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Okongwu was a generous man and sponsored a number of children in various schools in Nigeria and abroad. There is a well-known story of how he sent one of his nephews to America to study. He clearly had great expectations for his nephew. In those days, men like Okongwu, who had the means, sent family members abroad to advance their education with the hope that they would return and improve the standard of living of their family and community. Apparently this nephew did quite well and earned his PhD. Sadly, just before he returned to Nigeria, he became quite ill and died. Okongwu was devastated.4
The last time I saw Okongwu was at the train station in Enugu, the capital of the Eastern Region. He came there to see his son Sonny Chu Okongwu off to Government College, Umuahia. He was standing, leaning on the railing with his right hand holding on to the bars. He spotted me from a distance and called me over, introduced me to his son, and asked me to “take care of Sonny at Government College.” It struck me that the senior Okongwu appeared unhappy. The loss of his nephew clearly had taken a lot out of him.
Leaving Home
For a brief period I spent some time living with my older brother John, who was working at Central School, Nekede, as a teacher. My father had wanted John to follow in his footsteps and become a teacher too. John was a gifted student and successfully fulfilled that dream.
It was John who, quite wisely, thought my own education would be enhanced if I lived with him in a school environment. So I packed up my few belongings and set out with my older brother to Nekede, near the present capital of Imo state, Owerri, about forty-three miles from my ancestral home of Ogidi. That was the first year I spent away from my parents, and at the time Nekede seemed like a distant country.
John enrolled me in Central School, where I prepared for my entrance examination into Government College. The regional center for the exam was St. Michael’s School, and John helped me make the trip from Nekede to Aba. Before I arrived Okongwu apparently announced to the students of St. Michael’s, in Igbo: “Onwe nwa onye Ogidi ana akpo Albert Achebe, na akwadobe inene akwukwo-a; oga ama unu nmili.” (The loose translation is: “There is a young man called Albert Achebe from Ogidi, who is coming to take the entrance examination with the students in this school. . . . [H]e will beat all of you in all subjects in the examination.”1) This, clearly, did not endear me to my fellow pupils at St. Michael’s but piqued the interest of future longtime friends, like the brilliant Chike Momah.
Afterward I returned to Nekede for the remainder of the school year. Nekede was a treasure trove of Igbo culture. Our ancient traditions continued to fascinate me, and I sought an alternative education outside the classroom, from the local villagers. The old men in Nekede spoke respectfully about the Otamiri River and the chief deity for which it is named. The Otamiri deity is a female who, according to legend, purified the land of evil and would claim the lives of interlopers who wandered into the area for mischief. It was said that no one had ever drowned in her waters unless they had committed evil deeds or contemplated diabolical acts.
It was in Nekede that I was introduced to mbari and the sophistication of Igbo phenomenological thought. The Owerri Igbo, who lived near Owerri township, saw mbari as art engaged in the process and celebration of life. A mud house was often built with decorated walls and crowned with either corrugated metal or a thatch roof made of intricately woven palm leaves and spines. Inside, center stage on an elevated mud platform, an observer would find life-size sculptures of the constituent parts of the Owerri Igbo world: Alusi—deities—such as Otamiri and Ani, the earth goddess; and men, women, children, soldiers, animals, crops, and foreigners (mainly Europeans), all seated. The inclusion of the Europeans, a great tribute to the virtues of African tolerance and accommodation, was an example of the positive acknowledgment of strangers who had ventured into their midst. There would also be depictions from ancient mythology, as well as scourges, diseases, and other unpleasant things. The purpose of this art form was to invoke protection from the gods for the people through the celebration of the world these villagers lived in—in other words, through art as celebration.2
The Formative Years at Umuahia and Ibadan
It was not long after my foray into the metaphysical world of the Owerri Igbo that I was to leave my traditional classroom in the forests of Nekede for the second stage of my formal education, secondary school. There is a certain sense of mystery that I feel when I look back to those times, because things we encounter in l
ife that leave the greatest impressions on us are usually not clear.
My elder brother John was a very brilliant man. I still say he was the most brilliant of all of us. He was very eloquent, and he would correct my spoken English. I often wondered about John. . . . How did he gain such control of the English language? John had not been to university but had received a secondary school education at Dennis Memorial Grammar School (DMGS) in Onitsha. All my brothers attended this legendary school, which had been built by the Church Mission Society—Frank had attended, John went there, and it was where Augustine was to go. The school was very imposing, with its red earth–brick, limestone-and-wood colonial architecture accentuated by Doric columns, and cathedral-height roofs. And their uniform—the dark red shirt, pants, and cap—was very impressive. DMGS was the place.
In 1944, I took a national entrance examination for the British public schools of the day, and I also was admitted to Dennis Memorial Grammar School and Government College, Umuahia. Now when John was told that I had been admitted to both Umuahia and his alma mater, with full scholarships to both, he suggested I go to Umuahia. Though Umuahia’s location was very remote, its status as a “government college,” set up by the colonial government, reassured my parents. Following a period of deliberation and debate, the consensus in my family was that I go to this fairly new school in faraway Umuahia, even though we had no relatives there.
I also privately wished to go to Government College, Umuahia, because I wanted to do something different from my brothers. Umuahia, a new elite boarding school established in 1929, was rapidly developing a reputation as the Eton of the East, and I fancied receiving an education akin to the royals of England!
