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Page 1: The Rocks Cry Out

The Rocks Cry Out

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The Rocks Cry Out

Responses to the Jos Crisis of September 2001

Second Edition

Edited byDeborah L. Klein

Kenana Taisir NajmudeenReginald Cole

Association of Nigerian Authors, Plateau StateNoCompromise Productions, Jos

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2003

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THE ROCKS CRY OUT.Copyright © March 2003, October 2001 Association of Nigerian Authors, Plateau State Chapter by arrangement with NOCOMPROMISE PRODUCTIONS

Illustrations Copyright © March 2003. Kenana Taisir Najmudeen

Cover Design: Deborah L. KleinCover Photography: Anayochukwu J. Ohama & Reginald ColeBook Design: Henry Bature

All rights reserved. Printed in Nigeria.No part of this book may be used or reproduced in anymanner whatsoever without written permission except in thecase of brief quotations embodied in critical articles andreviews. For information address:

SecretaryANA, Plateau StateP. O. Box 10687Jos, Plateau StateNigeria

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Forward

For René Descartes, “Cogito ergo sum” (I think, therefore I am). Adapting that idea, we posit that part of what makes us human is our ability to think, though we do not all think alike. There exist almost as many explanations, suppositions, and assumptions about the Jos Crisis of September 2001 (and the following violent events which continue in Plateau State even as of this writing) as there exist people who experienced the events. And because, as the Bible says, “As a man thinks in his heart, so is he”, our thinking shapes our actions, and reactions.

Some have reacted dishonourably to the Crisis, some have reacted honourably. We believe that art, honest art, art that promotes the Good, is honourable, and to produce such art in evil times is especially honourable. Hence, in this book you now hold in your hand, we give you art out of distress. The teardrops spilt upon the rocks of Jos have here been distilled into ink for our pens.

The trauma lingers, as even today, refugee camps outside Langtang house dislocated villagers of Plateau State. We still stiffen and prepare for flight at every explosion which might be gunfire. The guests at a wedding begin to shout, and nervous neighbours prepare for the cry, “Suna zuwa! They are coming!”

What wonderful “prayer partners” we find in today’s Jos, surely not what Francis of Assisi intended when he asked that God make him “an instrument of . . . peace”. Outside our religious meetings march “security forces”, in perverted obedience to the command, “Watch and pray”: those outside watch with guns, while those inside pray. The too-often deceptive media continue to warn residents against the spreading of “falls rumours”, leading us to wonder how we may discern what is true. Regular gatherings of neighbourhood security groups construct high cement-block fences with thick

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steel gates. Warning everyone to stay indoors after dark, they encourage us to trust in these black “soot”- painted gates rather than those in green camouflage suits. Some experiences leave indelible marks in the memory. Only by sharing our pain and fear with others can we transmute suffering into healing. This new edition of The Rocks Cry Out has enjoyed more careful review and revision than the frantically rushed first edition. The rough diamond of our initial printing has undergone vigorous polishing, and so we believe its little gems shine more with more brilliance. A few new jewels have been added to the collection. If at times the gleam of our words too much resembles the glint of a sharpened machete, we plead that as writers we must both reflect and refract. Nevertheless our overall goal is to enlighten. May you find among our rocks and stones a pearl of great price.

Reginald ColeDeborah L. KleinKenana Taisir Najmudeen

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Forward to the 1st Edition

Now Cain said to his brother Abel, “Let’s go out to the field”. And while they were in the field, Cain attacked his brother Abel and killed him.

Then the LORD said to Cain, “Where is your brother Abel?”

“I don't know,” he replied. “Am I my brother’s keeper?”

The LORD said, “What have you done? Listen! Your brother’s blood cries out to me from the ground. Now you are under a curse, and driven from the ground, which opened its mouth to receive your brother’s blood from your hand.”

Genesis 4:8-11

Once upon a time, while ethnic and religious riots erupted with irregular frequency throughout Nigeria, the residents of Jos, Plateau State responded with proud assurance, “That sort of barbarism doesn’t happen here.” In those days displaced and terrified victims of other crises fled to Jos, the city of refuge. But now shocked, disbelieving, our complacency lies shattered like the shards of broken bottles still piled at the edges of the road.

Most of us still have no idea how it even started. A few facts are agreed upon: 1) An unpopular man was appointed to head the Poverty Alleviation Programmed for Jos North Local Government. 2) Many objected and demanded the man’s removal. 3) Immediately following Juma’at Prayers at the Central Mosque, on Friday, 7 September 2001, a group of protesters moved from the mosque to the Jos North LGA Headquarters to demonstrate their support for the appointee. 4) At the LGA office, the protesters were turned back. 5) In another part of town about this same time, a quarrel broke out at a religious roadblock. Some time after these encounters, chaos took over, leaving no reliable accounts as to who first attacked whom, when, where, or why. At first most residents did not take the matter

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seriously, especially as accounts of the rioting got mixed together with a previously circulating story of unknown persons magically removing other people’s private parts, a strangely persistent example of urban myth. As word of fighting and killing spread, so did hysteria. Jos neighbourhoods are ethnically and religiously mixed, even when one group predominates. So no one particular area became subject to attack. Rather, all over town, the majority group rose up against the others in their area, and attacked and murdered those people in the name of self-defence. Only some neighbourhoods made up of educational professionals (for example, the University Senior Staff Quarters), or the very wealthy (like the section of Rayfield, where the Governor lives) did not experience internal massacres, and those neighbourhoods became refugee sites for those who only wanted to flee the violence, “safe zones” to be defended against outside invasion. Jos had become a city “at war”.

Even after the first wave of violence had died down, most residents feared to leave whatever place of safety they had found, and so hunger quickly threatened the city. Shops and market areas dared not open. Families cautiously reunited in areas of their “own people”, and the new arrivals brought with them tales of horror and information on where to find the often burnt and beheaded bodies of their dead. Now the rage for revenge ignited a new wave of killings, and Wednesday, 12 September 2001 saw more mayhem, now more co-ordinated and unleashing the dogs of war.

During all of this, a major complaint on all sides was the seeming indifference of the government to the plight of its citizens. Although the state government had reasons to anticipate trouble, the governor himself was not merely out of the state, but outside the country. The chief of police appeared unwilling to send adequately armed officers to defend any venue except the Central

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Forward to the 1st Edition 9

Mosque, and even when the federal government finally mobilised army and air force units, the initial security forces were too few and often too partisan. Many impartial eye-witnesses have reported police or soldiers standing by with folded arms while “their” people slaughtered “those” people.

Jos is calm now. Calm, though still tense—and still patrolled by armed men in olive fatigues, and still under evening curfew. People have begun to bury the evidence and rebuild their shops and their lives. What has not yet returned is the former joyful confidence in one’s fellow man. Ethnic and religious animosity openly parade the streets and pervade the conversations. We offer this anthology of poems and essays as a counter-voice.

When Allen, who is Muslim, first came to assure himself of the safety of Deborah and Anayo, who are Christian, we all agreed, after rejoicing in one another's well-being and the continuance of our friendship, that we needed to produce this book. We wanted to show that ANA, composed of many religious viewpoints, will not be torn asunder by blind hatred and finger-pointing paranoia. If the pen is mightier than the sword, then let us use our art to promote virtue over violence, compassion over partisanship, and let us remind readers that we are an association of Nigerian authors; we work together, as one people.

Due to the immediacy of the events, most of the works included here have been composed, edited, and assembled, sometimes quite literally on the run. Some remain in the rough, insufficiently polished, and not yet embellished with due filigree. Certainly we have not enjoyed the Wordsworthian luxury of recollecting “in tranquility”. Nevertheless, we thought it important to collect these responses and partial accounts while events remain fresh in the authors’ minds, before memory reshapes the moment. This volume is both art and history, a witness and a statement, significantly unorchestrated in voice.

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The rocks that define Jos continue to weep, and blood continues to flow, even as uniformed men and armoured vehicles continue their patrols. We offer this book not to incite, not to provoke more resentment and fighting, but to melt the hearts of stone that encourage such atrocities to take place. In a spirit of love—for all human life—and with a stubborn hope. for why write if our writing changes nothing?—we place these poems and testimonies in your hands. Handle them as precious stones, for some do sparkle, and all crush easily. And may our voices help to water the germ of peace in the blood-soaked soil of our nation.

Deborah L. KleinAnayochukwu J. OhamaOmale Allen Abdul-Jabbar

October 2001

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Table of Contents

Forward 5

Forward to 1st Edition 7

Season of War - Nancin Namun Dadem 13

Insanity - Mmaasa Masai 14

Hope for the Rocks - Nkiruka Irene Molokwu 17

I Saw . . . - Reginald Cole 20

Landscape of Sorrow - Redzie D. Jugo 23

Seventh September -

Uwemedimo Enobong Iwoketok 24

I traverse my land . . . - Ayimo Amos Dauda 25

Apprehension - Angela F. Miri 26

Sunset on the Rocks - Chima Onwude 27

Day of the Marionettes - Kingsley Madueke 46

Euphemisms -Deborah L. Klein 48

Rumour Mongers - Anayochukwu J. Ohama 51

The Streets of Jos - Reginald Cole 52

Senben - Mmaasa Masai 54

The Storm - Redzie D. Jugo 56

Hey! Hey!! Hey!!! - Nanzing Tahiru Dangbut 57

Strange Friday – Ikemefuna S. Onwude 63

Ogun Bares His Arms - Mmaasa Masai 65

September Seven and Twelve - Za Pitman 68

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They Are Coming - Anayochukwu J. Ohama 70

Carnage on the Plateau - Maryam Ali Ali 75

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Raped Innocence –

Augustine Oritsewyinmi Oghanrandukun 77

Laughing in Sadness – Dul Johnson 78

Innocent Virgin – Aro Richard 94

Requiem Jos – Mmaasa Masai 96

Jos, I Weep – Anayochukwu J. Ohama 98

How Do You Feel? – Reginald Cole 100

Coroner’s Inquest – Deborah L. Klein102

Happy Survival – Carmen McCain 103

Food Is Ready - Za Pitman108

Glossary 110

Illustrations by Kenana Taisir Najmudeen

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13

Season of WarNancin Damun Dadem

Normal, as usual, it came,dawn of a new day,breaking the rule of the night.Morning came.

Noon passed, afternoon arrived,all bright as always, that day,activity engaged, calm present,just like any other Friday.

But about the fifteenth hour,the cradle of peace quaked.Uproar rang. From that hourto the immediate tomorrow,

Heads rolled to eternity,fire inherited property.From porous security and negligence we flee,but to where? Another palava.

To tensed sister states? No.America’s tumbling towers? Never.The middle of eastern earth? Not at all.Peace has evacuated the earth.

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InsanityMmaasa Masai

Jos. 12 noon. Blazing sun. I stopped in the middle of the day, in the middle of everything I was doing to make ends meet, and walked back home, consumed by my thoughts. Home. A shanty affair. The curse of being a graduate in Nigeria. My books littered the floor like tree-shed leaves after a bad wind. One chair somewhat regal, loaned to me by Mr. Sylvester—until I can get one of my own. A razz mattress on the floor which I’m still paying for, on which I’ve plastered my American flag, betraying my dreams . . .

I rushed to the kitchen in the BQ which I share with four other folks. Nothing to eat. Like a sparkle of thunder and lightning, momentarily, I spied a vista and gleam of Tomorrow. Back in the room, I picked up the dictionary and preceded for the umpteenth time to look up the meaning of graduate. This word, what does it mean? I’ve been a graduate for four years—I know not what it means . . .

I boarded an okada and headed out again. Chasing money. Chasing the wind. British-America junction. We looked towards Jengre Road, towards Murtala Mohammed and behold . . . madness. It's coming. It's everywhere—suddenly . . .

Jos. Home of peace and tourism. The town where birds never stop singing and wind caresses gently like the touch of a mother . . . But look. Jos today . . . It’s a town, like Umuofia in colonial days. Okonkwo has just committed the abomination. He’s hanging on a tree, dangling like the bag of potatoes so prevalent in Jos. All the elders standing, arms folded or akimbo.

Running. Everywhere, running. Quickly, I get down from the okada and become one of the elders, arms folded across my chest. Watching, perplexed, amazed . . . lost.

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Insanity 15

Men, Women, boys, girls, dogs, chickens . . . everyone, everything—running. They run like mad towards me, where I’m standing. Madness spills from up, simmers from downwards. It boils over from Terminus area, Ahmadu Bello—uptown. It’s coming. Surely it’s coming. Cars screech and u-turn in typical Mafia or American gangster fashion. Gbamnmmm! A collision. The front of a Hiace bus smashed. Glass washes the coal tar, confused as me. The buses, neither of them stop. Running. Everyone, everything running.

A friend and I laugh at the runners, wondering what in God’s blessed name is up?

A woman passes by footwear in hand, head-tie on waist perspiring like there’s no tomorrow.

“Madam, what is the problem?”She can’t even breathe. She’s out of it.“My brother . . .”She needs oxygen desperately. “We don’t even

know . . . as we see people running, that’s why we are also running.”

A few of us band together in front of the VIO office, immobilised by curiosity.

“Why are they running?” This question begged an answer which no one seemed to have.

Running cars, buses. Everyone, everything—I thought, it was, well, funny.

Another woman arrived our land. To the small hamlet of the curious, fearless?

“Madam please what is it? What? Wetin de happen for up dey?” Fine.

Finally, this one has a story. An explanation.“Since early morning na im de trouble start-o! Me,

Ah carry my palm oil come market for terminus-NYSC Secretariat for Jos North since morning. Dem say one youth copa, na im one man carry im prik. As dem catch de man, im come return am. When dem come test am for JUTH, dem come see say e no return am full. De copa no gree. Dem say dey mus' kill de man . . . Small

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time katakata burst reach Terminus—na im everybody begin run.”

“What about your palm oil?”“Which kin. palm oil? Ah beg make u leef me jare.

Ah de fin' way wey Ah go take reach my house for Nassarawa—no road!”

She’s gone and we still stand there pondering. Panic everywhere. The utmost fear: fear of the

unknown. It drives the entire populace into orgiastic frenzy and helter-skelter is the music they dance.

An ache in my stomach, persistent hunger pangs, reminds me that I only drank a cup of coffee today. And now it’s 3 p.m. There’s madness in the city of Jos, home of peace and tourism where the benevolent breezes blow.

Why in God’s name would “carrying” an individual penis throw the whole town into a frenzy? See how everyone’s running. What do they really fear?

“Ah, thank God-o! I thought it’s a Moslem crisis,” volunteered a fair-skinned, middle aged man near me.

Why could it not be a Christian crisis? I asked him. He used his term very inappropriately. And among the terribly dis-enlightened—could be in itself provocative. Religion. Volatile water.

