What Never Leaves You

There are moments that never really leave you, no matter how much time has passed… and they creep up on you when you least expect it.

Even now, I cannot decide whether I was wise or unwise to pack my bag and fly to São Tomé. But one thing I know: those pictures taken by Thompson broke me. The second I laid my eyes on those poor, dying children, I knew I had to try my best. No one deserves such suffering.

I recall our flight from São Tomé to Biafra—chaotic. I was one of the many volunteers who had made the sober decision to lend a helping hand to the dying Biafrans. No one deserved the agony I had read about and seen in those photographs.

From the moment we landed at the Uli airstrip, it became clear my life was hanging in the balance. One of the airline staff let it slip that a relief plane had been shot down the week before. In the dark of that airstrip, under a light rain, we crouched and slipped past into a waiting wagon, past the Biafrans offloading the relief goods in a frenzy. Time was of the essence. The Nigerian forces could appear at any moment and rain bullets and bombs upon the airplane.

I recall the dread that filled me as I climbed into the wagon that would drive us through the night, under the canopy of the thick forest, until we reached the relief camp where I was assigned. In the back of that wagon, I searched my soul: Was it wise to leave my family and friends in pursuit of saving starving children?

My answer came in the wee hours of the morning, when our truck emerged into a village. The stench that hit me was unlike anything I had ever smelled in my twenty-six years of existence. As if in response, our wagon slowed. No one was in sight. We were supposed to drop off supplies for the health centre, but there was no one to receive us. Death had been here.

Our driver and the station lead argued while I looked around. No one was visible—but where was that smell coming from?

As if answering my thoughts, the driver accelerated and drove deeper into the village. A loud gasp from our station lead made me crane my neck to see. At first, I could not comprehend what I was looking at until we drew closer. There, in a clearing, lay about fifty adults and children—so thin their flesh seemed only a pale covering over bone. Some had their eyes open; others were closed. The children were naked; the adults wore next to nothing, for no cloth could cover their kwashiorkor-swollen frames. Caked in mud, their genders were difficult to distinguish.

No one here could still be alive, I thought. They lay utterly still on the muddy ground. This was the source of the stench. The rain had made it worse. 

The moment I felt the bile climb my throat, I stumbled from the wagon and vomited my airplane sandwich against the tire. Our driver, a Biafran man, tied a dirty handkerchief—once white—over his nose and climbed out to assess the situation.

As I wiped my mouth, something moved at the edge of my vision. One of the figures on the ground was rising. Stunned, I turned and saw several others doing the same. A hand grabbed my arm as I subconsciously took a step toward them.

When I looked at the driver, his face was wary, his eyes fixed on the rising forms.

As if on cue, they leapt to their feet and rushed toward us, mumbling words I could not understand. I froze, horrified, and only moved when I was shoved toward the wagon door. In confused panic, I scrambled inside. The driver reversed wildly and sped away as the figures chased us, screeching.

In shock, I watched them lose momentum, one by one collapsing to the ground, some with hands still outstretched toward our departing vehicle.

We drove in heavy silence until we reached Umuahia, where I was stationed.

Haunted by that sight, I later confided in a Swiss nurse, who listened with gentle sympathy. It was she who told me we could have been stampeded—the dying Biafrans, recognising our food wagon, were making a last, desperate attempt to reach nourishment. Had they gotten hold of the supplies, she explained, most would have died after eating, without medical care to guide them.

I asked why the aid workers had been absent. She had no answer.

That night, as I tended to a chatty, wounded child, I was quietly, fiercely glad to be there to help.