08/25/2025
EMOTIONAL TRUTH💔
I’m ashamed to be an Igbo Man, but before you crucify me, read this carefully.
My mother once told me how Igbo land used to be.
He said a trader could leave his wares in the open market, walk home, and return the next day to find them untouched.
She said if a stranger lost his way at night, all he needed to do was knock on any door, and he would be given food, water, and a place to rest. He said in those days, to kill a man unjustly was to invoke curses upon your lineage. It was not only a crime against man, it was a crime against the gods. It was an abomination. An unforgivable Alu.
That was Ala Igbo. A land where life was sacred, where blood was never shed cheaply, and where peace walked freely on our streets.
But what is left of that land today?
Fear. Blood. Graves. Widows. Orphans. Tears. Silence.
We can blame Fulani herdsmen for their wickedness, and indeed they have done great evil. But let us not lie to ourselves. The greatest bloodshed in the South East today is being carried out by our own brothers. The gunmen are not ghosts. They are Igbo. The kidnappers are not spirits. They are Igbo. The ones burning our markets and killing our sons are not outsiders. They are our own flesh and blood.
How did we fall this low? How did the land that once gave West Africa its brightest traders and craftsmen become a slaughterhouse? How did the once most peaceful land become a horror movie?
The Igbo man was once known for progress. Aba was a city of enterprise. Onitsha was the center of commerce. Nnewi was called the Japan of Africa. Owerri was a bubbling hub of creativity. But what are they known for now? Sit-at-home, gunmen, kidnappings, empty shops, broken dreams. FEAR!
Investors have fled. Businesses are collapsing. Our proud name as the economic engine of Nigeria is now being washed away with blood and fear. Our children no longer dream of factories and markets. They dream of guns and fast money, and the elders clap for them.
And what about Biafra? The agitation began as a cry for freedom and dignity. But it has been hijacked by chaos and self interests. Sympathy for it has blinded us. Many of us are so consumed with hatred for Nigeria that we cannot see we are destroying our own homeland. In our attempt to fight a country, we are fighting ourselves. We are strangling Ala Igbo with our own hands.
And the stubbornness of our people, once a strength, has now become our curse. We forget that no enemy can defeat the Igbo without the cooperation of the Igbo. But look around. We are handing the land over willingly and some of us are still shamelessly proud about it.
What kind of people set their yam barns on fire because they want to kill rats?
What kind of people torment, torture, and kill their own people just to spite their enemies?
The most painful part? Those who should speak have become cowards. Elders who once stood as lions have now swallowed their tongues. Leaders who should defend the land now hide in comfort. Intellectuals who should speak truth are busy chasing crumbs from Abuja. Our people whisper in fear, while gunmen dictate the law of the land. Ala Igbo has no voice anymore and tiny voices like ours are constantly threatened whenever we speak up.
This is not the Igbo land of our fathers. This is not the people who rebuilt after the war with bare hands and unbroken spirits. This is a people sinking into darkness, blinded by rage, silenced by fear, and crippled by their own stubbornness and anger.
How long will we keep killing ourselves? How long will we keep pretending? How long will we keep dancing in circles of blood while our land turns into ashes?
I cry for Ala Igbo. I cry because this shame is ours, and until we admit it, until we confront it, we will have nothing left to hand over to the next generation except graves and tears.
I’m ashamed not because I’m not a proud Igbo man but because I can no longer recognize what our home have become. This is not us. We are a better people.
Copied :KAA
