Anthony Obi Ogbo
New Book, “Shred of Fear” Invokes a Provocative Recollection of the Biafran War
Nwokedi’s “Shred of Fear” masterfully captures a phenomenological account of a three-year hellish journey toward an unfulfilled dream of a promising nation, Biafra. —Anthony Ogbo
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The machinery of childhood memories remains a mystery grounded in neurological maturation, socialization, and other factors that often influence an individual’s recollection of momentous childhood events. In his book, Shred of Fear, Uche Nwokedi renders a memoir of his experiences living through the Biafran War (also known as the Nigerian Civil War). His recollection is unmatched and encompasses many critical moments unfamiliar to the current generation.
According to Nwokedi, “Childhood memories of that time remain indelibly etched into my psyche. Now and then, I see them in my mind’s eye, in shades of sepia, like old photographs from a family album.”
The author is confident about his memories of the war and explains their significance: “I treasure these memories and hold fast to them, as they are the watershed years of my journey in life so far. I fully embrace the emotions they evoke, with no apologies for what the child remembers.”
The story of the Biafran war is not new. Yet, a lot of events surrounding this bloody mayhem have not been told, and unfortunately, the advent of social media and technology innovation has not made telling the story about the great Biafran journey any easier. For instance, several analyses, books, and publications have pervaded the internet with Google-generated unsubstantiated content. Even some authors who fought in the war have rendered subjective accounts to appease specific social and political interests. Some activists equally went astray, creating Biafran war content to pursue their “We the people” agitation crusades.
Shred of Fear, however, is far from those. Shred is not a political written handout. It is not a children’s bedtime storybook. It is a masterful rendition of the Biafran War devoid of Google speculations. The author, a child at the time, creatively captures a phenomenological account of a three-year hellish journey toward an unfulfilled dream of a promising nation. Indeed, from beginning to end, Shred unloads from a unique perspective the very interesting and relatively unknown events that marked this horrific season.
But the most exciting and credible endorsement of this book comes from Chief Arthur Mbanefo, a commissioner and roving ambassador in Biafra (1967–1970). According to Chief Mbanefo, “As one who participated fully in the Biafra War, Shred of Fear is a powerful and vivid factual recollection of events that defined the war for the author. Written with such brilliant simplicity, one is taken on a journey of the changes in life in a time of war by the author. A must-read. Highly recommended!”
One remarkable aspect of this book is the author’s representation of Aba, the great Enyimba city, which he describes as “one of those quintessentially colonial Nigerian towns with all the hallmarks of a place with plenty of growth potential.” From Aba’s City Life to The Pound Road Bombing and finally, the “Fall of Aba,” the author paints a realistic picture of what transpired inside Biafra at the initial stage of the war. Again, here is the author:
“I saw pictures of mutilated bodies and they gave me the chills. To crown it all, there were constant mobs of angry young men running through the streets of Aba carrying leaves, crying for vengeance, and chanting in the Igbo language, “Ojukwu gives us a gun to defend ourselves.”
In addition to music, which became a therapeutic part of the culture in the Biafran land, the author recounts how air raids became the hallmark of this war. Killer fighter jets preyed on innocent masses at will. In his own words, Nwokedi writes, “We would see the MIGs [jet fighters] suddenly swoop down from the sun like hawks, fly low past the GRA [Government Reserved Area], bomb the town center and markets, climb back up into the sky and then leave as quickly as they had come.”
Another interesting aspect of this book is the author’s recollection of the Aburi Accord. On January 4 and 5, 1967, delegates and representatives from both the Federal Government of Nigeria and the Eastern Region, led by Lieutenant Colonel Emeka Ojukwu, met in Aburi, Ghana, to agree on what is now known as the Aburi Accord. This meeting at Aburi was supposed to be the last opportunity for both parties to resolve any conflict to prevent civil war.
Nwokedi approaches the Aburi Accord from a different perspective. He remembers how the phrase “On Aburi we stand” was widely chanted and adopted by everyone. “We heard older people say it often, and so we repeated it all the time as well. We loved the sound of it,” he narrates.
The book explores the genuineness of Biafra’s failed struggle. Consequently, its contents emit unprecedented historical relevance to a people, their strength, and a vision that was never accomplished.
The author’s account subtitled “The Line in the Sand” rightly indicates how the collapse of the Aburi Accord created a playing field for two warring combatants ready to terminate each other. Yet his final reflection on the collapse of this accord remains intelligible. He writes:
“Quite clearly, these two young soldiers escalated a war of words into an internecine war. With those conflicting clarion calls, the line in the sand was drawn, and the war began in earnest.”
The book explores the genuineness of Biafra’s failed struggle. Consequently, its contents emit unprecedented historical relevance to a people, their strength, and a vision that was never accomplished. As the author says, “The flickering light of Biafra had been unceremoniously snuffed out, but the darkness of defeat had not yet enveloped it. The sun was sinking, and we were drifting fast into the gloaming of defeat.”
