By Damian Ugwu
Dawn crept across Awka, Anambra state capital city with the dry whisper of Harmattan winds. That Tuesday morning found me sharing coffee with Carina Tertsakian, a woman whose reputation in human rights circles was as formidable as her determination.
From her base in New York, she had ventured into Nigeria’s heartland, drawn by whispers of the Bakassi Boys’ reign of terror – a story that needed telling, no matter the cost.
Carina wore her experience like battle scars.
Six years earlier, she had locked horns with Paul Kagame’s government in Rwanda, her groundbreaking research exposing the raw nerves of post-genocide human rights violations. Her expulsion from Rwanda had become something of a war story, one she would share during our long drives across Nigeria’s dusty roads. In those moments, between interviews and investigations, her voice would take on a particular edge – part pride, part warning – as she recounted how speaking truth to power came with its own price tag.
“In Rwanda,” she would say, stirring her coffee with mechanical precision, “they waited until my research was almost complete before they moved. Here, with the Bakassi Boys…” She would let the thought hang in the air, heavy with implication.
Her experience had taught her that the most dangerous moments in human rights work came not at the beginning when you were just another foreigner asking questions, but near the end, when those in power realized just how much you had uncovered.
As we sat there that morning, plotting our day’s journey through the tangled web of vigilante justice, I could see that same steel in her eyes that had carried her through Rwanda. The Bakassi Boys might be a different beast altogether, but Carina had danced with devils before. Her presence lent our investigation not just international credibility, but a certain fearless methodology that came only from having stared down government intimidation and lived to publish the findings.
At six AM sharp, Carina and I performed our morning ritual, much to the quiet consternation of the hotel staff. They never quite understood our insistence on coffee at this ungodly hour, but these early moments were precious – just us, steam rising from our cups, mapping out the day’s labyrinth of interviews and investigations.
Vincent, our driver, was more than just a wheel-man. A fellow veteran of NYSC days in Uyo, Akwa Ibom State and an alumnus of Nnamdi Azikiwe University, he possessed that rare combination of street wisdom and scholarly insight that made him invaluable in these parts. Most evenings found us sharing not just my hotel room – a practical arrangement to spare his wallet – but also bottles and stories at the outdoor bar, where he’d unspool tales from his darker university days as a cult enforcer, each story more chilling than the last.
Today’s schedule read like a chess game across Anambra State. Our first move: an 8 AM meeting with the Bakassi Boys, the state’s notorious vigilante service. From there, we’d pivot eastward toward Onitsha, detouring through the small community of Nawgu. There, we hoped to piece together the story of Prophet Eddy Okeke – “Eddy Nawgu” to his followers – the powerful spiritualist whose life had ended at the Bakassi Boys’ hands.
The afternoon promised a parade of political and legal minds: Hon. Ifeanyi Ibegbu, Minority Leader, Anambra state House of Assembly who escaped execution at the hands of Bakassi Boys by whiskers, Obelle Chuka, the NBA Vice Chairman in Onitsha; Emeka Umeagbalasi, heading the state’s Civil Liberties Organization; and Barrister Onyechi Ikpeazu. The ghost of Barrister Barnabas Igwe, the NBA Chairman whose assassination on September 1st had shocked us all, haunted these appointments.
It was scary to note that these men were virtually the only men in Anambra state who had the balls to openly criticize the Bakassi Boys. Meanwhile, Governor Mbadinuju and his commissioners remained as elusive as morning mist.
The Nawgu interviews began traditionally – navigating the linguistic maze of elderly voices. Vincent proved invaluable as our interpreter, bridging the gap between the thick local dialect and our foreign ears. But it was the entrance of Joyce Okeke that transformed the modest living room into something approaching theatre.