Well, I walked home. Everywhere, people stood under eaves or in front of their shops, all securely locked.

On the radio Michael Botmang imposed a 6 to 6 curfew on Jos. He asked everyone to remain calm, for security agents to deal ruthlessly with anyone identified as fomenting trouble or escalating same.

I went to bed still wondering what had really happened or was happening.

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Hope for the RocksNkiruka Irene Molokwu

“These people are calm and peaceful,”Okoro told me.“This is a blessed land.”Of course, I believed him,Since he is my brother.

I went back to base,Put my things together,Returned to live in the Tin City.But what a shockWhen I arrived!

Thick smoke rising heavily,All business fronts locked,Human beings running in fear.Many trekking, many standing.What . . . . ?

“Tin City on fire,”Said the middle-aged lady.“Dare you not drive towards the station,”She warned me,“Else you would not come back alive.”

O-O-O! No!God! are you not with me?What do I do?Should I go back to base?No, not at all, said the Spirit.

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I looked up and aroundAt the glorious rocksNow radiating blood and smoke and fire,Wailing and lamentation.May God the Creator forgive these evils!

I heard a strange noise:War songs chanted,Hooting, yelling.In this tense, uneasy departure of peace,Human safety also fled.

Hei! Hei!! Hei!!!Pam, Nandir, Nankwat,Duncalun, Uram, Akat,Shayen, Ajik, Rouku!Why go you mad?

Why have you paintsAll over your facesWhat are you doing?We are not mad.We are not animals.

Neither are we barbarians.We are sane. We are reasonable.They have pushed us to the fence,Abused our hospitality,Grieved us to the marrow.

Do we look like animals?Their offence was bestial.We only defend ourselves.Their offence was uncivilised.I hear you, Pam, Uram, Rouku.

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Hope for the Rocks 19

But now, let you and your brothersForgive and give peace a chance.Let us pray for the peace of the rocks,That their glory shall radiate again,That they shall bleed no more.

May I open my eyes againTo see the rocks in their former beauty,The people calm and peaceful,The land a blessed place.And so shall it be. Amen.

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I Saw . . .Reginald Cole

My childDon’t ask me whyI can’t tell youAll I knowIs that I sawYes I did seeI saw men runningRunning to . . .I don’t know whereI saw women tooCarrying loadsLoads on their headsBabies on their backsInfants that can hardly walkWere trying to lopeAnd the women wailedThe children screamedBut their screamWas too loudI could hardly hearAll I heard wasThe-e- . . .

y-ac . . . om . . . ing . . .

But I did runI ran tooBut why did I run?I saw themThey ranAnd still on my wayI sawDown by the river sideDown by the river sideDown by the river side

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I Saw . . . 21

Bodies were floatingWithout legsDown by the riversideSwollen, like ChristmasBalloonsYes, I rememberThat songTo study the world no moreStudents!They diedRogo massacre

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Lecturers?They died tooWho will teach my children?Pastors diedHa!They’ve struck the shepherdWhat about the sheep?Like a lamb to the slaughterThe wind that carries the mortarWill not spare the winnowing fanThe police stareAla -wak -barrrAllelujah!!!Turn the other cheekWe are more than conquerorsWe know no defeatYet I sawMen carrying clubsKnives, cutlassesBroken glassesEverywhere clashesI saw smokeThere must be fireRun run runThere is fire on the plateauRun run runGo get me soldiersRun run runWhere is the governor?Ssh . . .I say where is the gov.?POW! POW !! POW !!!And I heardEverything is under . . .Is under . . .Is under . . .And under six feetThere is curfew !

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Landscape of SorrowRedzie D. Jugo

Blurredmy visiontears washmy eyesendlesslya gruesome paintinga pointing daggerstabs repeatedlymy heartI weepindeed I weep formy virgin cityJosraped brutally beforeher wedding feastwith the bliss ofthe future.

I weepI stareI seebrothers makingsandy streamsideof laughteroverflow with crimsoncolour of needless valour.oh God! listen to me nowI praymy visionblurredfor I weepindeed I weepfor my city.

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Seventh SeptemberUwemedimo Enobong Iwoketok

Jos, land of peace and tourism,Is a song well known to all,But Friday, seventh of September,We heard a different song.Kpukpukpu kpakpakpa kpukpukpu kpakpakpaWent the strange refrain.Corpses here, corpses there,Houses set ablaze.Carcasses of pleasure carsBurnt beyond repair.Jos, the land of peace,Engulfed in wild frenzy:Matcheting, clubbing, hacking, looting.Hatred, malice, fear terror.

Who set the rocks ablaze?Who cut the babies' throats?Who tore the peace asunder?

Jos, land of peace and tourism,That’s what the sages know.But Friday, seventh September,Jos, land of piece and thugrism,Was what we discovered.

Jos, land of peace and tourism,Is what she’ll always be.Let the rocks be melted,And smokes to heavens rise.Let the gatherings gather,And arms be multiplied.Let years of incubation,Roll and roll and roll—Jos, land of peace, she always wasAnd she will always beJos, land of peace and tourism,The Ages have known and will see.

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I traverse my land . . .Ayimo Amos Dauda

I traverse my land, my ancestral land,to an alien region,amid a multitude,a multitude of beautiful black skinslike mine,With smiling eyes, bright laughter,hands outstretched, bosoms open.I rest there, like a fisherman on the riverbank.

We toil, we feast, we sleep.Each morning, we join hands in peace.

Suddenly! yes, suddenly,Peace hides herself,battered.I look for days, for weeks, for months,but Peace I cannot find.Now I eat, I drink, I sleep no more.I am bent, like a peasant farmer,In search of Peace, my companion.

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ApprehensionAngela F. Miri

Why stop and stare at me, neighbour?Why glance from the corner of your eye?I sense unease, fear, well knownonly to those whose tongues have tastedtremulous clouds dispensing salty dew drops at dawn.I cannot trust the man next door.And he seems aghast at my appearance,because he, too, cannot trust me.Confidence evaporates, suspicion hangs Everywhere I turn, in the air.

Fear reigns supremeamidst guided guards. surveillance.What happens when the treeof good and evil is stripped bare?When steel disintegrates?What happens when uniformed protectors withdraw?Nothing, nothing, absolutely nothing remains.Then consciousness is as naked as a newborn.Do not shudder;We too must retreat early at dusk,Not on prayer day alone,For apprehension and fear prevail.

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Sunset on the RocksChima Onwude

Friday, 7th September 2001, 3 p.m. I did not know what was going on, that the whole city was on fire. Indeed it was a shock to me to hear that stars were falling down from heaven and that sun and moon had turned to blood.

If I had died that day like the hundreds of people who were slaughtered like goats and rams, some people would have said, “A-ah! He was destined to die during Jos carnage.” But I wouldn’t say that those whose blood was thoughtlessly poured on the streets of Jos were fated to die that day. I wouldn’t say that those whose bodies were roasted like grass-cutters and new tubers of yam were sentenced to death by God that gloomy day. I don’t believe that properties reduced to ashes were all fruits of wickedness reaped by their owners.

That morning I went to school for a class that did not hold. Nothing unusual or ominous in that. The previous day, I had visited a course-mate, who had been ill that week. Finding him asleep, I had dropped a note promising to come after Friday’s class and bring him to our house for the weekend. When the class did not hold, I first went home to get some poems to send with a friend to Abuja. A colleague also had something to send. About 3:15, as I picked my bag, ready to go out, my niece ran in, breathless and terrified.

“They say that they are killing people at the main road and removing their private parts. People are running into the Quarters parking their cars.”

What a story! It had no meaning at all. It sounded like a folktale. I ran outside the house. My step-sister,

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who had gone out five minutes earlier to visit friends at Katako Road, returned, saying there had been riot in the town.

My elder brother, Andrew, seemed unsurprised. Perhaps some Muslims had carried out their threat to force their way into Jos North Local Government. Something about a man whom the indigenes had rejected as local Chairman of the Poverty Alleviation Programme.

“If that happens, it could cause a riot,” he said.We became very worried because my younger

sister was out at PSAMS, attending extra-mural lessons for her GCE exams. My cousins were out to the University. Andrew’s driver had gone to Terminus to buy something. If there was a riot, were they secure? Andrew and I decided to go to PSAMS and pick my sister, and perhaps the fellows. Bauchi Road Motor Park was already deserted. Everywhere silent as a graveyard. We saw one group of Muslims coming out from either inside their mosque or the Motor Park itself. They resembled mourners leaving the cemetery after the burial of a loved one. As we were about to turn, those Muslim guys tried unsuccessfully to stop a vehicle ahead of us. Fear gripped me. Thank God that he helped us make it through the turn. We managed to make it to PSAMS but found every building empty. We could not reach the University.

By the time we got home my sister still had not returned, but the driver had come back. He said that several places in the town had been burnt down. A young man entered the Quarters about then, claiming he had narrowly escaped the Muslims at Dilimi bridge. Whoever they caught, he said, they killed and threw into the River.

Panic. We gathered in our parlour and prayed. We had barely uttered our “Amen” when my sister came in. She had left PSAMS to attend another class on Bauchi Ring Road, only to meet the riot as she was coming

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back. You can imagine how happy and relieved we were at her safe return. We praised God. We also had no doubt that God would bring my cousins back unhurt.

Shortly, we saw a group of people, mostly women and children, moving in single file like an army of soldier ants, coming up from the southern side of our wall. They said they came from the Lutheran mission compound behind our Quarters. Someone had run into their compound claiming that the Muslims were coming to burn everything. So they had broken a hole in the wall to escape. Some of them came into our house and some, including a white lady, followed the line of Dogon Dutse. Trying to glimpse what was going on at Dogon Dutse Road, Andrew turned our rooftop into an observatory.

These bizarre events terrified our children. As we sat at the dining table trying to calm them down, the two older boys burst out crying.

“Daddy, are they coming to kill us?” Zach sobbed.“No. No one is coming to kill us.”“Bu-but uncle will they burn our house?” asked

Effiong.“God will not allow anybody do such thing to us.”“But Daddy, why are people running?” Zach put in.“It seems some people are fighting.”“Why are they fighting?” Effiong asked.Andrew’s wife, agitated, took me aside.“I don’t think children should grow up with this

kind of memory. This is very bad. I don’t want them to fear every Muslim they meet.”

I knew I had to word my answer in a way to calm the boys. One thing was certain: they already knew something was going on—unlike the baby, Ozioma, who continued playing and running around the house. Like the boys, I didn’t know the details. I did not want to overemphasise the possible religious elements, especially as I firmly believe that no one who truly believes in God and Christ his Son will carry guns and

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machetes and march along the streets of Jos looking for people to kill. At last I said,

“Boys, God will protects us. Don’t be afraid.”They become somewhat reassured and relaxed.

Andrew’s driver could not make it home through Bauchi Road park, the road had been sealed up and Muslims had begun burning cars and houses. He brought rumour that the Juma'at Mosque had been burned down. His car dented by his own attackers, he parked in our compound and headed toward Gada Biu on foot. Sam (a friend visiting from Lagos) and I decided to climb up Dogon Dutse for a better view of the city.

Atop the mountain we met those Lutheran people. Refugees filled the streets in all directions. Smoke climbed to the sky. We identified Nassarawa, Angwan Rogo, Katako, all smoke darkened. A group of boys identified one of places burning in Angwan Rogo as their COCIN Church. We could see clearly the unharmed minarets of Jos Central Mosque. For this reason we falsely concluded that most of the smoke we saw came from tyres burnt at roadblocks. After about twenty minutes, we returned home, where Andrew’s wife had begun recording stories on the purported events of the day.

All the while we had been waiting to hear a government press statement to clarify the situation. At last the Deputy Governor announced that the government was aware of the “small disturbance in the city” and assured us that “all possible security measures have been put in place to bring the situation under control.” But we wondered why the Deputy Governor addressed us instead of the Governor himself. Before the end of that day, we learnt that the Governor had traveled abroad for his annual leave.

After the broadcast, Sam and I decided to go out to Bauchi Road to observe the atmosphere there. We came out of our street and headed towards Total Filling

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Station to see things for ourselves. Sure enough we did not miss the macabre, wanton killings and damages. We saw a young man lying on the road. What was he doing there when everyone was looking for holes to hide in? Certainly he was not there for fun. That place was no bed. But it might have become his eternal bed. He turned his head like a woman in labour pains, wriggling his legs like a dying snake. We crossed over to where he lay.

“What!” I cried. Something we had not noticed all this time. My blood rippled.

“What is it?” Sam asked.“Cruelty! Barbarism! Madness! Look, look at his

entrails!”“God have mercy on these people,” moaned Sam.The young man managed to tell us he had been

coming back from Terminus area, thinking the situation had died down, unaware of the snakes hiding under the dried leaves. Someone had run out from JAWAB Motors and cut his the stomach.

That was my first time of seeing someone’s intestines in my life. A gory sight. We begged three other people that were passing by to help us take him to Plateau Private Clinic there on Bauchi Road. But there was no doctor there to assist the young man. We could have gone to JUTH, but there was no vehicle on the road, no security agent, no Red Cross people. A hopeless situation indeed. (He died early in the morning the next day).

As we came out of the hospital, I suggested to Sam that we move up to the University Senior Staff Quarters junction to see how that area looked. The main street was alive with clusters of people discussing the situation. Bauchi Road from our street to SSQ junction looked deceptively calm, and people I thought would have been blocked by the riot moved in different directions, mostly in groups.

As we walked we observed more smoke spiralling up to the skies at Angwan Rogo and Katako areas. Behind

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Water Board/ PDP/ X&Y Motors, we saw some young people looking toward the smoke. We passed on. But about sixty metres from our goal, we observed that whenever people got to the junction they either ran into the SSQ road or turned back towards our direction. I told Sam that it was not safe for us to go further. So we retreated.

Opposite the Water Board we discovered the boys we had noticed about four minutes earlier coming out to Bauchi Road, towards us. To our dismay we saw that each of them now carried either a long machete or a club. We ran into J Close, a street before ours. They chased us and ordered us to stop. When they saw many people there they turned back. We followed a track road that connects our street to J Close and headed home.

We came into our street about fifty metres from Bauchi Road and walked down to a group of young women standing under a cashew tree beside the road. Among them was a former classmate of mine, whose younger brother had gone to the town shortly before the riot began and had not yet come back. We tried to reassure her and mentioned that two people from our own compound had not returned from the University. She reported finding a fellow student cut open by the rioters.

“We took him to that Hospital—” She gestured. “— but there was no doctor. I wonder if he will survive.”

War can really eat up people’s memory. She did not even remember that we had been among those who took the young man to the hospital.

