Silence: On the Brink of Losing Us

By Nwafor Oji Awala 

For a unique ethnic people like ours, ethnic identity is not just a matter of pride, it is the anchor that holds us steady in the storms of change. Without it, we risk drifting into the anonymity of history, swallowed by larger tides.

Among us, there are those who gnaw at the roots of our heritage like wood ants, quietly but persistently hollowing out the very trunk of our ethnic tree. They build their hidden tunnels through our values, weakening what should stand strong. It is a form of self-poisoning, a corrosion from within. And though such people exist in every land, it cuts deeper when they are our own blood.

Then there is another group, those who parade themselves as the elite, the so-called enlightened. They are the honey buzzards of our society, swooping in to snatch the cream and the choicest spoils, manipulating the system for their personal gain. They perch comfortably, as long as the land still breathes life. But I am not troubled by them, for the day the land awakens like an army of soldier ants rising from the bowels of the earth, these raptors will take flight in fear.

More troubling still are those who trade our royal coat of tribal identity for cheap political favors. They barter away the very ethos that commands respect for our people, the sacred code that guards our traditional institutions and cultural heritage. They exchange it for wine to fill their bellies and coins to line their pockets. In doing so, they forget the heavy price our ancestors paid to forge these values. Do they remember the sacrifices, the long nights, the oaths, the blood, the stories whispered over sacred fires that shaped our uniqueness? Perhaps not. But the slumbering consciousness of a people cannot remain silent forever.

What gnaws at my spirit is not only the betrayal, but the silence that blankets it. Silence from elders; the guardians of our traditions. Silence from leaders, those who swore to defend our voice in the halls of power. Silence from teachers, who should be echoing our story in the minds of the next generation. The quiet is deafening. And it wounds me deeply.

Recently, our traditional ruler, HRM Emere Philip Obele, stood tall among other oil-producing tribes and boldly declared our migratory journey, a proud retelling of who we are and where we come from. His words rekindled our collective pride. But almost instantly, a storm of opposition rose from the same forces that have long sought to dilute our identity into theirs. And when some of us dared to speak up, we were shocked to find our own people defending those who would erase us.

Now, the wood ants and honey buzzards circle around the very head of the custodian of our sacred values. And still—silence.

The army of ants shall one day rise, and the earth will tremble beneath their march. Ants are the most preyed upon creatures, small, often dismissed as ugly and weak, yet they are one of nature’s most organized forces. In their time, they can march over an entire forest, surrounding every creature until there is no escape. How many from their number can you truly destroy? They are countless. They will march across the land like a flood, an unstoppable, roaring flood. And when it comes, its echo will be loud, unrelenting, and unforgettable.

But what bothers me most is their silence today.

Nwafor Oji Awala 

(c) Prime Heritage Magazine