At twenty-five, the widow of Prophet Eddy Okeke commanded attention with an almost otherworldly presence. Her mixed-race heritage wrote itself in fascinating contradictions across her features – honey-coloured skin that caught the filtered sunlight, proud Nigerian cheekbones, and lips that spoke of her father’s ancestry. Her British mother’s genes manifested in her eyes – light brown with flecks of amber – set beneath perfectly arched brows. When she spoke, her British-accented English flowed like music, creating a striking counterpoint to the traditional compound’s rustic surroundings.
The village women who had gathered watched her with a mixture of awe and acceptance. They had moved past the initial novelty of her appearance, won over by the quiet dignity with which she carried her grief and her respectful observation of local customs. As she recounted the events leading to her husband’s death, her elegant hands punctuating key moments of the narrative, the room hung on every word.
Later that evening, as we unwound at the hotel bar, Vincent couldn’t contain his amazement. “Now I believe in juju,” he declared, nursing his bottle. “How else could such a beauty – armed with London education and that face – fall for an ugly, unschooled herbalist?”
“Love is blind,” I offered weakly.
“Spare me,” he scoffed. “This was pure charm work.”
By 10 AM, we found ourselves in the state government house in Awka. The headquarters of the feared Bakassi Boys belied their reputation – a sparse office with nothing to suggest its significance in the state’s power structure. The waiting room buzzed with supplicants, but Carina ‘s foreign presence worked its own kind of magic, expediting our entry. In Nigeria, some doors swing wider for white skin – a reality both useful and uncomfortable in our line of work.
The waiting room at AVS headquarters offered its kind of theatre. I caught fragments of an angry exchange between Camillus Ebekue, the AVS chairman, and a disgruntled client whose debtor had slipped through the Bakassi Boys’ fingers like morning mist. The target, it seemed, had fled before dawn, leaving the vigilantes clutching at shadows.
Ebekue’s sharp eyes caught my eavesdropping. “Which tribe are you from?” he asked abruptly. I claimed Yoruba heritage without hesitation – my years in Lagos had gifted me enough language and mannerisms to wear the identity convincingly.
The interview that followed was an exercise in futility. Ebekue performed his role with practised precision, painting the Bakassi Boys as mere crime fighters, unmoved by our evidence suggesting otherwise. His denials were as rigid as the wooden chair he sat upon.
Onitsha proved more fertile ground. Dr. Onyechi Ikpeazu dissected the legal landscape with surgical precision, while Obelle Chukwu’s fiery rhetoric matched his reputation. When Ifeanyi Igbegbu joined us later at our hotel, his cowboy hat as distinctive as his story, he chilled us with his account of escaping the Bakassi Boys’ death row mere moments before execution.
The evening found us planning tomorrow’s journey to Ubakala Village in Umuahia, where we would meet Chief Nwachukwu, an 82-year-old man whose first son, Chukwudozie, along with Okechukwu Madukwe, had fallen to the Bakassi Boys’ machetes in July 1999 – allegedly at a former governor’s command.
Vincent’s customary invitation to the poolside bar came right on schedule. The night air was thick with possibility, and we were soon joined by an unexpected guest. Ifeoma moved like liquid gold – young, blonde, beautiful, and practised in the art of selective attention. She named herself a second-year science student at UNN Nsukka, but her presence at this hour spoke of different lessons altogether. Her mention of waiting for a Bakassi Boys’ leader – a “popular politician” – sharpened my interest, though she deftly deflected my probing questions.
When midnight drove us to our rooms, we left her at the bar, her silhouette a question mark against the pool’s shimmer. An hour later, her knock came soft as rainfall. Her request was simple: a bed for the night in exchange for transport fare to Nsukka. When I mentioned the absence of protection, she expressed a preference for my company over Vincent’s, citing safety. We surrendered the bed to her, choosing discomfort over
Dawn found me preparing for my coffee ritual with Carina when inspiration struck. “You mentioned your closeness to Chief and other Bakassi leaders,” I ventured. “What would it take for you to share their stories?”
She weighed the transport fare against her secrets, and then, like a confession in a darkened church, she began to sing like a canary…
September 20, 2002