As we listened, we saw my younger cousin coming up the street. This gave us a moment of relief and renewed our confidence that all our people would eventually return safely. Before Uzo reached us we overheard one woman telling how their pastor had warned of a threatening letter telling the “Christians” to get ready, so they would not complain of being taken unawares. When someone suggested that

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Muslims had burnt down a Roman Catholic Church building, Our

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Lady of Fatima, at Katako, the woman insisted that “Christians” must certainly retaliate. How could any true follower of Christ offer such a threat? Did Jesus not teach, “turn the other cheek,” and “vengeance is mine I will repay”? Most “Christians” never read the Bible, it seems, or they read it upside-down.

When Uzo reached us, he reported a precarious situation at the University campus. Yet he had managed to come back through Angwan Rogo. While he spoke, we saw two blood-bathed men brought to the doctor-less hospital: one cut on the head, the other on the neck. The hospital gate was barred. When the escorts knocked furiously and got no response, one of them climbed the fence. A few minutes later, another man, also cut on the neck, was led in from the other direction.

Suddenly, from Terminus area, we heard a Mobile Police siren wailing. At first we thought the Deputy Governor was coming. Before we knew it the vehicles had zoomed across Bauchi Road to the University area. And that was it. We had expected them to rescue the students, lecturers, and other University staffs that were blocked off since the riot started. But instead, shouts of war continued from that end. (The students who were then at Bauchi Road Campus later reported that the Policemen did not stop when they got to the University. Those in the hostels said that when the convoy came to the hostels, they merely asked if there were any casualties they could help to carry to the hospital).

Fear and distress gripped me, and I turned pale.“I can’t stand this,” I said to Sam. “Let’s go home.”“No Chima. Not yet. Let’s stay here and watch the

situation.”“Not me Sam. I can no longer stand this bloody

theatre.”He laughed. “What will you do in the event of real

war, die before your enemy comes to you? Joe has not

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come back. We need to see if we can hear any news about him.”

“You say real war? What war are you talking about? Because you have not been killed? Man, this is war, don’t pray for a greater war than this. Anyway, Uzo is back, and Joe will be back. He is safe wherever he is, let’s go home.”

“I can see you are scared to death.” He laughed again.

“Yes, I am not only scared but angry.”“Why? Look, Chima, you have to be a man.”“Maybe I am not man enough to go and fight.

Maybe I am not so brave as to feed on innocent blood. Yes, I am not man enough to stay and watch innocent people cut down like trees or their heads smashed like snails. I can no longer stand to watch innocent people wriggle in pain like earthworms. This is cruelty and madness.”

“Sorry, let’s not quarrel about this, Chima. I did not mean to hurt you. Jos has already been injured. Its soil bleeds like your heart.”

I was indeed distressed. Pursued like a criminal by mobs with clubs and machetes; innocent people bathed with their own blood; men, women and children roaming the streets like sheep without a shepherd, some hiding under rocks like rabbits running from hunters. What offences had they, had their properties committed?

Did they deserve to be driven out of their houses because some madmen and drunks believed they were either serving God or defending His name? What gave each victim the wrong face or identity? How did the properties happen to be in the wrong places or belong to the wrong people? When did so many Jos residents suddenly become the wrong people to live in Jos? Since when did their homes become the wrong places for them?

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As we passed along our own street, men and women stood gazing like hopeless hens whose chicks have been snatched by hawks. When would another hawk come and who would it carry next? Some of our neighbours stood with clubs and machetes, as though waiting for snakes and rats. Would they really kill with those weapon if they had the opportunity? Instantly, I heard widows, children, relations crying for their husbands, fathers, sons, brothers and uncles: crying for their breadwinners for they are no more.

At home, the deputy Governor announced over the radio, “There was some disturbance in the city of Jos this afternoon. But the situation has been brought under control. Normalcy has returned. Go into your house and sleep. Our security men will deal with you ruthlessly if they see you panicking. Congratulations! Rest in peace in the bosom of the Lord. Remain blessed.” Meanwhile, we continued to hear gunshots from east, west, north and south of the Tin City, not from security forces, but from great hunters of human heads. The sun set and we sank into the night with our eardrums blasted by unaccustomed whistles, calling for vigilance.

That night sleep flew from our eyes, because the thane of Cawdor had murdered sleep. That night only the kids slept blissfully. That night, Andrew, Sam, and I became sentries for our household. We shared ourselves each to one of the three verandas. Dogs barked nervously at every gun-shot and blast of whistle. The only true companion and security for the people of Jos that night was NEPA. In fact, throughout the period of crisis, light never went off, especially at night.

At 4:30 a.m. Saturday, September the 8th, I fell into a brief spell. Even in my dreams I kept praying that daybreak would come with a message of hope. But as we would see, nothing had changed. Instead, like his brother Friday, that Saturday brought more sorrow,

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more widows, more orphans, more weeping mothers. More human and car carcasses. More fire and brimstone on the city of Jos. The ruin was so great that cocks could not crow.

Joe’s voice in the adjoining room woke me up at 6:30 am. I was temporarily relieved. “Thank God,” I breathed. “Maybe this is a sign of a good day.” He was telling how he and other students were rescued by soldiers. According to him, both the Vice Chancellor and the Students’ Union President had attempted to contact the Police Commissioner, but whenever they introduced themselves, the man hung up on them. Some time close to midnight some soldiers’ wives had contacted their husbands, and one senior military officer, had sent a detachment of 12 soldiers. This detachment had rescued not only the women, but also anyone living nearby. That was how Joe came back early that morning. The soldiers could not do more than that because there was no official order for them to go out and stop the crisis. So they went back to the barracks.

For us residents of the Government Quarters, Bauchi Road, only the mercy of God saved us from the hand of the rioters. That neighbourhood was very porous. There was no physical protection, except the mountain. Even there, a track road from Dogon-Dutse Road, one of the most dangerous areas that day, came through the back of the Quarters. Bauchi Road, in the front of the Quarters, was occupied territory. So if God had allowed the Quarters to be attacked, it could have come from both or either of the sides.

Saturday morning produced more frayed nerves for the residents of the Government Quarters. Even God knew that there was no shepherd for his people. Women and children roamed in utter hopelessness, many making their way to our house as a sort of refuge. Sam and I went out to observe how things were faring on Bauchi Road. Along Yusufu Musa’s main street, old men, young men and a few young ladies, as on the

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previous night, held clubs, bottles, stones, pieces of iron. A few people who could afford machetes had armed themselves with them, waiting for any attack from the “jihadists” across the road. From the entrance of the Quarters on Bauchi Road, we could see Muslim boys guarding JAWAB Motors and Total and Mobil Filling Stations with their weapons, waiting for any unwary creature who would dare cross from there. Two times that morning they attempted to attack the Quarters, but were chased back by the “Christian soldiers.”

For me the problem was, if our neighbourhood were attacked, were would we go? We had five ladies and four children in the house. The adults could run, but to where? How would we carry the children and perhaps some food and our belongings?

Momentarily, my thoughts drifted away from the problems of our household and got into other things, ridiculous now that the crisis was wearing a religious mask: “Christians” were fighting with Muslims but I, a Christian, had Muslim friends, classmates with whom I had earlier had religious discussions. I had never heard them speak against me or any non-Muslim that I knew. One had even taken me to a Restaurant, fed me and expressed his genuine desire for us to be friends. He had in fact been protected by a man of my tribe during the Kaduna riot just passed. That Saturday morning I kept thinking: Where are these my friends now? Are they safe? Another thought, I now sadly confess, came into my mind: Might they all be part of this mess? Can I trust them again? I could not picture any of them carrying guns or daggers or clubs, hunting for “infidels”. Maybe I am unnecessarily suspicious. And sure enough I was, as time would tell.

“Chima, with the present atmosphere do you think these Quarters are safe for these women and children?” Sam asked.

“My brother, this is a serious question, but where do we take them to?” 38 The Rocks Cry Out

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“I understand that it is not an easy decision to take, but something has to be done. It is better to find a place and send them to avoid blame, if anything should happen.”

“The only place I know we can send them is to my aunt’s house in Jarawa village off Bauchi Ring Road or to Lamingo, but we have no way of getting there. To attempt Dogon Dutse or Angwan Rukuba would be committing suicide. The only alternative is to take them to the mountains.”

“I suggest that we take them to the mountain instead of just waiting until the fight gets to our doorpost,” he insisted. We agreed to try to get Andrew to consent to this plan.

When we got home, we found Andrew sitting on a mat in front of the garage. Chiamaka was sitting on the step in front veranda with the children, surrounded our dogs—four nervous dogs—who were rather seeking protection from the human beings. The dogs seemed to understand that all the people pouring into our compound were looking for protection, thus, thankfully, they did not bark at these strangers.

After giving Andrew the situation report, we suggested that some physical security measures should be taken. He did not object to any plan that would move the women and children further away from danger. He only questioned where we would take them. When we mentioned the mountain, he agreed. The women of the household, however, broke down in tears

We went into the room for immediate preparation. As my wife packed a few of our clothes, tears ran down her cheeks. I took her hand, drew her to my breast and kissed her. Her head gently resting on my shoulder, I murmured a few words of consolation to her. She made no response. I kissed her again and wiped her tears. Silently, she withdrew and continued to pack. I opened my drawer to pick things that I felt would be most important even if the compound were destroyed: my

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credentials, bank passbook, Bible and computer. When I got to my study, I did not know which books I should take. “Oh well!” I exclaimed. “Books, if we come back and meet you, I praise God. But if you get burnt up, I will have lost everything.”

We intended to take these women and children to the mountain and come back to stay around the house. Not that we could do anything if the worst came. I knew that Andrew and I had similar views on what a Christian should do in the event that we were attacked: run to the mountain. But if surrounded by enemies, better to die than to cast a stone against them. Sam also shared this belief, at least to a reasonable extent. But as for Uzo and Joe, whether they would be able to resist the temptation seemed a very serious question, especially Uzo. Earlier that morning, Joe had wrapped a machete with cement papers trying to sneak out of the gate, but was intercepted by Andrew, with a very sharp rebuke.

God works in a mysterious way. While some of the women tried to fix food to take to the mountain, I went to the gate see what more was going on. More people, mostly women and children, came toward our end of our street, fear, terror, and worry on their faces. Indeed, these people had been made refugees in the last eighteen hours.

“What is the situation out there now?” I asked one of the women. She was carrying a baby on her back, pulling two children with both hands and had a small bag on her head.

“They said that those Muslim fighters are making frantic effort to come into the Quarters,” she answered.

“But you didn’t see them?”“Er-mmm-er-m, I know they are coming,” she said.“You want to wait until they come,” said another

woman. “Ok! Stay there until they come!”They all like soldier ants trooped past me, enroute

to the mountains.

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Moving down the street a little, I met a cluster of men, some with sticks, some stones or whatever else they could make a weapon out of. My neighbour Deji came by, roughly dressed, a very long pipe in his hand.

“Make u all run leef dese Quarters for dem?” asked Deji. “Ah! Ah tink say u no know dis pipul-o.” He laughed. “Oga—” Now he was talking to me. “—U de wak wit empty han’. Today big man no dey-o.”

I laughed.“U de laugh but u no know dis Muslim pipul,

human life no mean anytin’ for dem. So, make u carry u own. We no go run from here, if dey come we go fight 'am. Dem bodi, na water e go comot, no bi blood? Dem de get two-two head, no bi one? So we no go run. If dey wan die, we go die togedda.”

“We are not going to die with anyone,” I said, “God will take care of us.”

“Ah gree say God go care for us, but no bi Bible say heaven go help pipul wey help demself? We go fight an' defen’ ourself. God no go punish us for fighting dose wey wan kill us.”

I did not want to argue with the man at this point. I knew that everyone was tensed up. Moreover I had known Deji for more than one year now. I had never known him as an aggressive person. But crises such as the one we are discussing can turn even a lamb to a ferocious wolf.

As we were still talking, we saw the women who were running to the mountain coming back. One of the men said: “Won’t it be better to gather these women and children to one place instead of allowing them to roam about?”

“That is a good idea, but where do we keep them?” asked a second person.

The person who raised the idea pointed to our compound. “That house has fence and gates. It looks more secured than any other one around. Moreover, it will take time for anyone to come this far inside. Even if

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Sunset on the Rocks 41 we have nothing to fight with, it will be easier to defend our wives and children if they are not scattered all over.” Everyone agreed with this suggestion. So I went and opened one of our gates and one of the outer rooms to take in people.

When I told Andrew the latest development, he agreed that it sounded reasonable. Our women were a little relieved at the new arrangement. The main stress they would have now was trying to prepare more food out of nothing.

I came back out to find more refugees and that our house had became a prayer house where everything had been “soaked in the blood of Jesus.” We brought out a television and VCR to distract people, especially the children, a little from the events of the moment. As we set things up, our dogs began barking furiously. I went to see what was disturbing them.

At the gate a man with a very long stick told me that he wanted to come in. When I told him to drop the stick outside the gate, for that was the reason the dogs were barking, he insisted on coming in with it and that I should find my own: “If these people come, we have to fight because they are trying to challenge Jesus.”

“If they are challenging Jesus, do we have to protect Jesus or do we allow Jesus to fight for himself?”

Now he dropped the stick and was let inside.“Yes, Jesus will fight for himself, but we have to

play our own part,” he argued.“What is our own part?”“To fight with the name of Jesus and no weapon

against us will prosper.”“Do you mean that fight with physical weapon is

the same thing as fighting with the name of Jesus?”“Of course, anything we hold in our hand is the

symbol of the authority and power of Jesus. Even if itis a broom stick, Jesus will give us power to destroy ourenemies.”

“I don’t think that Jesus authorises us to engage in

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physical battle..He looked at me and I could read that he was

disappointed in me. It seemed as if he was saying, “What a strange man. How can this man of little faith commit such blasphemy.” He left me and went to those who were sitting under a tree in the compound, who possibly shared his views.

Initially, I thought that it is only men that are thirsty of other people’s blood. After the rackety morning, I settled down to have some moment to myself and take my breakfast. My children sat around me, hoping to steal some moment to do some journalist investigation on the rat race of the last nineteen hours. I bent down and took a piece of our household cake popularly called pericake from a plate beside me. I took a bite of the cake. I was about to sip my tea when Zach tapped me: “Daddy look! Look, Daddy. Look at that woman.”

I stayed action on the tea. “What’s that? Which woman?”

Pointing toward the outer room where most of the people were hiding in the house: “See that woman.” Following the direction of his finger, I saw the woman open her handbag and bring out a dagger, examine it and put it back. I believe she was simply saying, “What a man can do, a woman can do much more better. Give me Doe, I will slit his throat.”

By mid-day the people in our house had split into groups, each person in each of the groups told his or her experiences: Places that had been burnt down, people that had been killed, and how they escaped from where they were when the fight began. Some still said that Jos Central Mosque had been burnt down. Andrew said if that were true, the fight would still continue for several days because zealots would certainly try to retaliate. But one woman argued that the Muslims had already burned down Our Lady of Fatima Roman Catholic Cathedral at Katako. To her, the Muslims

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deserved what they got because they started the fight and first burnt down the Cathedral, which she thought cost more than the Mosque.

