In Imo State of Nigeria, many people are afraid to walk the streets due to widespread Insecurity--

NEW LONDON, Conn. - Oct. 27, 2025 - PRLog -- Seeing one gang member dead and risen, and the wiry man subdued, Akem observed that the Bandits were ready to call off the attack. Backing up, and at a safe distance from us, the young man with the thick neck, groveling, said in a low pleading voice, "Can I explain."

"Go ahead, confess," said Akem.

"This man you tried to hit is a Catechist." As he talked, he looked submissively at the wiry man.

"Catechist?" Akem scoffed

"Yes, he is a senior Catechist at Saint Agnes's church."

"Why didn't he say so a while ago, and what is that object bulging out of his right pocket."

"A hymn book," interjected the catechist, clearly upset that the young man was trying to talk for him, and he brought out a brown, half-thorn hymn book. Stepping out behind his protector, where he had temporarily sought refuge, he explained that after several rejections, the thick-necked fellow found a bride and had hired him to tutor him at home in catechism, religious beliefs, and creeds in preparation for the sacrament of matrimony. That he had paid the sickly man two hundred naira to transport him to the student. The mere explanation of his role reminded him of his superiority over his student, and he pulled down his oversized right ear to slap his cherub cheek.

"What is the name of the girl you want to marry?" Akem asked the young man with the thick neck.

Still recovering from the bruise over his left forearm, the punch in his tummy, and now feeling humiliated by the Catechist, the young man resisted answering the question.

"Nnamdi! Tell them!" the Catechist screamed, followed by a hurry up hand gesture.

"Eyiuche Ironsi, is my fiancée," answered the young man.

"Everyone knows Eyiuche Ironsi," said Akem

Akem turned to me, and asked, "Ikechi, do you remember Eyiuche?"

I thought for a while, and said, "not really, I do not remember her."

"She was one of the flower girls in your wedding," Akem said.

"Oh! I remember her."

Now, pointing at the dead and risen motorcyclist, the young man introduced him as Professor Kanayo Obidi, who taught secondary school students for decades.

"Ikechi," the risen professor cried, "you're supposed to know me, but didn't. I taught you history at Isuokpu High School, and you should have remembered."

"You are the last person I expected to drive Okada (using motorcycle to transport passengers) at this age," I said, without thinking, "who would ever forget Professor K. Obidi."

With tears sipping from behind his eyeballs, the Professor lamented how the Imo state Government is a retiree's nightmare, and that he had no other recourse but to drive Okada to feed himself and his ailing wife, who no longer have stable knees, ankles and wrist to walk much less hold hoes and sickles. For a quarter of a century, he said while visibly and uncontrollably sobbing, two governors, one a dubious megalomaniac, and the other a shadowy recluse have suffocated our beloved state, and our proud people.

"Really," I blurted out.

"Certainly!" he said with that authoritative, nostalgic voice that students were fond of.

"I don't follow closely what is going on in the state," I said apologetically.

"Ikechi," he said, his facial expression that of disappointment, "you should. We all should pay attention, whether you reside here or abroad. You see how your brothers here scared you. That shouldn't happen, but I do not blame you. Everyone is suspicious of one another. No one is safe here. You saw it with your own eyes. Every road you travel on, there are soldiers with guns hung across their right shoulders, very scary." He carried on and on, very emotionally, until Akem hinted by lightly clearing his throat that he wanted to say something.

"Anyway," said Akem, flicking his head toward the man with the short, thick neck. "I know his father. They look alike, yes, they live here, and I kind of know him. But I wanted to shake him up a little, shake them up a little. You see, like the Professor said, no one trusts another person these days in this village. It really is a different time. Don't blame me, blame the times. We all live in fear here and in villages across Imo. Afraid to walk down the street, fearful when tending our backyard farms, terrified to bring our children home, scared to sleep, watchful when we kneel in front of the altar to receive Holy Communion, fearful when we come home to bury loved ones or pay respects to the dead."

The End.
On Call With Dr. Anselm Anyoha | Dr. Anselm Anyoha (https://modernerapedatrics.podbean.com/)