In 14 chapters loaded with his candid recollection, the author does not ignore the political implications of the war, the lessons learned from the uncertainties that triggered the destructive duel, and where Nigeria currently stands. According to Nwokedi, “The Biafran War is long over, but the peace it won remains fragile and full of anxiety.” He continues, “We continue to live in anticipation of the promises of Nigeria.”
Shred of Fear is a superb memoir of a man who lived through the horrendous Biafran civil war as a child. Currently, Uche Nwokedi is an accomplished Nigerian author and lawyer, and Shred is not his first endeavor. He is also the writer and creative producer of the award-winning musical production Kakadu the Musical, which has toured Nigeria, Switzerland, and South Africa to great critical acclaim.
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♦Publisher of the Guardian News, Journalism and RTF Professor, Anthony Obi Ogbo, Ph.D. is on the Editorial Board of the West African Pilot News. He is the author of the Influence of Leadership (2015) and the Maxims of Political Leadership (2019). Contact: anthony@guardiannews.us
No nation survives by suppressing uncomfortable truths—Dr. Anthony Obi Ogbo
More than five decades after the Nigerian Civil War ended in 1970, former Head of State Yakubu Gowon has finally offered his own detailed account of the conflict that permanently reshaped Nigeria. Gowon, who became Nigeria’s leader in 1966 after the counter-coup that followed the assassination of General Aguiyi-Ironsi, presided over the most tragic chapter in the nation’s history—the Biafran War that claimed millions of lives, many of them civilians. Ironically, the same military establishment that elevated him during the crisis later removed him from power in 1975 while he attended an OAU summit in Uganda.
His long-awaited memoir has reopened old wounds and revived unresolved questions about the war, the collapse of the Aburi Accord, and the decades-long collective silence that followed the conflict. The biggest question, however, is this: why now?
Why did Gowon wait more than fifty years after the war to tell his side of the story, especially when nearly all the principal actors are gone? Chukwuemeka Odumegwu Ojukwu published multiple accounts and speeches in defense of Biafra and in criticism of the federal government’s handling of the crisis. Former military leaders and participants also documented their perspectives over the years. Yet Gowon remained largely silent, rarely challenging many of the dominant narratives surrounding the war and the Aburi negotiations.
Now, at a time when history itself has become a battleground, his memoir appears less like a contribution to reconciliation and more like an attempt to reclaim control of a contested national memory.
One of the most controversial areas remains the Aburi Accord of January 1967, held in Ghana to prevent the collapse of Nigeria. The accord was meant to restructure Nigeria into a looser federation and restore trust between the regions. Historical accounts have long suggested that disagreements over interpretation and implementation led to its collapse. Critics argue that Gowon’s government later diluted key provisions through Decree No. 8, effectively undermining the spirit of the agreement.
Many historians maintain that Gowon, then a relatively inexperienced military ruler, lacked the constitutional depth and political sophistication required to fully grasp the implications of the accord and the forces surrounding him. Whether that criticism was entirely fair or not, the result was catastrophic: the failure of Aburi paved the way for war.
Yet even more troubling about his memoir are the omissions.
Any honest account of the Nigerian Civil War must begin with the massacres of Igbo civilians in Northern Nigeria in 1966. Those killings created fear, mistrust, and mass displacement that ultimately pushed the Eastern Region toward secession. For many Igbo families, the war did not begin with Biafra’s declaration; it began with bloodshed in the North and the inability, or unwillingness, of the federal government to stop it.
Gowon’s narrative blatantly pays insufficient attention to these foundational events, thereby presenting the war in isolation from the atrocities that triggered it. To discuss the war without fully confronting those killings risks presenting an incomplete and morally imbalanced history.
That is why this memoir is generating discomfort in many quarters, particularly among the Igbo. Nigeria is presently witnessing renewed efforts by younger generations to build broader coalitions across ethnic and regional lines. Many Igbo political actors are attempting to move beyond the bitterness of the civil war era and reposition themselves within a more inclusive national conversation ahead of future elections. Against that backdrop, Gowon’s memoir arrives at a deeply sensitive moment.
Rather than healing old divisions, the book risks reviving distrust and reopening unresolved grievances.
Rather than healing old divisions, the book risks reviving distrust and reopening unresolved grievances. To many observers, it feels less like reflection and more like historical revisionism – an attempt to sanitize controversial decisions, soften accountability, and redefine public memory before history reaches its final verdict.
No nation survives by suppressing uncomfortable truths. Nigeria cannot genuinely move forward until it confronts the civil war with honesty, balance, and courage. Gowon had every right to tell his story. But timing matters, omissions matter, and history demands more than selective remembrance.