At this point I could see some of the adults cracking jokes and laughing. But not a minute passed without someone saying bitter things against the Muslims: how wicked they were, how they all deserved to die. I felt particularly sad. My thoughts drifted. I do not like to fight. I do not know who started this fight so I cannot decide who should be killed. I do not like anyone to be killed, no matter his ethnic nationality or religion. Even if it is true that Muslims started the fight, it is also true that the non-Muslims who accepted it equally justify themselves before God. Both killers are murderers. Which is holy before God? Both gratify the desires of their hearts, and seek the praise of their supporters. Maybe God will give a contrary opinion.

Children played and ran about in the compound. At intervals some of them cried, either accidentally hurt by their playmates or beaten in an actual fight. The next moment they had settled their differences and continued to play together. I kept wishing that I was like one of these children. I wouldn’t have to worry whether I know those who have been killed or not. I wouldn’t even have to worry if I die or not. During the civil war, I was like them. I did not know that Nigeria was fighting with Biafra or whether I was Biafran or Nigerian. Though my people saw themselves as part of Biafra, by the time I began to have any sense of nationality, the cruel war had ended, Then I was a Nigerian, as I was when I was born a few months before the war started. But if I had been struck by a bomb or shell, I wouldn’t have known why I died.

In the present war, I thought, children have been roasted or dismembered, children who never knew they were either Christians or Muslims, children who did not know they were Afisiri or Berom or Hausa-Fulani. Even if their parents told them, “This is who you are”, they had

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no sense of tribalism. If they had lived, they might have had more sense of being Nigerian than those who murdered them in cold blood. Now, see their mates playing innocently in our compound. And I wept inwardly. I wished that those who had started this could have been like these little kids. See how they fight and settle their differences in a matter of minutes.

At 1 p.m. some of the adults who had obviously kept vigil the previous night felt the need to snatch some sleep. But we had not that many spare beds in the house. Some of them threw their wrappers on the floor, others made do with their chairs. There was a very pregnant woman amongst the refugees. We provided her with a bed. By this time the tempo of the fight had gone down. We heard gunshots sparingly. Cries for war from the mosques had reduced. But in our Quarters, men still patrolled the streets, keeping surveillance.

At 2 p.m. Jos saw the salvation of the Lord. The weather was bright when it came, not a cloud in the sky when it came. No one expected it when it came. Rain at that hour? But it came. A heavy downpour. Just when we thought that no one would survive, that everyone would die, it came. When all the fighters had lost their breath because no one came to separate them. When each man waited for some other to say, “It is enough for today. Go and rest.” The remaining soldiers of the crush could have all died without being shot by their enemies if God had not come at that hour. And I went to sleep.

I woke up at four. Everywhere was silent: no gunshots; no cries for war; no shouting; no running. Everywhere was silent. The city had fallen asleep. The only voice was the radio: “Normalcy has returned to the city; there is absolute peace now; dusk to dawn

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curfew. Go into your houses right away; security forces are on

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ground. Soldiers have been ordered to shoot any disgruntled element who tries to disturb the silence in the city. We share our heartfelt sympathy to all those who lost family members and friends in this small disturbance. We are taking every necessary step to get the list of names of all the people who one way or the other supported this awful event, so they can put it in their drawer as a lesson for future generations. Very soon all the immediate and remote causes will be swept under the carpet.”

5 p.m. Two soldiers, combat-ready, marched around our neighbourhood with two warning shots. Everyone fled. Sam and I were standing by our gate when they came. As we headed into the house for cover, the soldiers called us back. “Don't run! Don't be afraid! We are friends not enemies. We are posted to this neighbourhood for security. If any of you want to go out and look for food or anything, come and inform us, we will help you.” For a fee, we later discovered.

Just before dark, Sam, Uzo, Joe and I strolled down our street close to Bauchi Road: a few meters within the entrance to the Quarters. We saw lots of displaced people wandering along the road. Some of the “Christians” standing with us did not spare any evil word against those identified as Muslim families.

The city gradually sank into night. Another night of fear . . .

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Day of the MarionettesKingsley Madueke

To see the stringsOne needs a third eye.Even the puppeteersHide backstage.Puppets! Puppets fightingOne on one.Upper and lower limbs move swiftlyAs directed,Against the enemy.

I turn round in my seatAnd find myself the only spectator,Alone in the theatre.A dream?A nightmare: the wood bleeds!Oh, I must be damned,For no human eyes have seen this:Puppets drawing blood.

HEY YOU!A giant puppet shouts.YOU MUST BE A COWARD.COME OVER AND FIGHT!FIGHT SIDE BY SIDE WITH YOUR DEAR BROTHERS

OR DO I NEED TO LEND YOU MY EARS AND EYESFOR YOU TO KNOW WHAT'S HAPPENING!

I want to shout back,“I’m no brother to no doll.”BOOM! like thunder.Armed with gunsThe puppets now shoot each other,Indoctrinated to the heartBy puppeteersWho jerk their strings at whim.

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A unique one,His limbs no longer directed by them,Runs to me and shouts:THEY ARE MAKING US KILL EACH OTHER!In a lower tone, more grave, he continues:THEY CLAIM WE FIGHT FOR A GODLY CAUSE.IS GOD NOT STRONG ENOUGHTO FIGHT FOR HIS OWN?He shakes his head from side to sideAnd taps my left shoulder with his right hand,And adds, more gravely still:THEY USE US FOR THEIR OWN GAIN YOU SEE.OUR BROTHERS STILL RESPOND TO THEIR STRINGS.I WISH I COULD CUT THEM OFF.MUST WE DANCE ON THIS STAGE OF THE WORLD,PUPPETS UNTIL THE CURTAINS CLOSE?

I return my gaze to the warfrontWhere the Properties Manager intervenesWith Aso authority:ALL PROMINENT PERSONALITIES IN JOS

AND ENVIRONS,DROP YOUR CRUTCHES NOW,OR FACE THE WRATH OF THE GOVERNMENT

SECURITY AGENTS.The puppets collapse in heaps.

Woe to those materially rich and influential,who use their wealthto manipulate the poor.Woe also to those who base their securityon material wealthand let it control them.

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EuphemismsDeborah L. Klein

I step out my front doorto secure the gatesbecause the dogs are barking so.Ka-BLAM!The shadow soldier beside the fencefires his rifle at the stars,and the household spills out onto the veranda.The soldier laughs a little.When he passes my front gate,he greets me in a gruff voice.The radio calls him a Security Agent.

Love is the answer, says the DJ, in silky seductive tones.

We gotta love one another, my brothers and sisters.Love is the answer, man.And he pops in another Kenny G CD.The mellow tones cannot muffle the chanting in the

streets.POP-POP! POP-POP!Dane-guns, says my husband.In whose hands?Smoke billows above the treetops.Tires or houses?Some say they’ve burnt the Central Mosque.Some say a COCIN Church.

War! Unh!Na-na na-na na-na-na.What is it good for?Absolutely nothin’! Say it again.

Slot that in your player, Mister DJ, and spin it.

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Security Forces are on ground, announces the acting governor.

On ground?What? Sitting?Lying? (In omoges' arms?)Let them stand up and walk about. March. Patrol.But let them not discharge their AKs to shake my

compound.We do not break curfew.And the governor—when did he read Theatre Arts?It seems he travelled before the final dress rehearsal.

The situation is under control, reports the radio.Everyone should go back to work.All civil servants report to your posts immediately.Some of my friends went back to work.Jacob and Ubong never came home again.Posts found them.

There has been a slight disturbance in the Dilimi area.Logic question:⊃the ∞ destruction of ∓ n shops × 2 sides of the road,± n vehicles in front of, behind, or beside those shops,For ≫ 3 city blocks≣ a slight disturbance∴ a major disturbance ?

Do not listen to or spread false rumours.Some rumours, then, we should take as true?Dem say the Kano Muslims want to seize the Middle

Belt.Dem say the Fulani cattlemen attacked the villages.Dem say the Plateau indigenes only want to defend

themselves.So who burned all the Igbo shops?Dem say: RUN!

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Report all relevant information to the appropriate quarters.

They call my area Government Quarters.Down the road is University Senior Staff Quarters.My colleague lives in Legislative Quarters.What achaba can take me to Appropriate Quarters?

Abuja is sending a high-powered delegation to look into the situation.

Ah-ah, why should Abuja delegates enjoy NEPA when we residents don’t?

At most we get only half-power right now.Would His Excellency, Chief Honourable the Governor,

receive a low-powered delegation from our neighbourhood?

I would phone him if I had a phone,But NITEL says: no lines.

We repeat: The situation is under control.Everyone remain calm. There is no cause for alarm.Maureen, calm in her bed,watched a bullet sail in the windowand drop into her lap.She carries it now in her purse,a heavy, brass-coloured canine tooth,barely one-inch long.

Normalcy has returned to Jos.The dust to dust curfew remains in effect.

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Rumour MongersAnayochukwu J. Ohama

Smoke! Smoke!! Smoke-uooo!!!Smoke everywhere climbing to the skySsshhhh! Stop that! Stop that rumour.

Listen! Do you hear that kpoo!Kpo! Kpo!! Kpo-oo! Kpoo-oo-ow!!!Ssshhh! Stop that! Stop that rumour.

My house-o! My house-oo!! My . . . my-oo!!!Burn down. Ehhh! My children inside . . .Look if you don't stop that rumour, I will behead you.

My head-oo! broken, my hand-ooo!Go-God, heemm . . . my soul! Allah!Samanja, Oyaa snuff life out of the “rumour monger”.

Call me a rumour mongerBecause I am dying and I cry outYou shut your eyes against the truth

Like a child I must cry because I am beatenIf you shut my mouth with your handRemove it I shout again

If our houses mean nothingOur starving children mean nothingOur lives God esteems

I am a sheep led to slaughterI am weed and rags to be burnt aliveMy blood speaks to God

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The Streets Of Jos(To the tune of “When the Saints”)

Reginald Cole

Oh when the streetsOf Jos PlateauWere raging hotWith people fightingThe children criedMothers were wailingBecause there was too much killing

Oh when I sawMen gripping knivesI had to runCoz all were runningI had to fleeFor my own safetyBecause there was too much killing

Oh when I heardThe radio say“Everything’s under control”I had to watchAnd be quite carefulBecause there was too much killing

When I was inThe house of GodMy eyes were onEach door 'n’ windowAs I thoughtThat they were comingBecause there was too much killing

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Oh when I sawThe Muslims fightAnd when I saw“Christians” fight tooI asked, Oh God,Is this your purpose?Because there was too much killing

[allargando]Oh now I seeThere’s too much warNo hiding placeFor any personI pray, oh GodSend down your peaceBecause there is too much killing

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SenbenMmaasa Masai

Oh Senben!Beloved woman,Hair of quiet rivers flowing,Tell me now:Where is your glory?Where is your sing-song,To which a million hearts dance?I sit on your back,This bleeding mountain,And watch you now.

Oh Jos!My heart bleeds.It’s only 4:00 p.m.And here you lie,Quiet as a sleeping army,An army of occupation.Gunshots perforate your wingsAnd echo and echo and echo,Like an electric chain.Dogs bark at silenceAnd fear grips our loins.

No! We shan’t be making loveTonight. No, Jos.Love is gone.There’s only hating,Killing, maiming, robbing,Burning! . . .

Oh Jos!What about the studentsWho came to school here,Now deceased?What about the old manWho took a bullet for

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His only son?What about the sojournerWho will no more return?What about theEars, eyes, heads, legsNow dismembered?What about the morgueNow spaceless and brimming?Tell me now:Where is your glory?Where?

Oh Jos!No birds sing today.No music, no dancing,No potatoes, no pito!I turn to NasarawaAnd I see smoke ragingThe heavens.Gunshots still perforate your wings . . .And all they did.Your plunderers.They didThrough Jesus ChristOur Lord!Through the name ofAllah the All-Merciful!Amen!Ameen!

From this protrusion on your back,This bleeding mountain,A poetAnd your lover,I have interred hereMy lament for you,Beloved Senben.Jos!

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The StormRedzie D. Jugo

Calmlover of my soul . . .Plateauland unequalled,landscape of tranquillity . . .I never thoughtno, never thoughtthunderbolts of griefwould tear through the beauty . . .

babies wanderingcurfews breakingundertakers smilingsweetlysicklyIt is the profits theynever saw coming?

those lucky,rode the stormin black delivery boxesthe less fortunatewere eaten upby abysmal holes in the groundthrashing lifelesslyskin to skinone arch enemy on another

bloody watering holethrashing each otherstill-life warfingers forever clutching,lips still coloured withfresh cursesthe storm has tornacross the plateau

if thesecould not embracein lifethey do so, certainly,in death.

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Hey! Hey!! Hey!!!Nanzing Tahiru Dangbut

“Hey! Hey!! Hey!!!”Was someone calling my attention?No! Oh Lord, I wish I had not looked back.“Run, run for your life,” I heard.Too late. The rider and his passenger, both in

kaftan were stopped. What next?“Hey! Hey!! Hey!!!” I heard again.Four young men with clubs and matchets

appeared.“What are you waiting for?” asked one.A terrible look came into their eyes.Then one hit the head of the rider with a club. He

went down. The others attacked with matchets. He was dead.

Before the terrified passenger could decide to run away, it was too late. A matchet cut his neck. He went down, pleading all the while with his murderers. Clubs battered his head until he, too, was dead.

“Matches! Matches!”The fuel of their motorcycle was the energy used

for lighting their motorcycle, their motorcycle was the firewood for roasting their bodies.

“Hey! Hey!! Hey!!!” I heard again.I wanted to run, but my knees were weak, and my

legs shook with fear and disbelief. Was this real or a nightmare? Before I came back from my thoughts, a third body was roasting in the glowing fire. This must be a nightmare. Such a human barbecue could not be real.

A tap on my shoulder.“We are finishing them at this end,” said my

“brother”.But what justified all this carnage?

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“They are butchering our people, so we must revenge,” continued my “brother”.

Before I could reply I heard yet again, “Hey! Hey!! Hey!!!”

Another kaftaned man was roasting in the ever-glowing fire.

“Why are you shaking? You are in safe hands; this is our territory,” my “brother” assured me.

What was our territory? What were safe hands? I resolved to run away from this scene, then I heard:

“Hey! Hey!! Hey!!!”Oh! Another mistake to have looked back. Two

more kaftaned men were roasting.I finally ran to secure my family, who were in the

“enemy’s” territory.“Thank God you’re home safely. We’ve been

disturbed about your safety,” said a voice.“Oh! Is it you, neighbour? Where is my family?”“They are in safe arms. They have taken refuge in

the Police Barracks.”“Hey! Hey!! Hey!!!”I stood still. Who next? Would there be another

killing in the “safe arms” of the Police Barracks? Could it be my family? In disbelief, I ran to find out.

