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
“Nigeria does not merely need a voters’ revolt. It needs an electoral revolution.” —Dr. Anthony Obi Ogbo
Over the past few days, I have been reflecting on America’s historic midterm elections and reading various analyses of the remarkable voter revolt against the political establishment. American voters demonstrated their willingness to punish political failure at the ballot box. But can Nigerians similarly defeat entrenched power when the very institutions entrusted with protecting their votes remain vulnerable to political interference?
America’s November 3 midterm elections delivered a devastating political verdict. Voters, frustrated by rising living costs, the Iran war, and growing dissatisfaction with President Donald Trump’s leadership, handed Democrats control of both chambers of Congress. Republican strongholds fell, political loyalties shifted, and voters demonstrated that incumbency is no insurance against public anger.
The message was unmistakable: when governance fails, the electorate can withdraw its mandate. But across Nigeria, the American revolt has inspired a provocative question: Can Nigerians replicate this electoral uprising in the 2027 presidential election?
The comparison is compelling, but the institutional realities are profoundly different.
Nigeria has no shortage of reasons for electoral rebellion. Economic hardship, persistent inflation, unemployment, deteriorating purchasing power, insecurity, and widespread distrust of government have created a deeply frustrated population. From kidnapping and rural banditry to failing infrastructure and declining public confidence, the country’s governance challenges demand serious political accountability.
Yet frustration alone does not remove a government. Elections do. And therein lies Nigeria’s democratic predicament.
In the United States, elections are administered through decentralized state and local institutions operating under federal and state laws. Election officials, courts, observers, and established legal procedures provide multiple layers of accountability. The system is imperfect, frequently litigated, and vulnerable to partisan disputes. Nevertheless, its decentralized structure makes nationwide electoral manipulation by a single executive authority considerably more difficult.
Nigeria operates differently. The Independent National Electoral Commission (INEC) is constitutionally established as an independent institution. However, its chairman and national commissioners are appointed by the president, subject to Senate confirmation. This arrangement creates legitimate concerns about institutional autonomy, particularly when the appointing authority belongs to a political party contesting the elections.
Nigeria’s electoral history reinforces these concerns. The controversial 2007 presidential election exposed serious weaknesses in electoral administration. In 2015, however, Nigerians demonstrated that incumbency could be defeated when Goodluck Jonathan lost to Muhammadu Buhari. That historic transition remains powerful evidence that peaceful electoral change is possible.
But the 2023 presidential election again exposed institutional distrust. Disputes over electronic result transmission, transparency, and electoral procedures eventually reached the Supreme Court, which upheld President Bola Tinubu’s victory.
Courts are constitutionally empowered to resolve election disputes. The problem is not judicial involvement itself, but the perception that electoral outcomes increasingly depend on litigation rather than the unquestioned credibility of votes cast.
When citizens begin to believe that ballots are merely preliminary documents awaiting judicial interpretation, democracy suffers a dangerous credibility crisis.
Equally troubling is the protection of votes. INEC administers federal elections, while the Nigeria Police Force and other security agencies provide electoral security. These institutions operate within a centralized federal framework, raising concerns about executive influence over personnel, deployment, and operational independence.
How, then, can Nigerians stage an American-style electoral revolt when the institutions protecting their votes are themselves subjects of public suspicion? The answer requires more than opposition slogans, social media outrage, or massive political rallies.
First, Nigeria must constitutionally reform INEC’s appointment process. An independent, multipartisan selection mechanism, transparent public hearings, protected tenure, and guaranteed funding would reduce executive influence and strengthen electoral credibility.
Second, judicial independence must become nonnegotiable. Transparent appointments, financial autonomy, enforceable ethical standards, and expedited election petitions are essential. Courts must remain impartial arbiters, not become perceived substitutes for the electorate.
Third, electronic transmission and public verification of polling-unit results must become legally enforceable safeguards, supported by independent audits and meaningful penalties for manipulation.
Fourth, election security must be operationally insulated from partisan directives. Electoral offenses, including intimidation, ballot destruction, and result falsification, must attract swift and credible prosecution.
Voters must organize beyond ethnic loyalty
Finally, voters must organize beyond ethnic loyalty, religious sentiment, and online activism. They must register, mobilize, monitor polling units, document irregularities, and protect their electoral mandate through lawful civic participation. The ultimate tragedy of Nigerian democracy is not that citizens lack the courage to reject failed leadership. It is that they cannot consistently trust the machinery entrusted with translating their rejection into political change.
