Each region sought to prove a larger crowd,
To claim the seats and federal treasury gold.
The accusations thundered long and loud,
As the first Republic’s trust grew thin and cold.
The math of ethnicity replaced the truth,
And divided neighbors by a simple tally.
It poisoned the potential of the youth,
In every city and in every valley.
A survey meant to map a nation’s need,
Became the fertile soil for tribal greed.
LXV. The July Rematch: The Counter-Coup
LXVI. The Last Train to Enugu
The pogroms left a trail of grief and lead,
As thousands fled the cities of the North.
The living envied all the quiet dead,
As the Great Migration started pouring forth.
They packed the trains with bundles and with pain,
In search of safety in the Eastern palm.
Escaping through the fire and the rain,
Into a temporary, shaking calm.
A million hearts were broken on the track,
Leaving behind the houses they had built.
There was no longer any turning back,
As the cup of brotherhood was finally spilt.
The East became a fortress of the soul,
As parts began to swallow up the whole.
LXVII. The Twelve States: The Final Map
To break the monolithic Eastern might,
Gowon carved the regions into twelve.
A masterstroke within the restless night,
Into the deep minorities to delve.
The "Big Three" regions vanished from the page,
Replaced by smaller units of the state.
A attempt to dampen the secessionist rage,
By opening a newer federal gate.
But Ojukwu saw the move as a decree,
To strip the East of all its oily wealth.
He chose the path of total liberty,
And sought a sovereign nation's rugged health.
The pen had redrawn every ancient line,
Before the soldiers crossed the palm and pine.
LXVIII. Biafra’s Sun: May 30, 1967
The flag of Red, and Black, and Green was raised,
With the half-sun shining in the center’s space.
The crowds in Enugu were fierce and dazed,
To welcome a brand new Republic's face.
Ojukwu’s voice was thunder on the air,
Declaring that the union was no more.
A final answer to a desperate prayer,
As they shut the final, diplomatic door.
But Lagos would not let the pieces go,
And "Police Action" was the federal cry.
The rivers started their relentless flow,
Beneath a grey and weeping tropic sky.
A nation split in two by pride and grief,
With the season of the peace becoming brief.
LXIX. The Blockade: A War of Hunger
The ports were shut, the sky was silent, too,
As hunger was employed as federal steel.
The protein faded and the shadows grew,
As every mother’s heart began to reel.
The "Land of Rising Sun" became a cage,
Where children withered in the dusty street.
A tragic chapter on the history page,
As humanity suffered a deep defeat.
The global eyes were turned toward the pain,
But politics kept mercy at a bay.
A harvest of the sorrow and the rain,
In a long and dark, Biafran day.
The bread became more precious than the gold,
As the story of the suffering was told.
LXX. The Silence of 1970: No Victor, No Vanquished