“Baba, Baba, Baba, Baba,” re-echoed in the room where my family had taken refuge.

My family was safe.But what was happening in the barracks? Where

had that earlier shouting come from? I went to find out.

“Hey! Hey!! Hey!!!”“He must die.”“He must go to hell, even if he does not burn.”I saw the person in question, whose eternal destiny

was to be determined by my “brothers.”“I beg you, please, do not kill me,” cried the man

in the kaftan. But his assailants blocked their ears.

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Their knowledge of the sanctity of life, their brotherly kindness and love were devoured and seared by the beastly desire for revenge and blood-letting.

They murdered him. And once more a fire glowed with the fat of a kaftaned man.

The police stood and watched.Oh Lord, when will this ever end? I lamented.I rejoined my family. Would I not need to protect

them amid such protection as I saw in these barracks? I finally slept. I thought it was over. But . . .

On the morning of Saturday, 8th September, the situation got worse.

Voices chorused within the police barracks.“Come out! Come out!! Carry your weapons, they

are here!”Confusion.Women carried crying children and what they

valued most from their homes. They rushed into the barracks for safety. Men carried matchets, cutlasses, broken bottles, clubs and sticks. They took positions against the possible entry of “them”. For some minutes there was calm. Then—

“Hey! Hey!! Hey!!!” shouted the youths at the barracks’ entrance. Others rushed to the scene. A young man, tall and handsome, with tribal marks, clad in a kaftan, stood in the middle of the mob.

“What are you waiting for?”Bam! A club struck him on the head. Then another.

Then a matchet. Under the repeated blows, he went down. More blows with sticks, clubs, matchets, broken bottles. I thought he was dead. Oh! Another soul brutally dispatched to eternity.

If only I had known you were coming this way, I could have told you to run. Run to anywhere, but not here. Now it is too late, I thought.

To my surprise, the young man sat up.

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“Hey! Hey!! Hey!!! He doesn’t want to die.”I could not hear him, but I saw his hands gesturing,

pleading. Fruitlessly. At the peak of his pleading, a very sharp matchet rose up in the hands of a fierce-looking fellow behind him. The young man raised his head, begging, and the man at his back saw the opportunity he was waiting for. He swung his weapon and severed the head from its body. Blood spurted. The young man fell, silent and motionless forever.

Oh Lord! When will this meanness and heartlessness stop? How can human life be snuffed out like a candle?

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Someone tied a rope to his ankles. They dragged his remains to the place where he would be incinerated, even if cremation was not part of his will.

“Back to your duty posts, “ came the command. “We must protect and defend our territory.”

The males and some “warrior” women marched with buckets of bottle bombs, slings, catapults, matchets, clubs, and whatever else might make a weapon, up to the main paved road. From the other side of the road came a shout,

“Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar.”“If you don’t fight us, we will not fight you,”

declared their “commander.”A rather late declaration. Someone fired a rifle into

the air. Confusion. Then one of “our” houses was on fire. Then another gunshot into the air—and some shots fired at people.

“In Jesus’ name, in Jesus’ name, in Jesus’ name,” shouted the mob not in kaftans, “we must also burn their houses.”

Jerry-cans full of petroleum were brought out and poured on the houses of the men in kaftan. At the same time, the men themselves were set ablaze. The air darkened with smoke. Not a bird, not even a vulture, flew into that black air.

“Hey! Hey!! Hey!!!”Everyone rushed to the scene. An old man stood in

the middle of the mob.Will he taste the clubs and matchets, too? For the

sake of his age, he should be allowed to go.I turned my head, and when I looked back, I could

not see the old man. The mob had dispersed, but on the ground a bundle was burning. On closer examination, I saw that the bundle was the old man, writhing in pain in the heat of the petrol fire. After beating him with clubs and cutting him with cutlasses and matchets, the crowd had poured petrol over him and left him to be incinerated.

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For eight hours, he endured the pain. For eight hours, he lay there, moaning and shivering. I passed him and thought, “I should carry him to my house, I should try to get him to the hospital. Ah, but what would my wife say? What will these neighbours think? I should bring him a blanket, at least.” But then I thought, “No, he’ll be dead soon.” Each time I passed by, I thought of the blanket, and each time, I decided against it. For eight hours, he resisted death—until the chill of a heavy rain relieved him. I felt relieved. Then came guilt.

“They are coming at the back entrance. Go back and defend.”

The usual shouts. The usual clanging of metal weapons. Of course, the usual, “Hey! Hey!! Hey!!!”

Who is it this time, I wondered.Young men dragged old, used tyres. More smoke

choked the atmosphere. But the darkness could not deafen me to the pleading voice of the man burning to death. No one attended to his pleas. They considered him already dead—though he suffered for six hours until, it seems, God in His infinite mercy sent rain to wash away the blood and ashes, to relieve the lingering ghosts of those who still clung to life.

“Why are you arm-less?” demanded a fellow with a sword, bow and arrows.

“My weapons are invisible,” I replied.“What do you mean? You are not a man. You are

supporting them!”“The weapons you carry will not protect you; they

are just objects fashioned by a blacksmith. In terms of effectiveness they are limited in power and distance and by your personal ability to handle them. My weapons are operated and directed by God, who created everything, who is infinite in power and protection.”

“You are a madman!” He left me alone with the corpses.

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63

Strange FridayIkemefuna S. Onwude

The sun came harshlyA strange wind blowingAt the university, too many cars, too few peopleEverything was still—a strange FridayThe Muslims in single file moved in one directionA strange Friday . . .

Outside the university gate, tensed airPeople everywhere, hands in pockets, terrifiedWhy? “They are snatching . . .” they said. What?

“We don’t know.”Taxis keep reversing. Roads are all blocked. My

heart sinks.Helter-skelter, people run seeking protectionChildren run into their mothers armsA strange Friday.

Some people move with matchets, others clubsPetrol bombs fly through the airDane guns boom, flames hit the sky,Buildings totter, collapse.Bodies cut open, hospital gates securely locked

up.Women wail and children moanSmells of human bodies roasted in houses and

streets of our fatherlandOnce peaceful streets, chaotic streetsStreams choke with innocent bloodTerribly strange Friday.

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Mountains reveal the peaceful city of JosMy birthplace slowly burning downI hear chants ALLAH-KU-AKBAR! -- HALLELUJAH!--

GREAT-JOSITESWhat a strange Friday.

A nation without security, a people without GodA terrifying day, a day of “They are coming!” “Suna

zuwa!”Sleepless night, restless day. Uncertainties.Suddenly, camouflage appears on the streetsAK-47 rifles assault the air—friends not enemy, say

voicesReal friends? Normalcy in the city, media houses

assure usSome people are led to six feet belowRain comes giving hope for lost peaceStrange Friday leads to mournful Saturday.

Surely no safe place in this worldWhere will you run to, brothers?North or south, no safe placeWhere will you run to, sisters?East or west, no hiding placeWhere will you run to?Run to the soldiers, they shoot youRun to America, terrorists await youRun to God, yes. Only Jesus will hide you

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Ogun Bares His ArmsMmaasa Masai

“Shraaappp!” says Thunder, and, not to be separated from her partner in crime, Lightning follows. Then they are at my throat. The lightening and thunder become a machete, terribly hungry. Not yet surfeited.

Ogun has been starved for far too long. The economy. Bad. Terribly bad. No bread. Not even crumbs. No more food for the gods. Gods ourselves, we no longer break eggs at the crossing where four roads meet. No fat yam tubers and “obije” meat, no palm wine, nor kola. Nothing. We feed ourselves. We too, gods all, hunger terribly and deserve to be fed.

Even the dogs go mad from lack of crumbs. These are the crumbless days of prophecy. Anguish in the land. Everyone, like the dogs, goes mad. Penury, the abject kind, permeates the land. It wreaks havoc on the aged and curses them, afflicting them with plague, loneliness and hunger. What use is a sage if he tells the truth and starves to death? So he lies for gain. Poverty plagues the youths. School lasts forever. Dreams flee. Friends vanish. Promises, values, hopes and trusts totter; first one kneels and then another . . . then all become tinder to the glory and victory of the big red tongue of the scorching sun. Those who graduate resort to self help—“self employed” since no one employs them. What? Man deserves the right to eat!

Is it surprising then that the society should turn inside out? An adventurous urchin combing the streets with a sack and stick, prodding his short life in the refuse dumps, vigorously taking on another day,

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makes a broken football into a cap. Crown of Nigeria! Call him

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Almajiri! Alaye! Area boy! Agboro! Bakasi boy! OPC—the miscreant star.

Ask of the little children, the innocent ones who will see God. These are the ones whose plight pains me most. They’re being made to see what they never should see. No! Not as children. They should never see, never hear the evils of the land.

And so the people evolved a system called Democracy, meant to be good. The opposite of Dictatorship, the evil. Gowon, Obasanjo, Buhari, Babangida, Abacha, Abdulsalami—they oiled its machinery in Nigeria. Once. They were the NEPA that looms around, throwing the days into nights, drawing sighs and groans. And curses. Old men lament, “This is not how we planned it. This is not what we agreed upon. Not what we planned for our children.” They have served the country since independence. They fought the wars of Burma, Biafra, Congo, Liberia. They fought to keep the world safe, to keep Nigeria together.

But the new system called Democracy has yet to change the old ways. Bread and soup are yet to appear on the streets. The dogs still live crumbless days, still mad. And we Humans, we turn our backs on the gods to feed ourselves. Vowing vengeance, the gods too have gone crazy. Unleashing madness in the land.

“Shrappp!” Machete scrapes the floor. Thunder. Lightening. Democracy. Dictatorship. The angry gods . . .

The machete. My neck!“Shrappppp!” The sound of the machete

echoes in my brain, mummifying all the nerves.“Answer the question, we say!”KPAP! A slap. My face.“What is the Lord's Prayer?”They’re asking me a question.“Answer!!!” Voiced insanity.Is this then my death-day? Is this the end?

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“In the name of the Father . . .” I begin very weakly, very afraid. “And . . . the son. And the holy . . . ghost. A-And the mother and children. And . . .”

“What ! This guy thinks we’re joking here.”The bearded one, leader of the mob, barks, “Kill

him!”

And the mother prayed,child may you never walk when the roadwaits, famished.

It’s Ogun. The god of Iron!

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September Seven and TwelveZa Pitman

Seven:You announced your coming in mysterious ways,Written in bold letters on the walls,As cock-crow heralds the dawn,As trees shed their leaves and whine wildly,When harmattan approaches,But we, short-sighted, saw nothing.No apocalyptic warnings,Forebodings carried by the evil child, abiku.

You dawned an ordinary day.The sun woke grumblingly at his usual hourTo commence his daily jogging across the sky.The clear sky promised a rain-free day.And Jos opened her shops, her offices, her schools,Her markets with carefree abandon.

Then suddenly, September Seven,You sprang your surprise:Innocuous green snake under green grassSinking its venom into the unwary walker.Goddess Peace took her leave, unleashingWar, her enemy-sister, withHounds of horror, pandemonium,Mere anarchy let loose upon the world.

Ka! Ka! Ka! Bo-o! Bo-o! Bo-a! Bo-a! Bo-a!A symphony of gunfire.Brothers lifted hands with matchets and relishAgainst brothers. Long-time neighbours,In fevered madness, revelled in each other’s blood,Deranged beasts, cannibals,In the unholy name of religion:“Jesus Christ!” “Allahu ak-bar!”

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Twelve:God wept bitterly for the disasterWrought in our Adam-and-Eve world,And the skies wept along with Him,Releasing dams of tearsDe-coagulating the caked bloodOf dead Muslims and dead Christians,Mixing them patiently like oil-painting, tillThey flowed in perfect union down to the larger river.

September seven, we name you Armageddon.But as we remember you with aching hearts,May we also rememberThe futility of killing one anotherIn the unholy name of religion:“Jesus Christ!” “Allahu ak-bar!”

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They Are ComingAnayochukwu J. Ohama

As I sat in my houseThey are coming

After the day’s workThey are coming

Panjak came to my houseThey are coming

“Oga, u still dey here? ”They are coming

“Dem go kill everybodi.”They are coming

“Dem go burn every house.”They are coming

“Dem go come your house.”They are coming

“Dem go come kill u.”They are coming

“So make u run for your life!”They are coming

“Panjak!” I called.“Who are coming to my house?”He said I should run.“Make u no as’ question.”

They are coming

Dem go come your houseDem go cut your headDem go cut your handDem go cut your leg

They are coming.

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Suna zuwa—Kpo!Kpo-o! Kpo-o-o!—ruun!Rruun! Rruuuun!They are coming

Dem go come your houseDem go kill your wifeDem go kill your boyAn’ kill your girl

They are coming

Dem go come your houseDem go kill your goatDem go kill your dogAn’ kill your chicken

They are coming

Suna zuwa—Kpo!Kpo-o! Kpo-o-o!—ruun!Rruun! Rruuuun!They are coming

Then I told Panjak“Ah don hear your voice“Make u go go your house“Dem no go come“God go protek my house“An' e go protek your house“Dem no go come.”

And he said to me“E bi like dem go come“An’ Ah go pray God“Make am gif me powa“An’ Ah go fight for am.”

They are coming

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If dem come my houseAh go kill dem firs’Ah go go dem houseAh go kill dem wifeAn’ kill dem pikin

They are coming

Suna zuwa—Kpo!Kpo-o! Kpo-o-o!—ruun!Rruun! Rruuuun!They are coming

If dem come my houseGod, Ah go kill dem firs’Allah, Ah go go dem houseAh go kill dem goatAh go kill dem dogAh go burn dem motoAn’ burn dem house

They are coming

Suna zuwa—Kpo!Kpo-o! Kpo-o-o!—ruun!Rruun! Rruuuun!They are coming

And I told Panjak,“No man go fight for God“God go fight for Imself“God go fight for us.

“An’ if u see dem come“Man, make u run for your life“Run wit your wife“An’ wit all your pikin

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“If u fit run wit your goatmake u run wit dem

“If u fit run wit your dogmake u run wit dem

“If u fit run wit your chickenmake u run wit dem

“Dem no go come.”

Suna zuwa—Kpo!Kpo-o! Kpo-o-o!—ruun!Rruun! Rruuuun!They are coming

And I told my friend,“If dem burn your house,“Make u no burn dem own“If dem cut your hand,“Make u no cut dem own“If dem cut your foot,“Make u no cut dem own“An’ if dem kill your wife,“Make u no kill dem own“Dey no go come.”

