A Story around the May 1803 paintings

The waves embraced them like danshiki in harmattan wind/ May 1803 (Citizens of Nowhere) 60 x 72 inches, oil on canvas, 05/2025

Pathway to Freedom/ May 1803 (Citizens of Nowhere series) 81 x 79 in, acrylic on canvas, 05/2025

Let me tell you about the country called Nowhere. It is the land of kings and queens, princes and princesses- I am one of them.

A long time ago, our ancestral home was the land of Idu n’Oba, the great queen mother and king. There were disputes about allegiance to these Oyibo who spoke through their noses, who came bringing all these strange gifts that doubled one’s appearance, this magical pipe that blew thunder and death when pointed in one’s direction, and thus sweet liquid that looked like water, but burnt in the hearts of the drinkers like fire! The foreigners brought many strange gifts and spoke of other gods as well.

Some of the chiefs of Oba’s council were uncomfortable with the foreigners. They would rather continue in the ways of the great ancestors. They prefer the bronzes and the gods of their forefathers, who had brought great peace and prosperity to the land.

Things got heated in the conversations at the king’s palace. The chiefs opposed these new ways, and allegiances left the king’s palace. They later met in secret in my village and formed a resistance. The king got wind of it and sent his soldiers to bring the dissenting chiefs. The king’s soldiers raided the villages and caught some of the chiefs. These men had committed treason against the Oba, Messenger of the gods, and they were to be excommunicated from the land to appease the gods. The homes of those captured chiefs were razed to the ground. Their cattle and farmlands became the property of the chief priest. The noble chiefs and all their families were bundled in chains and sold. Some of them were sold to foreigners, others were sold to neighboring villages.

My people made it through. They were the chiefs who escaped. They got wind of the plot of the king to sack the opposing kings and fled from the kingdom, going in all directions. This was the great migration that led to the forming of the kingdoms by the banks up and down the rivers Niger and Benue, the kingdoms of the Igala, Aniocha, Ado N’Idu, Ijaws, and Ugwunta. Due to time constraints and the distractions of the present moment, I will be breaking the story. There is truth in the story. Like all the great stories of my people, it has been handed down by anointed griots. The griots have passed it down in tales by moonlight to their precursors, while sipping palm wine and smoking the sacred herb.

Our chiefs escaped on battle boats shaped like the arrow of a warrior. The boats darted fast down the banks of the river Niger. We were fleeing as fast as possible. We wanted to be as far as possible from the rogue king who chose to abandon the ancient ways, who was abolishing the traditions and customs of our ancestors. My people were farmers, but they started learning to fish on the great river. They lived partly on the canoes, and partly on the shores of the Niger.

One day, they came to a land that seemed like the home of the gods. Access to the land was by the river Urashi, emptying into a beautifully blue lake. The banks of the lake were fertile for farming, and the lake yielded the sweetest Igu fish we had tasted!

Our people fell in love with this land and invaded it. We won the battle, made the landlords slaves to be sold off, some to serve us, and others to serve the gods. The king of that land fled to a neighboring village, and some of the citizens of that land stayed behind. They were second-class citizens, as now our chiefs ruled.

The caste system was established- the victims of the wars were untouchables, unable to take a seat among the chiefs in their native land. Parts of the story are a bit blurry, as I, too, have become intoxicated by the white wine. The smoke of the herbs makes me drowsy. I know there will be many questions about this tale- the people and their land. There is truth here. Chiukwu bears me witness. Some parts of the narrative are moral compasses. I cut the story short often.

This event occurred sometime in May 1803. Some of the chiefs sold by Oba to foreigners were chained together in big canoes with masts of cloth to catch the wind. As the shores of their homeland and farms disappeared, the dissident chiefs, their wives, and children grew gloomier. They decided on the night after one of those terrible storms that convulsed the mighty waters. They chose to die free rather than live as slaves. Singing, passing on the message to everyone, they became one voice, with one purpose- they all will jump in unison into the great waters, weighed down by the chains. On a day when some of the foreigners left the canoe in the hands of a few men, those Igbo chiefs, with their wives and children, flew overboard, chained together at the waist, hands, and feet. Death was the liberator.

Forgive me, reader, if I lost you in the telling. The message is clear. The story is true. The lands, slaves, royalty, the people mentioned, and several other parts of the story either existed or are familiar. Some of these traditions persist to this day. We were all born free. Circumstances may change our status. The Citizens of Nowhere are everywhere, and very much among us. I am one… occasionally stopped boats exist, and the citizens are nomads.

But understand this- we are all nomads. We are citizens of Nowhere, everywhere seeking a home. I must go now. Other matters call for my attention.