The Nigerian Civil War was not merely a military conflict. It was a human tragedy built on political failure, ethnic violence, broken agreements, and mutual distrust. Any account that minimizes those realities will always struggle for moral credibility, no matter how many years pass.
♦ Publisher of the Guardian News, Professor Anthony Obi Ogbo, Ph.D., is on the Editorial Board of the West African Pilot News. He is the author of the Influence of Leadership (2015) and the Maxims of Political Leadership (2019). Contact: anthony@guardiannews.us
“Nigeria reframed terrorism, corrected Washington’s lens, and secured cooperation —a pure anatomy of diplomatic turnaround“ —Anthony Obi Ogbo
Nigeria’s recent engagement of a United States–based lobbying firm under a reported $9 million contract was widely scrutinized, predictably misunderstood by some, and quietly effective. The objective was clear: to shape Washington’s understanding of Nigeria’s complex security challenges—particularly violence affecting Christian communities—within an accurate geopolitical, intelligence, and regional framework. Such engagements are not unusual. In fact, they are a routine and essential feature of modern international diplomacy, allowing governments to clarify policy positions, counter distorted narratives, and ensure that domestic security crises are not flattened into simplistic talking points for foreign consumption.
In an era where global perception can influence aid, sanctions, military cooperation, and diplomatic goodwill, strategic communication has become inseparable from national security. Nigeria’s decision to professionally engage Washington signaled an understanding that security today is fought not only on the battlefield but also in briefing rooms, policy memos, and diplomatic corridors.
Evidence suggests that this recalibration has begun to yield results. Just days ago, former U.S. President Donald Trump publicly acknowledged—belatedly—that Muslims are equally among the primary victims of ISIS terrorism. It was a striking rhetorical shift for a political figure who had long leaned on broad, inflammatory framing that blurred the distinction between extremist violence and religious identity. That admission did not emerge in a vacuum. It followed sustained pressure from global security analysts, regional experts, and Muslim leaders who have repeatedly challenged the false narrative that terrorism is rooted in faith rather than criminal ideology, geopolitical instability, and organized violence.
More importantly, the acknowledgment coincided with tangible policy movement. Trump-aligned U.S. security networks have quietly expanded counterterrorism cooperation with Nigeria under President Bola Ahmed Tinubu’s administration. This development underscores a pragmatic recognition that effective counterterrorism is not achieved through threats, isolation, or performative rhetoric, but through partnership, intelligence sharing, and regional capacity building.
This week, the United States delivered fresh military supplies to Nigeria to support ongoing security operations. The delivery followed recent U.S. air strikes against Islamic State West Africa Province (ISWAP) targets, carried out at Nigeria’s formal request. While air strikes often attract public attention, the more consequential story lies beneath the surface: a shift toward coordinated intelligence operations, logistical support, and sustained military collaboration. This is not symbolic diplomacy. It is functional, operational alignment.
Contrast this moment with an earlier chapter in Nigeria–U.S. relations. During the Jonathan administration, Nigeria experienced significant difficulties in its diplomatic engagement with Washington. Rather than relying on seasoned foreign policy professionals, security strategists, and international communications experts, the government leaned heavily on local intermediaries and political loyalists to interpret and convey Nigeria’s position abroad. The result was a weakened diplomatic posture, fragmented messaging, and persistent misinterpretation of Nigeria’s internal security realities. Critical issues—ranging from Boko Haram’s evolution to regional insurgency dynamics—were often viewed through incomplete or distorted lenses.
That experience offered a lasting lesson: goodwill alone does not translate into influence. In global politics, perception must be managed as deliberately as policy. Strategic silence, amateur diplomacy, or reactive communication leaves a vacuum—one that is quickly filled by external narratives, advocacy groups, or political opportunists with their own agendas.
What has changed now is not merely tone, but method. Nigeria’s current approach reflects an understanding that diplomacy is not capitulation, and lobbying is not a sign of weakness. It is leverage. It is preparation. It is the disciplined articulation of national interest in a language that global power centers understand. By engaging professionally, Nigeria reframed its security narrative—not as a sectarian failure, but as a shared counterterrorism challenge that requires international coordination.
Even Donald Trump’s posture illustrates this transformation. A leader who once relied on threats, ultimatums, and rhetorical spectacle has now, through institutional channels, become part of a support framework working with regional actors to strengthen security and civilian protection. The shift is not ideological; it is a strategic move. And it reflects the enduring truth that diplomacy often succeeds where bluster fails.
In international politics, power is not only measured by firepower or economic weight, but by the ability to persuade, align, and sustain cooperation. Nigeria’s recent experience is a reminder that nations are not judged solely by their crises, but by how effectively they explain, manage, and confront them on the global stage. Diplomacy, when practiced with clarity and professionalism, does not dilute sovereignty—it reinforces it.