Na God go payNa God go killU no bi GodNa Im go pay

Dey no go come, dey no go comeDey no go come

No coming— no— coming —no coming no — coming

They . . . are . . . co . . . ming

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75

Carnage on the PlateauMaryam Ali Ali

The Devil walked up and down,Thinking deeply, reflectingOn where best to land.He studied his list of possible placesAnd decided at last, in his pestiferous way,On the people living on the Plateau.

He looked askance, with his fallen angels,At the cheerful faces of the peopleWalking and working in peace.He selected who and whom to anoint,Anoint with his bloodied fingersAmong the people living on the Plateau.

He orchestrated chaos and perpetrated it.At the crescendo, men, women, and children,Ran up and down, fled right and left,In frenzy, and “peace” becameA strange word to the ears and mindsOf the people living on the Plateau.

People scrambled. They hidAs inmates, their houses turned to prisons.Some crouched in bushes, in ditches,Necks outstretched, eyes horror-filled,Ears straining for the cry, “They are coming!”Coming for the people living on the Plateau.

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When quiet returned, six days fromThat fateful Friday that had no weekend,That seventh of September, that sunny day,“Perfect,” said he in his scurrilous way. “Well, almost

perfect.”He smiled at the anguished faces and counted the

heapsOf bones of the people living on the Plateau.

The Devil enjoyed his adventure,His carnival of carnage, then turned his back,With his fallen angels, and retired to the hills,The dormant volcanoes, quite pleased with himself,Having wrapped up anguish, death and despair:His gift to the people living on the Plateau.

Men wandered, and women, picking piecesOf their once happy, homely heritage.Without smiles now greeting their neighbours,Those who lived to return salutations,With “Happy survival” instead of “Good morning”,These good people living on the Plateau.

It was indeed a sad SeptemberAnd October and November and probablyDecember. For who will bring backThe lost amethyst called PeaceThat was snatched away so suddenlyFrom the people living on the Plateau?

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Raped InnocenceAugustine Oritsewyinmi Oghanrandukun (Ifa)

Upon the altar of ignorance,Gentle dove, sweet peace is sacrificed.Untamed and heedless, a butcher’s bladeSlashes the Plateau’s innocent throat.

Why, oh Jos, should hoodlum’s steel membersRape your virgin purity, leave youBleeding and defiled, no more ableTo dance to gentle drumming rhythms?

Now streets slip slyly into nightfall,Dead quiet but for the khakied patrols.Even stupoured brains know to stumbleHome before guns invite them to jump.

Foreign foes slapped the face of friendship,Poured bellicose bowls of bitternessInto the middle of our nation.Has not this tap of blood flowed enough?

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Laughing in Sadness(A Kind of Travelogue)*

Dul Johnson

It was September 7th, 2001, a beautiful Friday. Fridays were usually my most busy days at school, my lectures would begin at 10 a.m. and end between 3 p.m. and 5 p.m. But this was not to be on the 7th. I was billed to have a meeting in Abuja the next morning. A friend travelling there wanted to leave between 12 and 1 p.m. Quickly, I gave my class an assignment and left, and by 4 p.m. I was in Abuja.

The journey from Jos was uneventful, yet tiring. Destination: Royalton Hotel. At the reception I warned, though jokingly, “Don’t give me any room with a nine in it.” The receptionist looked at me curiously. I quickly allayed his fears or suspicion. “I’m not a superstitious man. I just don’t like the figure 9. But I love 7, maybe because it’s ‘God’s number’.” He gave me room 407. I was happy.

Settled in, I had a quick shower and dashed out to a friend’s house to call Jos and tell my office and my wife I had arrived Abuja safely. I got the office and it was Chinelo on the other end of the line. “Doctor! Ha, I am the only one in the office. In fact I was just closing when the phone rang, and this is the fourth or fifth time I am closing and reopening.” Her voice sounded urgent and agitated. “What’s the matter?” I asked. I got the sad news. Jos was on fire. Religious crisis, they said. I wasn’t surprised. I told her to calm down, but to close the office and go home. I assured her there would be no problem, but I was only trying to steady her nerves. She dropped the phone and I called my wife immediately. More agitation and even a concern about the whereabouts of our first son.

Religious crisis! What the hell. The threat had been

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in the air, almost suffocating. I’m sure that those with a strong sense of smell would even have smelt it. But I hoped under my breath that it would end there and on that Friday evening—that special God’s day—I passed the night well, consoled by the belief that it was nothing serious.

Saturday morning, the 8th, BBC had bad news for me. I didn’t hear it myself. A friend and fellow indigene of Plateau state, and a Muslim told me, sadly, that our state was still boiling. Both of us mourned inwardly for our state. But we moved to the meeting venue, each of us hoping that things were not as bad as the news made out. The meeting, chaired by the erudite Professor Wole Soyinka, lasted all day. It was a meeting of great minds amongst whom one felt quite privileged to participate. Overwhelmed, I couldn’t find time to call Jos the whole day. Not until 7 p.m. True, 7 is a favourite number of mine, but it wasn’t any choice of mine to call at this time. That was when I got out of the meeting hall and that was when I could get a phone.

I called the houses of three different friends. In each case the phone rang several times without anyone picking up the other end. I got the fourth person on the line.

“S.B., what the hell is happening in Jos?” I asked. “Ah, Docky. Doc,” S.B. replied. “How are you? . . .

What is happening in Jos is very serious-o. The situation has got out of hand and soldiers have now taken over. There’s a curfew from 4 p.m. to 7 a.m.”

That sounded abnormal to me. I have experienced curfew in different places in Nigeria. But I’d never heard of anything like this: 4 p.m. to 7 a.m.! It must be serious then.

“Well, I intend to return tomorrow,” I said.“It is not safe,” S.B. answered, very quickly. “I

think you should hold on there for a while.”“But I can’t . . . My family is in Jos . . . Have you

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gone to see them?”“No, not yet. But I think they are safe.”My voice was now cracking, and I’m sure that he

must have sensed it at the other end. “I think I have to come back, S.B. I couldn’t enjoy this kind of safety.”

“Call me in the morning tomorrow before you take off.”

I agreed.At my friend Dr. Iyimoga’s house, I sat down to a

drink. It tasted stale in my mouth. I stayed there for two hours as phone calls upon phone calls interrupted our discussion of the situation in Jos and its implications for Nigeria as a whole. Houses of friends and relatives were going up in flames. We screamed, winced, sighed and hissed.

Back in the safety of my hotel room, I felt quite unsafe. I knocked on Dorcas Bentu’s door. She was still awake. She’d been in touch with home too, and she’d heard nothing cheering. I quickly said good night, not allowing her to open her door. I crashed into my bed, turned on the air condition full blast and covered myself, but no sleep came. It was after 3 a.m. before I snatched a jerky and nightmarish sleep.

The morning of September 9th was just a normal day for everyone in the hotel except for the three of us from Plateau State. This was the checking out day and my friend Salihu Bappa, who works in Zaria, my brother really (for that’s how we call ourselves even though he is a Muslim), had already checked out early and left. Dorcas and I spoke on the intercom shortly before we moved to the restaurant for breakfast. We greeted, and nursed our fears delicately.

At breakfast, Dorcas told me she had spoken with Jos a couple of minutes before, and that there was still no good news. But she had been instructed as to how we could get into the city. Mrs Sonubi, a permanent secretary from Lagos was at the table. She was full of

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concern for us.The telephone extension in the restaurant rang,

and a steward called Dorcas to the phone. It was her sister on the line from Jos. She painted a gory picture of the situation but also gave further directions as to how we could get in.

I was eating, and so was Mrs Sonubi. Dorcas wasn’t eating anything. Her appetite had completely deserted her. We were all talking—grumbling really— about the endless instances of so-called religious crises when the extension rang again.

The phone rang for a while. There was no steward around to take it, and since Dorcas wasn’t eating, she volunteered her service. It turned out to be her sister again on the line. The message: Do not return to Jos. Things were really getting out of hand, and they were looking for a military escort to get out and run to Abuja. My eyes dilated. Mrs Sonubi probably saw it.

“Get in touch with your family. Use my phone,” she said, handing me her cellular set. Of course, since I didn’t own one, I couldn’t use it. I confessed my ignorance.

“Give me your number,” she said.“There’s no phone in my house.”“Are there no neighbours with phones that you can

reach and ask about your family?” she insisted.“There are, but I don’t have their numbers. But I

would like to talk to my friend.” I gave her S.B.’s number which she dialled promptly.

S.B. came on the line after a long wait as he had gone outside to watch what was going on at a distance. He repeated his warning, but added that if I insisted, I should be in Jos before 4 p.m. I thanked Mrs Sonubi a million times. I played down the warning and emphasised the aspect of getting into Jos before 4 p.m. I had to convince Dorcas that we should leave for Jos. Reluctantly she agreed, insisting that we look out for any car from their house that might be bringing her sisters to Abuja.

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To tell the truth, I never imagined the degree of carnage or bestiality that greeted me as we got to the outskirts to Jos. First, I saw a fresh corpse lying a little distance away from a burnt bus. Though people moved around, no one seemed to give a hoot about the corpse. My stomach literally rose to my mouth. We drove another two or three minutes and then bumped into a stream of vehicles. The road had just been opened for vehicles leaving or entering in to Bukuru. As we drove through the Bukuru by-pass I found myself muttering, “This is war . . . this is war . . . this is . . .” I had counted up to six corpses, the victims having been burnt, either alive or after they had been killed. Both my system and my sight became rebellious. I saw people in hundreds, probably thousands lining the highway, their faces painted red or black, all carrying clubs, cudgels and Dane guns. A few soldiers stood by, helpless, watching the angry people. Somewhere in the background, houses still burned in flame or smouldering cinders.

We were now driving through the valley of the shadow of death, as it were, and we were afraid. Not of any intangible evil, but of people—people that two days before had been friends, neighbours, brothers and sisters. There were five of us in the car. But a dead silence had overtaken us and all one could hear was the low hissing of the engine of the Honda Accord that was now our saviour and cell at once.

Suddenly I heard Dorcas mumbling a prayer: “Father, take control of this situation. Father, take control . . . Father , take control . . . May this be the end . . .” She went on like this for a while. Then silence again. We branched off onto the safer route as we had been instructed. But we soon ran into a roadblock. Men and women waved cutlasses and cudgels. Some carried arrows and bows that looked quite impotent, others carried spears. It was frightening and funny at the same time.

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But this was friendly territory. They were “our own People”, the brave ones now out on the road to make sure that no enemy entered. I soon spotted a family friend in the crowd and relief coursed down my spine like cold water in the dry throat of a thirsty man. He told me my family were safe. He had gone to my house (about 3 kilometres away) that morning and they were all doing just fine. I felt joy literally walking across my face. I felt very grateful to him. Then he said that his own wife who had left for school since Friday had managed to get home just an hour before. A bit of sorrow intermixed with my joy now. But I just said “Praise God” continuously until we pulled out of the friendly crowd: “our own people.”

Two more times we were stopped, searched and questioned, all within our own territory. The militants were belligerent until they discovered our identities. We finally got to Dorcas’ place. I had to foot my way home, a distance of about two kilometres. My house was excitement itself. But then I had also just lost my freedom, for getting home also meant that for the next one week I was to remain at home as the city remained a battleground. What has governed my life since then, I believe, my life and many others, is fear and insecurity.

SCENE TWO

SnapshotsFriday the 21st of September. I got a phone call from Kano, from a friend called Abdullakarim, a professional colleague. U.S.A. Galadima, a friend and professional colleague (who lives in Jos), and I were expected to be at Liyafa Hotel, Katsina, on Monday, 24th, at 9.00 a.m. Impossible, I said, considering the distance. He conceded, and said we should arrive Sunday evening. Hotel reservation, blah blah blah.

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As soon as he dropped the phone, my seventh sense went to work. Where did he say I should go to? Katsina of all places? Could I afford to take that kind of risk? Well, except if I was going in a private car. Let me talk with Galadima first. I was sure his thoughts wouldn’t be very different from mine. I got to Galadima the next day.

“I cannot go to Katsina in a commercial vehicle,” Galadima shouted. “I should be able to run away from there if anything should happen. It is just not safe at this period.”

That was my mind. How safe was Katsina, especially in the light of what had just happened in Jos? My mind swept across Jos again for the umpteenth time. The sounds and pictures of the destruction of the war. Most vivid were the events of Wednesday 12th. The sound of machine guns and tanks that ruled the air from about eight in the morning till about seven in the evening before giving way to sporadic shots. My mind flipped through the pictures of destruction it had recorded as I went round with S.B. to see what the wicked heart of man could do; what the devil could use the heart of the human being to do. As the pictures rolled past, I shivered, shrank, jerked or winced, depending on the effect any particular shot had on me.

We agreed to put Galadima’s ailing car on the road. We would spend Sunday night in Kano and move to Katsina early the next morning. Sunday morning, at about ten o’clock, he picked me up at the church premises, after the worship service. He was a Muslim come into the church premises. I had wanted to spare him the agony of thinking that he might be lynched in the premises, and so I had asked him to wait for me at the round-about, a little distance down the road. But he had braved it. In fact, he didn’t feel any sense of insecurity and this made me happy.

Thirty minutes into our journey the car developed a

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problem. We thought it was the timing chain. Trouble. Going back to Jos was out of the question. But, to go to Kano by commercial transport! My heartbeat increased. We had just passed Jengre, and so Galadima suggested we turn around for a mechanic. As soon as we started driving back he remembered aloud that it being Sunday, we might not find a mechanic. More fear. Then I remembered, aloud too, that most of the people in Jengre were Seventh Day Adventists.

We found a mechanic’s shed, but he was at church! More trouble. More fear. Someone assured us he would come to work after church. Under my breath I thanked God for Christians like him. Anxiously, we waited and hoped. Another twenty minutes or so and the man arrived. “Bearing”, he announced. The engine was partially knocked. More trouble. More fear. More anxiety.

The day was fast waning. We had no option now than to go to Kano by taxi or bus. We moved to the road and waited eagerly. A new-looking Hi-Ace bus pulled up. “Kano, Kano, Kano,” the bus boy shouted. We saw only three other passengers in the back plus the conductor. In front there were two passengers plus the driver. We hopped in and moved right to the back of the bus. I quickly scanned the other persons in the car: all Hausa Muslims. My heart sank.

“Lord I am in your hands”, I prayed silently. I was the only non-Muslim in this bus. Of course, the Muslims didn’t quarrel with just any non-Muslim. Their targets were the Christians, and I was one! Now, if they started anything, would Galadima defend me, or would he begin to reel away verses from the Qur’an? Would he be able to say, yes, I am a Muslim but this man is my brother and to kill him, you must kill me first? Or would he say, kill me instead and let him go? I knew that Galadima had that kind of heart. But would the people listen to him? Would they spare him?