America’s midterms demonstrated the power of electoral accountability. Nigeria’s 2027 elections must confront a more fundamental question: whether the ballot remains stronger than the political establishment.
A democracy becomes a dangerous deception when citizens are permitted to vote but cannot confidently determine who wins. Nigeria does not merely need a voters’ revolt. It needs an electoral revolution in which institutions become stronger than incumbents, ballots become stronger than political influence, and the people’s verdict becomes stronger than the machinery of power.
♦ 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
“Jonathan’s calculated and weaponized ambiguity breeds deception and weakens emerging political alliances.” —Dr. Anthony Obi Ogbo
Former Nigerian President Goodluck Jonathan has once again found himself at the center of presidential speculation, floating silently above the country’s political waters while supporters aggressively market him as a possible candidate ahead of another critical election cycle. And once again, Jonathan is doing what he has mastered throughout his political career: saying nothing clearly while allowing political confusion to grow around him.
This pattern is not new. It is the same indecisive political behavior that defined some of the most consequential moments of his rise and fall. Jonathan became president in 2010 following the death of President Umaru Musa Yar’Adua. At the time, many northern political stakeholders within the then-ruling PDP believed there was an informal understanding that Jonathan would complete Yar’Adua’s term but not seek another full term in 2011, thereby preserving the party’s zoning arrangement between North and South. Instead of taking a clear and immediate position, Jonathan spent months dribbling the nation politically. He neither fully denied nor openly confirmed his intentions until the political tension had already escalated nationwide.
By the time he eventually declared his candidacy, the damage had been done. Many northern allies who initially supported him felt betrayed, politically cornered, or deceived. The PDP fractured internally, regional distrust deepened, and Jonathan’s relationship with major northern power blocs deteriorated permanently. Though he won the 2011 election, the cracks created by that indecision followed him into 2015, contributing significantly to the coalition that eventually removed him from power.
Yet Jonathan learned little from that experience. Since losing reelection in 2015, his name has repeatedly surfaced during every major electoral cycle as a potential presidential contender. Each time, his supporters strategically floated his candidacy across media platforms and political circles. Each time, Jonathan refused to decisively shut the door. Silence became his political instrument, whereas ambiguity became his strategy.
Now the country is witnessing the same playbook again. As coalition politics intensify and opposition forces attempt to consolidate around alternative political movements, Jonathan’s name has resurfaced aggressively. Reports and speculations about his presidential ambition continue to dominate political discussions, especially within camps seeking to disrupt the growing momentum surrounding Peter Obi and emerging opposition realignments.
The troubling part is not merely that Jonathan’s supporters are campaigning. The troubling part is that Jonathan fully understands the implications of his silence. He knows that his political stature carries enough weight to destabilize fragile coalition negotiations. He knows his name alone can divide campaign structures, weaken consensus-building, and inject uncertainty into opposition calculations. Yet he refuses to publicly and definitively state where he stands.
That is not statesmanship. That is calculated political ambiguity. Jonathan’s political history is filled with similarly contradictory choices. After losing power in 2015, he received widespread praise for conceding defeat peacefully. He initially framed that decision as a sacrifice made to preserve Nigerian lives and prevent violence. Later, however, different narratives emerged suggesting international pressure, particularly from the United States under President Obama. The shifting explanations weakened what could have remained one of his strongest democratic legacies.
Then came another contradiction. Despite emerging politically from the PDP, Jonathan gradually aligned himself closely with the administration of former President Muhammadu Buhari, serving in diplomatic and goodwill capacities that many PDP loyalists considered politically inappropriate. This unusual closeness fueled longstanding allegations that elements within the APC establishment viewed Jonathan as a useful political instrument capable of destabilizing opposition coalitions from within. Whether those allegations are true or not, Jonathan’s conduct has consistently created room for suspicion.
His political base remains uncertain. His campaign structure is invisible.
Today, his undeclared ambition is already generating confusion among supporters, coalition organizers, and opposition strategists. His political base remains uncertain. His campaign structure is invisible. His intentions are unclear. Yet his loyalists continue mobilizing aggressively in his name while he watches silently from the shadows.