The Anglican Protestants of the Church Mission Society, as well as the Methodists, Baptists, and Roman Catholics, had built missionary schools throughout the South and Middle Belt of Nigeria. These new government colleges—exemplified by Government College, Umuahia, and Government College, Ibadan—were built to continue the tradition of educational excellence established by even older secondary schools, King’s College and Queen’s College, both in Lagos. Between these four schools—King’s, Queen’s, Umuahia, and Ibadan—we had some of the very best secondary schools in the British Empire. As a group, these schools were better endowed financially, had excellent amenities, and were staffed with first-rate teachers, custodians, instructors, cooks, and librarians. Of course today, under Nigerian control, these schools have fallen into disrepair, and are nothing like they were in their heyday.
Shortly after taking the national entrance examination I received a letter in the mail addressed to me explaining that I was under consideration for admission to Umuahia. That had to be the first letter I had ever received in my life.
I traveled to Umuahia to be interviewed by a former principal, a very tall and large man—I believe his name was Mr. Thorp. My interviewer first asked why I did not reply to the letter he wrote me offering me admission. I said I did not know that I was supposed to reply, and he picked up a copy of the letter and read, “Please acknowledge receipt.” I did not know the meaning of that phrase, and I said to myself, “Well, I am not getting in at this point.” But after a little more conversation he gave me admission to his school.
As the first day of school approached I was overtaken by a sense of excitement and trepidation. I had never been to Umuahia before my interview; in fact, I did not know of anyone who had been to Umuahia. I was to travel first by lorry to Enugu, and then by train to Umuahia.
I arrived at Umuahia railway station alone. A man and his son approached me. The man asked me whether I was going to Umudike, the village where the secondary school was located, and I replied “Yes, sah.” He was going there too, with his son. They had hired two bicycles, and he suggested I ride with them. I carried his son, who was considerably smaller than I, on the handlebars of the bicycle to Umudike, which was about three and a half miles from the railway station.
As we sped off, I kept thanking this man for the help. I was completely surprised at the hospitality and warmth that greeted me on my first day in school. His son became a friend, naturally, because he was the first “Umuahian” I had met. Later that semester I would discover that this lad, who would become a renowned physician, Dr. Francis Egbuonu, had come to Umuahia from St. Michael’s School, Aba. It was, coincidentally, the very same school that another very close friend of mine, Chike Momah, had attended.
THE UMUAHIA EXPERIENCE
Government College, Umuahia, was built on a sprawling, parklike campus at the fringes of a tropical forest. The grounds were dotted with large evergreen trees on well-maintained lawns and crisscrossed by hand-crafted stone pathways that were bordered by manicured hedges. The buildings—wood-framed brick-and-stucco bungalows surrounded by wide verandas—were adorned with shuttered windows and crowned with large metal roofs. The vaulted-ceiling design also enhanced ventilation and tempered the tropical heat. Most of the structures rested on elevated foundations or stilts—to protect them from floods and to keep termites, wild animals, serpents, and rodents out.
There were three dormitories at Umuahia—the Niger, Nile, and School houses. I was assigned to Niger house and once there unpacked my few belongings in my dormitory locker. In my time the school had about two hundred students, and our lives were strictly regimented, with literally every hour slated for an activity.
One of the most thrilling peculiarities of the Umuahia experience was the culture of playing cricket. Not all secondary schools in the area played the game; soccer was far more commonplace. Cricket matches were often organized between: Government College, Umuahia; King’s College, Lagos; Government College, Ibadan; and a few other elite secondary schools.
Umuahia had a huge cricket field, which had a beautiful grass lawn and a clear sand pitch area with wooden wickets. It was cared for almost more carefully than grass anywhere else in the school. In the afternoons, cricket matches were packed, and the bleachers and grandstands had scarcely an empty spot.
Cricket was not a game that I knew anything about before coming to Umuahia. Over time I began to appreciate that this was a very important global sport, and that it was very popular in literally every part of the British Empire. The schoolmasters referred to the game as one for “gentlemen” and made sure Umuahia athletes played it “properly”—dressed in immaculate white shirts and trousers, gloves, knee-high pads, and helmets. I was not known for my athletic ability, but Chike Momah and Christopher Okigbo were particularly good batsmen and bowlers of the sport.
Christopher Okigbo was a very extraordinary person. He was two years below me, but Christopher was not one to allow two years to get in his way. He quickly became one of my closest friends.
He was born in Ojoto, in Anambra state, and came from a highly talented family, part of the so-called Okigbo trio of intellectual giants that included his older brother, the late legendary economist Dr. Pius Okigbo, and their cousin Professor Bede Okigbo, the renowned agronomist.1
Christopher was just somebody you could not ignore or suppress. He struck people because he was so energetic, and so fearless. He was somebody who would walk into a room, sit down, and start learning to play the school piano without any prior exposure. He had an innate understanding of what was required to play the instrument without the regimented, torturous, orthodox lessons. Christopher was a talented artist and a sports hero, and he had a keen mind that won him the admiration of many of the British schoolmasters. He quickly became very popular throughout Umuahia.
His reputation for mischievous exploits preceded him. I think the first time he got the attention of the entire school was when the principal, William Simpson, decided that there was a lot of food waste coming from the kitchen; in other words, it seemed we were being given too much food to eat! Simpson decided to give food not according to one’s academic year—the pupils in the higher classes were given more food than those in the junior classes. Simpson felt that this practice was not a very good idea, and that it led to a waste of food. A better arrangement, he thought, was for people to be given food according to their weight. Before we knew what was happening, Christopher, who was slightly built, had talked with the dining prefect, and we noticed that he was now in the food equivalent of heavyweights, receiving more food than his classmates!