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I darted looks at my fellow passengers, and finally at Galadima. All the others had bright faces and were chatting away easily. I noticed the tension in Galadima’s face and remembered that we had both nursed the same fear. He looked even more afraid than I felt. My dress (I had a jacket on) could betray me easily but there was something (a little) in his that might indicate his Muslim identity. And if that didn’t work (and of course the dress really didn’t matter), the real thing, the knowledge of the Qur’an would. Why was he so afraid?

Realisation came to me slowly, as to someone waking up from a deep sleep. The problem in Jos was not only between Muslim and Christians. Maybe it wore that colour at the beginning. But it soon took on different colours, and Yoruba and Idoma Muslims all faced the wrath of the—should I say—purer Muslims? Was this really even a Muslim versus Christian fight? How many Muslims were part of this? And then I didn’t hear that anybody was converted to Islam. In fact, nobody was even asked to become a Muslim. How then was this a Jihad? And what was the result of this Jihad? The devil had been turned loose and he was working through Muslims, Christians, non-Muslims and non-Christians. Scenes and pictures began to come back.

I remembered my friend trapped with his elder brother, and the brother’s son in his Beetle car in Bukuru, about to be set on fire. Their escape was a miracle, though the son ended up in the hospital with almost a pound of his flesh hanging down from the cheek which had to be stitched. The car was burnt to ashes. I remembered another friend, a Muslim from Kogi, who had suffered at the hands of Christians. But for the protection of a pastor who lied to save him, he would have been killed. He had found it impossible to sleep in his house for weeks. What about the pregnant woman who was slit open and the baby taken out and

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both burnt? What about the six- or seven-year-old Muslim boy who was beaten, cut with razor blade and finally slaughtered under the suspicion that he may have been a spy, because he was carrying a knife? How about that man who wept and pleaded, giving up over four million naira in cash that was in his boot, begging for mercy, and yet was cut to pieces and burnt, car, money and all? What about that poor man who had escaped from the fight scene and almost reached the refugee camp when he was caught and a six-inch nail driven into his head? Then he was allowed to slouch into the camp, no one caring whether he’d survive or not. What about my friend and office associate, and brother (since we are from the same place and of the same church), who was shot in the head and fell to the ground unconscious, never to get up again, the news of whose death I got as one of the rudest shocks of modern times? What about . . . and what about . . . ?

We moved into Kano State territory from the Jos end; as we entered the Falgore forest, we began to see police and military roadblocks. My blood pressure must have shot up tenfold. Galadima was nervous too. The entire team of soldiers and police at the roadblock were Muslims. Lord! I am in for it, I thought. One of them approached the bus, shouting the nickname of the driver. Something like “Lagos boy.”

“Ah, Alhaji, barka dai,” he returned the greeting. Something changed hands, I noticed in a quick flash, and we were off. Poor Obasanjo, I thought. Another one kilometre and there was another roadblock. All Muslims. The same ritual and we were off. This driver must be very popular with these people on this road. He could just turn us in to any set of the soldiers. Lord, Galadima may be able to save himself, but what about me?

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The road blocks were innumerable and I began to relax. The driver seemed to know his way and his people pretty well. He knew where and how to drop something and where not to. At one police checkpoint he didn’t give a hoot. While one policeman moved round the car, looking menacingly at the occupants, he just sat there, calm as the deep blue sea. The officer demanded the particulars. The driver took his time, but gave him everything he wanted. He too took his time to peruse the papers. Minutes ticked away. My adrenaline level shot up. He handed the papers back to the driver and walked away. The driver took his time to put the papers away.

The bus eased off and a co-passenger asked why the policeman wanted to be stubborn. The driver’s response put me totally at ease: “Don’t mind him. How many people are in this bus? And he saw you all. Is it those people at the back? Anybody would admit they are responsible gentlemen. Is it you people? Even for your age, he shouldn’t think that you could be irresponsible. So, what’s his problem? I gave him the papers didn’t I? Why should I give him any money?”

I was surprised. But he gave money to many before? Anyway, my fears were now nearly completely gone. So, after all we were not being regarded as animals to be slaughtered at anybody’s whim. So it was true that we were in the midst of other human beings. The rest of the journey to Kano was less tensed. Once in Kano I felt a little more relaxed because I was in the midst of real friends. I even cracked a few jokes about Shari’a and how I thought they would be coping.

In my hotel room that night I slept with one eye closed and the other open. My fears had not been completely allayed, especially when I realised that the room next to mine was occupied by Muslims—four of them! Butas and mats lay all around their door. And they made a lot of noise too. they surprised me the next day though. Their leader, a huge and burly man

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whose forehead clearly indicated that he prayed five times (and

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probably more) daily stopped by as Galadima and I hung around in the corridor. He greeted us very warmly and offered his hand from which his chasbi dangled. I was scared (especially because of the chasbi) but I had to oblige him. Galadima thought that he knew the man from somewhere, and they spoke for a while.

One hour later we were on our way to Katsina. This time I could even forget myself. It was my first time in Katsina. Actually that was part of the attraction for me. But the town looked ordinary and the people just normal human beings. For the next four days, caged in Katsina Motel, we watched films from morning till the next morning. My eyes saw a lot of things around any time I came out for fresh air. I wondered aloud if there were no Shari’a in Katsina and someone said there was before he remembered to ask me why I said so. I pointed to the non-Shari’a-compliant actions around and we both laughed.

The morning I left Katsina (for I had to leave before my colleagues), my fear and anxiety returned. Someone had told me that I could get a taxi from Katsina to Jos straight, which should have been a relief but was not. How could I tell anybody in the motor park that I was going to Jos? That was like advertising myself. That would endanger my life I thought. I had a Hausa-looking dress on (my pyjamas really), but that couldn’t conceal my identity or disguise me in any way. But I had to go to Jos. I had no choice.

I braved it and announced that I was going to Jos. Then I discovered that the drivers too feared coming to Jos. There was no taxi loading for Jos, nor was there likely to be any for the day. I had dreaded the idea of having to enter Kano city alone and to begin to look for a taxi to come to Jos from there. But I had dreaded more the soldiers at the countless checkpoints through which I would have to pass. Oh Lord, spare me the agony, I prayed under my breath.

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The Kano taxi had only two passengers and I was afraid of not reaching Jos before the six o’clock curfew time—if I ever made it. I told the park official that I was in a hurry. I asked if there was another, faster route. Zaria, he suggested. But the vehicle was still empty. But the Kaduna vehicle needed only one person. I jumped at the idea, feeling a lot safer on that route.

My hopes were dashed as soon as I got to the taxi. Everybody in the car looked shari’a-compliant except one Ibo man. But his presence gave me some succour: he felt so free and talked so freely, pricing a pair of sunglasses from a Hausa hawker. I feared he might anger the man and wished he would just pay and let this man go away. In the end he bought nothing—and nothing happened. Why was I so afraid?

I sat in the middle with three other passengers; the Ibo man and two Hausas. In the back seat were three ladies who had their heads all veiled up as if they had just arrived from Iran. But as soon as we pulled out of the park I heard one of them singing a chorus which had lyrics like “With Jesus I can make it.” Surprise. Somewhere along the way (after we had travelled an hour or so), there was a near accident in front of us. A voice from the back screamed: “Jesus Christ of Nazareth!” Now I had to steal a glance behind me. More surprise! All the veils had disappeared. From then on, I was nearly completely relaxed. I brought out my newspapers and magazines and began to read. The two Hausa chaps borrowed some to read. It was then that something brought my fears and anxiety back. The man sitting closest to me had borrowed one of the magazines. We were approaching Zaria then. There was a story about Osama bin Ladin in the mag, something about his connection with the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Centre, etc., in the U.S. There was also a picture of the bearded daredevil in the mag. This picture was the only attraction for this man. The smile that

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washed across his face as he beheld the picture told me that I needed to be careful. This man could have a knife or pistol under his gown. I might well be sitting next to a terrorist.

I left the taxi at Zaria. But I paid dearly for my stupidity. I could not get into Jos before six o’clock. I became a refugee some fifteen kilometres away from home. Many thanks to a few people who have given themselves to be used by the devil in God’s name. May God take this fear out of me; out of many of us and replace it with peace and love, the real peace and not the one of the new definition by fundamentalist terrorists. Amen.

SCENE THREE

Reflections1. Oh mighty God of

heaven, creator of the universe; of the heavens and the earth. In your infinite wisdom you created the universe very vastly. Even our earth is vast and diverse, extremely so. On this earth, oh God, you put a vast array of things and beings. Even the human being, whom you created in your own image; you gave a diversity of race, of place, of tongue, of opinion, and even of the way he may choose to relate with you: Indeed, of the choice whether or not to relate with you at all.

2. Oh mighty God, creator of all things and father of all humanity. Forgive me, oh God, but permit me to wonder aloud, if you’re actually watching these “your children” and seeing the things they do,

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sometimes in your name. Too often, oh God, I get completely lost as to which of these your children are right. Is it Judaism? Is it Buddhism? Is it Mammonism? Christianity? Hinduism? Islam? Bahaism? Taoism? Ogunism or any of the very numerous ones I do not even know of? God, you need to see what they are doing. You need to hear what they are saying. In our human language, these your children do say to themselves that silence means consent. Perhaps they are just saying this to console themselves. But if there is any sense in what they say, then Lord, could we apply this to you? That you have not sent fire to consume all religions and leave only one, could you be teaching us something? Lord, perhaps you need to speak up. Your silence is killing them who do not understand the language of silence. And, God, maybe you shouldn’t have let loose the devil. You see now, he is causing a lot of havoc, and where he is not, his name is doing just as well.

3. How should the world end? Should it be like the scriptures predict it, as the scientists predict it, or as religious fanatics and fundamentalists want it? If God wanted us all in heaven at once, would he have created the world as it is? And if anybody is too eager to get to heaven (because the world is full of sin) should he force anybody else to accompany him?

4. A prayer: Lord, the other day I had a visitor. He was tired and weak and weary. He needed a drink of water; I gave him. He needed something to eat; I gave him. Then he said he needed a place, maybe just a shade to rest his weary bones and I gave him. Lord, the next thing he did was to give me a proverb—a statement the hedgehog had made to the snake when he, snake, had given temporary shelter

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to the hedgehog in his hole. The ingrate had told his host that he who felt uncomfortable should vacate the hole! Lord, you are the one who fights the battles of the weak: Just have a good look at my predicament.

5. I have heard the whole world saying that the word “peace” needs to be redefined as it does not seem to connote the same thing to all people anymore. Or are we to accept this rather odd dictum that any one who needs peace should prepare for war?

* This travelogue appeared originally under the title “Nigeria: The Bleeding Beauty.” This version is reproduced from Dul Johnson’s anthology Why Women Won’t Make It to Heaven (Jos: Topshots, 2002), with very slight modifications, by kind permission of the author.

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Innocent VirginAro Richard

Innocent virgin, robbed of brightness,robed in shame,

Your immaculate white dresshas been stained

for the whole world to see.Where is your glory, your dignity, your honour?

Oh, my innocent virgin,my beloved home

land of peace and beauty,haven of hospitality and brotherhood.

Humble and pure, you clothed yourself,envy of all virgins,

pride of your groom,prepared for your crown—

Only to be raped, brutally raped,by hyenas

who feed and live on Osa.

They came, enemies of peace, joy and purity,to the vigil night

where your people had gathered,awake and awaiting

the brightness of the moonto rejoice with you,my innocent virgin

“At the rising of the moon”they raped you,left you in blood,

wounded beyond cure.

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Innocent Virgin

95

Where is your white garment, your glory?Your brightness now darkened to shame?

The whole world sees you,uncovered,

your dress torn openyour defilement exposed.

Innocent virgin, I weep for you.Stained.

Disgraced.My people. My Jos.

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Requiem JosMmaasa Masai

Jos!Joy bursts into flamesFrom my observatoryAtop the mountains.

Madness dissolvesYour tissuesLike acid on cotton.Buildings blazeThe Heavens.The earth quakesBeneath our feet.Joy is fled.“Suna zuwa!”“Suna zuwa!”Echo tremulous voicesIn diabolic cadence.

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Night.Sleep is fled,Leaving in its wakeGunshots! Gunshots!Resonating insanity.This is the musicOf the night.

Angry souls hoverIn the airPondering this, pondering that,This monstrous leave-taking:The last dream, undreamt.The last sin, unrepented.The last piss, unpissed . . .

Oh, Jos!Home of the morning moon,Land of calm twilights,Benevolent breath of baby angels,Tell me now—What does tomorrow bring,Now that you harbourNot peace,Not tourism,But only gruesome Death in your pouch?

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Jos, I Weep . . .Anayochukwu J. Ohama

O Jos peaceful cityHome of peace and sight seersKano boils in hot potYou lie like still watersKaduna roasts like bush meatYou lie like still watersBauchi rages like stormYou lie like still waters

Jos the city for the homelessNow your children have been driven awayBy great tide into sea-bedsA new grave for innocent bloodYour creeks filled with headless bodiesHeaps of ashes and car carcases congest your streetsHouses with broken and burnt headsShops cry because their bowels are emptied by

gangsters

Jos our new war museum for national historyCentre of attraction to your visitorsCelebrating the death of your childrenLike a widow they swell your house with rice and beansAll these Santa-Clauses who feed your childrenWhere were they when some were slaughteredlike Sallah rams by their emissariesAll your life your children criedOf harmattan cold besieging your houseBut no one clothed themNow your lovers treat them like helpless orphansEminent protectors of the poor!

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Jos, I Weep . . . 99

Jos we know how they love youWhen indeed they bred the vipersThat destroyed your peace—all in the name of the LordThe emissaries of riftLove now that your children sleep in tentsLike lovers who come at duskDancing and singing your dirgeAnd flee before dawnThey come and go filled with joyBut know that like a shepherdessOnly you can shield your childrenFrom the darts of huntersWho strike in the bushSneaking out looking for the striker.

Kuru Falls laments her bank polluted with bloodShere Hills weeps for her dog and kittenRiyom Rock cries for her dead childrenDogon Dutse bewails her dead babiesLamingo Lake mourns for her dead infantsTheir offspring slaughtered like Sallah ramsRoasted like Christmas goatsTheir bowls filled with the blood of their childrenThey cannot be consoledBecause their children are no more.

O! Jos, beautiful city and home of peaceJos, I weep . . .