Nigeria is too politically fragile for this kind of elite gamesmanship. At critical national moments, leadership demands clarity, courage, and accountability. Jonathan cannot continue operating as a permanent “maybe” in Nigeria’s political future, thoughtlessly hovering around every election season like an unanswered question designed to manipulate negotiations and weaken emerging alliances.
At this time, Jonathan should sit in or sit out! If he wants to run, he should declare openly, defend his record, and face the democratic process directly. If he does not intend to run, he should immediately and publicly withdraw his name from the political marketplace. Anything short of that increasingly looks less like political strategy and more like calculated deception. Nigeria deserves leaders who make difficult choices openly—not politicians who weaponize silence while others gamble with national uncertainty in their name.
♦ 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’s Forgotten Sacrifice and the Tragedy of Xenophobia in South Africa
As George Santayana famously warned, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” The unfolding xenophobic tensions in South Africa reflect more than economic strain; they reveal a deeper crisis of memory and meaning. When history fades, gratitude dissolves, and fear replaces solidarity. The violence directed at fellow Africans is not merely social unrest; it is a philosophical failure to reconcile past sacrifice with present identity, reminding us that nations, like individuals, must remember to remain whole.
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I recall that when I was in college in Nigeria, all Southern African students, present in substantial numbers, were on full federal government scholarships and received an additional income called a bursary. They lived better than many Nigerians; some even drove cars. Many adopted Nigerian names, assimilated seamlessly, and secured opportunities with ease, while Nigerian graduates faced rising unemployment. It was a quiet but powerful demonstration of solidarity, Nigeria investing in the future of a region still shackled by apartheid.
Today, that history feels almost erased.
For years now, waves of xenophobic attacks in South Africa, often targeting Nigerians, and more recently Ghanaians and other African nationals, have revealed a troubling pattern: violence fueled by economic frustration, misinformation, and historical amnesia. Shops are looted, homes burned, and lives disrupted under the recurring claim that “foreigners are taking jobs.” Yet this narrative collapses under even the most basic scrutiny of history.
Nigeria was not a bystander in South Africa’s liberation; it was a central force.
Under the military leadership of Olusegun Obasanjo, Nigeria became the first country in history to boycott the Commonwealth Games in protest against apartheid. That decision was not symbolic; it was costly, bold, and globally consequential. Obasanjo went further, advocating a continental defense posture and proposing what he termed a “Black bomb,” a radical idea reflecting the urgency of protecting African sovereignty against external aggression.
Nigeria’s commitment extended beyond rhetoric. During the Ibrahim Babangida regime, South Africa sought to exert strategic influence in Equatorial Guinea, offering infrastructure support before the discovery of oil. Nigeria recognized the geopolitical implications and decisively intervened, severing ties and offering its own support. The situation escalated to the point where Equatorial Guinea petitioned Nigeria at the United Nations for intervention. Nigeria did not retreat. This was not interference; it was protection. It was foresight. It was leadership.
Nigeria funded liberation movements, provided education, opened its economy, and bore economic sacrifices, including the nationalization of British Petroleum assets, to pressure the apartheid regime. These were not acts of charity; they were acts of conviction rooted in a vision of a free and united Africa.
And yet, decades later, Nigerians are hunted in the very land their country helped liberate.
The tragedy of xenophobia in South Africa is not merely about violence—it is about the collapse of historical consciousness. A generation disconnected from its past becomes vulnerable to manipulation, scapegoating, and misplaced anger. Economic hardship is real, but it does not justify the erasure of truth or the targeting of fellow Africans.
If history were remembered accurately, perhaps the conversation would be different. Perhaps the anger would be redirected toward structural inequalities rather than neighboring nationals. Perhaps the bonds of Pan-African solidarity would still hold.
But memory has faded, and in its absence, resentment has grown. Africa cannot afford selective memory. Nations that forget who stood with them in their darkest hours risk losing their moral compass in moments of crisis. Nigeria’s role in the liberation of South Africa is not a footnote—it is a foundation. To ignore it is to misunderstand both the past and the present.
Equally troubling is the persistent failure of successive South African governments to decisively confront and eradicate xenophobic violence. Such inaction, whether intentional or not, signals a dangerous tolerance, if not tacit endorsement, of these attacks, allowing them to recur with impunity. If brotherhood is to mean anything, it must be anchored in truth and reinforced by responsible leadership. And if Africa is to move forward, it must first remember and act.
♦ 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