Of Brothers and the Broken Calabash: A Plea to the Sons of Alaigbo – Peter Obi and Chukwuma Soludo
By Prof T Uzodinma Nwala
Emeritus Professor (Ikenga and Ezeji Mbaise)
The lion does not need to prove its strength by roaring at the wind. I watch with a heavy heart as Professor Charles Soludo, a man whose intellect is as deep as the Niger, chooses to sharpen his claws on the bark of a iroko tree that shelters the same forest as him. The question is not how the river helped form the delta, for the delta knows its origins. The question is why one great river would seek to divert the course of another, if its own confidence in its path is as strong as the rock of ages.
When the victory drums echoed for Prof. Soludo in Anambra, I journeyed to his home in Enugu, accompanied by wise heads from the Alaigbo Development Foundation. I went not to celebrate, but to plant a seed. I asked for one simple promise: that he would not allow his new yam to spoil another man’s harvest. I pleaded that he and Mr. Peter Obi, our sons, could each dance to the tune of their different political drums without one trying to break the other’s gong. To my dismay, the seed I planted seems to have fallen on stony ground. I see one brother throwing stones, while the other is building a homestead. It is a painful sight, for a man who is sitting on a stool should not be the one to shake the very ground it stands on.
I have always believed that when two elephants fight, it is the grass that suffers. When our son, Sam Ohuabunwa, and Mr. Peter Obi both sought the presidency, I brought them together under one roof. I handed them a calabash and asked them to keep it whole. They did. They understood that the moon does not fight with the stars; they simply shine together in the same sky. Why can our brilliant Professor not see this? A man who has been given a torch should not use it to set fire to his neighbour’s hut, but to light the path for the entire village.
My spirit was troubled last week as I travelled the Enugu-Onitsha road. I saw campaign posters where our son stood shoulder-to-shoulder with others, but the eternal flame of our Ikemba, Dim Odumegwu Ojukwu, was conspicuously absent. It was like seeing a mighty tree adorned with strange vines, its own roots forgotten. This is not the way.
Even the needless skirmish between his camp and that of Uche Ekwunife is a distraction we cannot afford. I ask myself, where are the elders in these rooms? Where are the advisers who should be pouring cool water on these hot embers before they become a wildfire?These men and women are the sharpened machetes we need to clear our path to the future. Yet, if they are turned against each other, they will only leave our farmlands bare.
My soul aches for the wise counsel of the great irokos that have fallen; The Boy is Good, Mbazulike Amaechi, and the lion of Nnewi, Dozie Ikedife. They would stand with me now to remind these our vibrant sons: Alaigbo is in a season of siege. We are a house surrounded by whispers. If our brightest minds cannot prioritize the rebuilding of our walls, if they cannot make the Igbo resurgence their singular mission, then history will not remember them as heroes, but as tragic champions who won a battle only to lose the war. We must mend the broken calabash, for it is in its wholeness that we all shall drink.