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How Do You Feel?Reginald Cole

How do you feel mister manHow do you feelNow that you have killed my brotherYou took his cattleAnd burnt down his houseYou ride his MercedesLooted at the expense of his bloodYou grit your teethFeigning a grinWhich pains my heartFor behold I knowThis is not a smileWhite teethBlack heartThat spells wickednessI greetedYou spatAnd nursed hatrednessThirst for blood and destructionHow do you feelHis children are now roamingThey have no abodeThe wife’s eyesAre red with tearsShe weeps for her lossAnd the cutsHow did you feelWhen you slashed his throatWith that suya knifeJust like you wouldHave sliced the suyaBut this time

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It was not dead meatFor blood gushed outRed red warm bloodPainting the streetsThe streets of JosTurning crimsonWith my brother’s bloodAi!You walked on that same streetBrandishing that bloody knifeLooking for another victimOh no! Again I see the sightUtmost savageryBarbaric degeneratesHow do you feel nowHow do you feel?

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Coroner’s InquestDeborah L. Klein

Before packing into my house,I forgot to whisper with my own peopleto intimate of the neighbours:“Are they Christian? Are they Muslim?”

When I went to buy biscuit,I neglected to examine the kiosk,to interrogate the shop-girl and her mistress:“Are you Christian? Are you Muslim?”

When the uniformed mandemanded my particulars,I did not remember to demand of him,“Are you Christian? Are you Muslim?”

At the Federal University,a Muslim man denied me staff housing,and a “Christian” man from Plateaudenied admission to my candidate from Oyo.

In this Nigeria,Americans, like me,Indians, Lebanese, and Filipinosare all Bature, Oyibo, Bekee.

When tires and tempers ignited in the streets,and terrified families fled to my gate,should I then have stopped them to determine,“Are you Christian? Are you Muslim?”

And I wonder:When those airliners pierced the Twin Towers,did the tumbling bricks and twisted girdersfirst inquire of those whose skulls they crushed,“Are you Christian? Are you Muslim?”

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Happy Survival*Carmen McCain

It’s been months now since I watched the ripple of smoke travel down the side of the first tower and heard the screams around me, “God, no, no, no! It’s down. It’s fallen. The World Trade Center has fallen.” I stood on the 67th Street Pier in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, hands covering my mouth. Over the water, unintelligible words blared from a megaphone. Behind me a middle-aged man held his wife tightly. Two teenage boys, who had just run past with their cameras, stood frozen. Over our heads and behind the columns of smoke, the sky was the serene blue of a cathedral ceiling.

The night before, I stood in line to meet Garrison Keillor† and recapped the events of the past weekend to a friend. On Saturday morning, I had found out that Jos, the previously peaceful plateau town in Nigeria where I grew up, was embroiled in one of the most devastating religious riots the country has experienced in recent years. I didn’t hear from my parents until Monday morning when they emailed that they were fine and feeding 150 refugees seeking asylum in their university house. “I can’t understand this mentality,” I told my friend. “What makes neighbours kill neighbours? How can Christians kill Muslims? How can Muslims kill Christians? I don’t understand it.”

Then came September 11. Under that ironic blue sky, between phone calls to and from frantic friends, I began to understand the grief and rage of one living in an assaulted city—the instinctive fight for self-preservation. I understood how an old teacher in Jos could make Molotov cocktails with his children, to protect his home if it were attacked. I wanted those who had planned the attack to pay for what they had done. I

† A popular American author and radio personality

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wanted the terrorists to die. When a pacifist friend wrote me an email about how killing terrorists is the same thing as killing innocent people, anger trembled through me.

I went to Mass and chanted liturgy. I lit a candle in Union Square. I bought a yellow ribbon to tie onto our stair railing. Mixed with my anger was a fear that Americans as victims might turn into Americans as perpetrators.

When I sat out on my front stoop, I saw Muslim men walking their children home from school. Their wives stayed behind curtains. The day after the attacks, I passed the open-air market where I buy vegetables. A gigantic American flag hung from the canvas awning. When I asked the Muslim owner how he was doing, he was almost incoherent. “I have put up the flag to say I am so sorry. I am so sorry. There are crazy people out there. Crazy people. Whoever did this . . .”

He did not say, “It wasn’t me. Don’t blame us because we are from the same place,” but it was there under his words. I understood. “We keep praying,” I said. He said, “God bless.”

Back in my apartment where the radio blared news coverage twenty-four hours a day, I tried to pack. On September 26, I was scheduled to leave New York to spend a year in Nigeria doing research at the University of Jos. Now, the thought of leaving New York was excruciating.

This tragedy had made me love the city more than ever. I wanted to defy the terrorists by staying. I wanted to be a part of whatever the city became. But I kept packing. Another way to defy the terrorists was to continue with plans made before the attack—to fly, to travel, to move, to carry on with life—although I knew life would never be the same again.

Exactly two weeks and a day after September 11, I boarded a plane at JFK. During take-off from New York,

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I hid my face under a blanket and wept. But halfway through the flight, I was ready to be in Jos, the city where I had grown up, the city that had until last month been recognised as the “Home of Peace and Tourism.” a tranquil middle ground in Nigeria between the predominantly Muslim north and majority Christian south.

When I arrived at the airport in Jos, I was saluted with the new greeting, “Happy Survival”. Story upon story followed: students defending the university against attack; the constant rattle of machinegun fire; churches burned; mosques burned; markets destroyed; houses razed; and hundreds of men, women, and children killed.

Ethnic and political tensions disguised as religious fervour had finally boiled over. As visitors sat in the living room looking through my Newsweek and Time magazines, exclaiming at the horror or the New York images, they told me of their own friends and relatives who were missing. Musa Bot, a former Christian religious knowledge educator, had left his home on September 8 to find his daughter, and had never returned. Nine days later, they found his body by the river. He was one of my father’s former students. As in New York, everyone knew someone missing—if not a personal friend, a friend of a friend.

Soon after arriving in Jos, I went to photograph a church that had been burned. The plastered mud brick walls still stood, though holes were bashed in the new cinderblock section and the roof was gone. The women of the church bent over, babies tied to their backs, sweeping the broken glass and ashes through the doors with straw brooms. After the rubble had been swept from the floor, they poured buckets of water over the cement. The water reflected their feet and their faces. The blue sky burned down. Nearby, the men tried to salvage sooty zinc rescued from the collapsed roof. “They did not burn our church. Since no person in our

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church died, the real church was not damaged,” said the pastor, whose house was destroyed. “We thank God.” The women began to sing as they swept. Soldiers sat on a nearby rock, keeping watch.

It has been months since this worldwide crisis began, but the underlying tension is still there. My Hausa language teacher told me of a Muslim woman in her literacy class who was being required to leave the home where she had lived for 27 years. Her Christian neighbours told her landlord that they wouldn’t be responsible for what happened to his house if the Muslim tenants remained. The same thing is happening to Christian families in Muslim neighbourhoods. After a Muslim demonstration against the bombing in Afghanistan, the northern Nigerian city of Kano exploded. Friends advised me to stay at home on Fridays.

One Sunday, I went with my family to an Igbo church that has a special ministry to widows. There are six new widows there. “The Muslims tried to burn our church,” the pastor told me. “A mob came and threw a petrol bomb, but our neighbours, who are also Muslims, came and poured water on the fire and drove the mob away.” Four soldiers guarded the outside of the church. They waved their submachine guns nonchalantly as we asked them about the crisis. When we drove home through a Muslim section of town, we saw more of the damage: topless houses, hulks of burned cars, blackened mosques.

A Hausa trader came to our home trying to sell pictures made of butterfly wings. “It is a hard time for all of us,” he said—many of his wares were burnt by Christians. “Last Friday at the mosque,” he told us, the imam spoke strongly to them. “No more trouble! Christians are not our enemies. Any time you hear these people making zanga zanga, if they are Muslims, just deal with them.”

By now the last rain had come and harmattan, the wind that blows dust from the Sahara, veiled the hills of

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Jos and the last yellow flowers that grew there. Down from the Plateau it blew, and we followed it to the naming ceremony of our Fulani nightguard, Adamu’s, the eight-day old son. We sat on a couch beside the low-walled outdoor mosque, where the men of the village sat. We all prayed together, the Christians with heads bowed and hands folded, the Muslims sitting on prayer mats, their hands cupped. At the end of his prayer, the imam called out the name “Isa”, which means Jesus in English, and the baby was named. We shook hands and shared the traditional kola nut.

When I close my eyes I can still see the tops of those two buildings engulfed in black smoke—the white ripple that brought the gleaming towers down. As the harmattan blows over Jos, covering everything in a fine dust, we hear of the bombs dropping over Afghanistan, anthrax deaths in the US, the explosion of violence in Kano. Hopes for the future seem bleak.

The world is a different place from the one I have known for the past twenty-four years. Death once seemed a fate reserved for the very old, the very sick, and the victims of freak accidents. War was something that happened for a short time when I was thirteen. Religious violence was something we were overcoming. Now I know that these things have always been with us and probably always will be. Death hovers nearby.

I dream of it at night. I know that I could easily have been one of those in the missing posters hung in Union Square, one of those buried in a mass grave here in Jos. In the midst of all this violence, why was I spared? Why do I still have dreams for the future?

I pray for peace. But what will the world look like when peace comes?

*This article first appeared in NewsAfrica 14 Jan. 2002: 50-51. It is reprinted here, with slight modifications, by permission of the author.

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Food Is ReadyZa Pitman

Here. Take.Make a pepper soup of it,And gulp, gulp it down your greedy gullet.For no meat is as sweet as human meat.

The butcher brandishes his sharp knife,Neatly fleeces the skin from the sheep,Dissects assiduously like a detached doctorIn the operation theatre.

The hunter trains his Dane-gun,And slowly pulls the triggerWith a loud reportThe unwary hyena leaps high in the airAnd drops down heavily to the earth,Groaning in the throes of deathLegs twitching its final dance,Kicking the air in a strange epilepsy.

The butcher kills,The hunter kills,To provide meat for mankind.But why do you kill, psychopath,When you do not eat your game?What manner of man are you,That hunts and butchers for vultures?

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Look! There they lie lifeless in their thousands,Strewn along all the major streets of Jos,Like swarming flies on an open sore.The awesome handiwork of your knife and gunConfirm your lion manhood.Congrats!You shall never want for meat againIn all your life.

I say: here, take.Make a suya of it,And gulp, gulp it down your greedy gullet.For no meat is as sweet as human meat.

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GlossaryAbacha, Sani = military dictator 1993-1998

Abdulsalami Abubakar = military leader 1998-1999

abiku = in traditional belief, a spirit child who repeatedly is born, dies, and then returns again

Afisiri = ethnic group in the Jos area

Alhaji = honorific title for Muslim man who has made the pilgrimage (“Haj”) to Mecca

Allahu akbar = “There is One God”, opening to Muslim worship

almajiri = Islamic student who begs on behalf of his teacher

am = (NPE) him

area boy = virtually unemployed youth who hangs out at market or motor park

Aso = Aso Rock, site of Federal Government in Abuja

Baba = “Daddy”

Babangida, Ibrahim = military dictator 1986-1993

Bakasi boy = member of local vigilante group

barka dai = “welcome”

Bauchi = Muslim city 2 hours north of Jos

Berom = ethnic group in the Jos area

Biafra = southeast section of the country which attempted to secede 1967-1970

big man = very important person

brother = man from one’s village or ethnic group

Buhari, Mohammadu = military dictator 1984-1986

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Bukuru = city on south border of Jos, part of greater Jos area

Bukuru by-pass = road entering Jos from south

bush meat = wild game, often sold roasted in the city

butas = traditional Islamic slippers

cellular set = cell phones were new to Nigeria in 2001

chasbi = Islamic prayer beads, rosary

COCIN = Church of Christ in Nigeria, major denomination in Plateau State

comot = (NPE) come out

copa = (NPE) corper, member of Nigerian Youth Corps

Dane-gun = single action rifle intended for hunting

de = (NPE) the, or indicator of present tense verb

dem go/dem say = (NPE) they will/they say

Dogon Dutse = “long hill”, area of Jos around one mountain formation

extra-mural = classes offered outside regular school hours

football = soccer

Fulani = nomadic, Muslim, cattle-rearing tribe

GCE = General Certificate of Education

gif = (NPE) give

Gowon, Yakubu = military leader during Biafran War, native of Plateau State

grass-cutter = large, edible rodent

“Great Josites” = rallying cry for students of the University of Jos

gree = (NPE) agree

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Hausa = predominantly Muslim ethnic group of North

Hiace, Hi-Ace = a model of mini-bus used as public taxi

Ibo, Igbo = south-eastern ethnic group

indigenes = people indigenous to an area

jare = (NPE) something extra

jerry-can = plastic container for carrying water, oil, fuel

Josite = student of University of Jos

JUTH = Jos University Teaching Hospital

Kaduna = city which has seen many religious riots

kaftan = long robe traditionally worn by Muslims

Kano = strongly Muslim city in far North

katakata = (NPE) commotion (“scatter-scatter”)

Katako = important market area of Jos

Katsina = Muslim city in far North

khaki boys = soldiers

kiosk = small stand for selling packaged goods

kola = bitter, stimulating nut often given to guests

Kuru Falls = area just south of Jos which supplies bottled water

Lamingo = Jos neighbourhood near reservoir

LGA, Local Government Area = like U.S. county

matchet = machete

motor park = a sort of station for taxis

Nassarawa = very poor neighbourhood of Jos

NEPA = Nigeria Electrical Power Authority

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NITEL = Nigeria Telecommunications

Glossary 113

NPE = Nigerian Pidgin English

NYSC = Nigerian Youth Service Corps

Obasanjo, Olusegun = military leader after Gowon, elected President in 1999

Oga = (NPE) Master

Ogun = Yoruba god of iron and war

okada = motorcycle used as taxi

Okonkwo = protagonist of the novel Things Fall Apart

“Okoro” = generic name for Igbo man

omage = (NPE) young prostitute

palava = (NPE) quarrel, argument

“Panjak” = generic name for Plateau man

PDP = People's Democratic Party

pepper soup = mixture of water, red pepper, and organ meat

pikin = (NPE) child, children

powa = (NPE) power

Quarters = residential neighbourhood

Riyom Rock = landmark near Jos, resembles human head

Rogo, Angwan Rogo = extremely poor, mostly Muslim neighbourhood in Jos

Sallah rams = rams roasted to celebrate Islamic holiday (“Sallah”)

shari’a = Muslim law

Shere Hills = neighbourhood of Jos

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soldier ants = large, easily annoyed ants which always move in single file

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suna zuwa = (Hausa) “They are coming”

suya = roasted meat on skewer

Terminus = end point of taxi route at Jos Central Market (now destroyed)

Tin City = Jos; Tin was heavily mined here during colonial days.

Umuofia = setting of the novel Things Fall Apart

Vice Chancellor = highest local administrator in university

VIO = Vehicle Inspection Office

wak = (NPE) walk, move about, survive

wetin = (NPE) what thing? what is it?

yam = large, starchy, potato-like tuber

zanga-zanga = (NPE) trouble

zinc = corrugated metal roofing material