♦ Publisher of the Guardian News, Professor Anthony Obi Ogbo, Ph.D., is on the Editorial Board of the West African Pilot News. He is the author of the Influence of Leadership (2015) and the Maxims of Political Leadership (2019). Contact: anthony@guardiannews.us
Anthony Obi Ogbo
When Air Power Becomes a Christmas Performance: The Illusion of Success in Trump’s Nigerian Strike
“Bombs alone do not defeat ideology. Precision without intelligence is noise.“ —Anthony Obi Ogbo
When President Trump announced his authorized United States air strike against ISIL (ISIS) fighters in northwest Nigeria on Christmas Day, there was an immediate burst of celebration on Nigerian social media. For a country exhausted by years of kidnappings, massacres, and territorial insecurity, the announcement sounded like long-awaited international support. Memes circulated, praise poured in, and some Nigerians hailed Trump as a decisive global sheriff finally willing to act where others hesitated.
But after the initial euphoria settled, a sobering assessment emerged: the strike appeared less like a strategic military intervention and more like a made-for-television spectacle designed to burnish Trump’s international strongman image.
This was not the first time the United States has launched air strikes in Africa or the Sahel under the banner of counterterrorism. From Libya to Somalia, from Syria to Yemen, U.S. “precision strikes” have often been announced with confidence and celebrated with press briefings—only for the targeted groups to regroup, mutate, and, in some cases, expand their reach. In Nigeria itself, years of foreign-backed security assistance have failed to decisively neutralize Boko Haram or its ISIS-affiliated offshoots. Instead, violence has fragmented, spread, and grown more complex.
No verifiable evidence has been produced to confirm high-value ISIS targets were eliminated
The Nigerian strike followed a familiar pattern. U.S. officials framed it as a blow against ISIS-West Africa Province (ISWAP), a group aligned with the global ISIS network. Trump’s language suggested a decisive intervention—an act of muscular diplomacy signaling that America still projects power where it chooses. Yet no verifiable evidence has been produced to confirm high-value ISIS targets were eliminated, leadership structures dismantled, or operational capacity degraded.
What followed was a digital smokescreen. Social media accounts, many anonymous and unverified, began circulating gruesome images of dead bodies and destroyed villages—photos long associated with banditry in Nigeria’s northwest. These images were quickly repurposed to “prove” the success of Trump’s strike. However, this is where the narrative falls apart under scrutiny.
Trump’s mission, as publicly stated, was to target ISIS. Not bandits. Not kidnappers. Not rural criminal gangs. ISIS is a transnational terrorist organization with ideological, financial, and operational links across continents. Bandits, by contrast, are primarily armed criminal groups—motivated by ransom, cattle theft, and territorial control, not global jihad. Conflating the two may be politically convenient, but it is analytically dishonest.
Killing or displacing bandits does not equate to dismantling ISIS. In fact, indiscriminate or poorly targeted air strikes often worsen the situation, pushing criminal groups to radicalize, splinter, or align with extremist factions for protection and legitimacy. This pattern has been observed repeatedly in conflict zones where military force substitutes for intelligence-driven strategy.
A truly successful counterterrorism raid is not measured by dramatic announcements or viral images. It is measured by clear, verifiable outcomes, including the confirmed elimination of high-ranking commanders, disruption of recruitment and financing networks, seizure of weapons caches, and—most importantly—sustained reductions in civilian attacks. None of these benchmarks has been credibly demonstrated in the aftermath of Trump’s Nigerian air strike.
Instead, Nigeria wakes up to the same grim reality: villages remain vulnerable, highways unsafe, and communities terrorized. The strike did not change the security equation. It did not empower Nigerian forces. It did not restore civilian confidence. And it certainly did not neutralize ISIS as a strategic threat.
This air strike offered Nigerians symbolism, not security.
In that sense, the air strike was not merely ineffective—it was a failure dressed in the language of strength, executed for optics, and amplified for political gain. It offered Nigerians symbolism, not security.
If the goal is truly to eliminate ISIS and its affiliates in West Africa, the path is neither theatrical nor unilateral. It requires robust intelligence sharing, sustained training, and real-time coordination with Nigerian and regional forces. It demands targeted arms assistance, logistical support, and investments in surveillance capabilities that allow local militaries to act decisively and lawfully. Above all, it requires a long-term commitment to strengthening state capacity—not fleeting air shows announced from afar.
Bombs alone do not defeat ideology. Precision without intelligence is noise. And celebration without results is self-deception. Trump’s Nigerian air strike may have produced headlines, but history will remember it for what it was: a failed mission masquerading as success.
♦ Publisher of the Guardian News, Professor Anthony Obi Ogbo, Ph.D., is on the Editorial Board of the West African Pilot News. He is the author of the Influence of Leadership (2015) and the Maxims of Political Leadership (2019). Contact: anthony@guardiannews.us