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Book Review: How We Became Heroes, Ifésinàchi Nwàdiké, Noirledge Publishing, 2025
 

If this title is considered intriguing or grotesque, I raise no objections; at any rate, not a preliminary one. It was underscored by the dominating thematic preoccupation and weighty aura of this collection. However, I believe a read will justify me. It is safe to say that my pen danced blithely upon the blank page while reviewing this literary piece by Ifésinàchi Nwàdiké, who has once again done justice to what I refer to as the literary essence. In a wild biblical allusion, I attribute the tripartite entrails of this literary piece to the Holy Trinity, who embodies holiness—a sharp contrast to the filthy, wicked, and blood-sucking rulers we have at the helm of affairs. However, its first part synchronizes with the promised paradise for righteous souls but first, the old world must pass away when Christ returns astride a horse to wipe out evil as written in Revelation 19:11: “And I saw heaven opened, and behold a white horse; and he that sat upon him was called Faithful and True, and in righteousness he doth judge and make war.” Nwàdiké in the same vein is “the horseman of this apocalypse / Your comrade in neocolonial tribulations / I divide me into four selves — each, astride a horse” because “Holy! Holy! Holy! / Holy is the horseman / Who has finally come” (18). Just like passionate writers, who are yoked to an unending tryst with activism, Nwàdiké becomes a vanguard of an apocalyptic mission—to bring an end to evil, boisterous and exasperating kleptocracy, hence his messianic stance as he rhetorically asks “Nwàdiké, are you not the rain / that will douse this raging inferno / …are you not the hunter / that will tame this loose panther?” (16). He seems to accept the charge in the next instance thus: “… I, ishi ekwẹghi, ọnwụ / arrow in Amadioha’s bow / horseman of the apocalypse” (17). It is only natural that good always triumphs over evil, hence:

                         … after the deluge, the horsemen gather
                        At the city’s gate and percolate into one whole –
                        The horse – white, the rider – I
                        Turbaned with a white robe,
                        Disbursing peace, succor, and justice
                        To hamlets where they were long lost (19).   

Despite finding it a herculean task to pick a favourite from this poetry collection which seemingly passed the rigorous test of the blacksmith, it doesn’t erase the fact that the first part of this piece remains my favourite. Every line and poem summarily portrays the sorry state of our nation and, as well, underscores the prophecies and judgement that come immediately upon the bloodsucking kleptomaniacs as the poet laments: “a cloud of thick smoke billows out / from the chimney of my soul / as I behold a broad stratum of priviledged slaves / propping up the marbled palaces of tyrants…” (3) in what could be read as the sum total of the weight of repulsion that sets the revolutionary tone of the rest of the poems. He declares the totality of the cleansing, envisioning on the next page “a song rises beside tombs… / Pontius Pilate of the clean hands / vengeance is upon you / if we miss your heads on earth / Okigbo awaits you at Heaven’s gate” (4). The titular implications of the subsequent poems take us on a prophetic tour of the events soon to play out. A few weeks ago, the youths in Owerri, the capital city of Imo State, overran the City Boys Movement tour led by Seyi Tinubu whose father has weaponized poverty and hunger and in turn offers gifts to the gullible masses to pave way for his second-term ambition. That incident captures the prophetic immediacy of Ifésinàchi’s outing when he says:

                        The bladder of our patience
                        Has swollen to its limits like a ripe boil
                        See it explode on their grim faces
                        Like fireworks of wrath and venom (13).

Ifésinàchi goes from the general to more personal things, as seen in the second part of this collection, either in the homage to Ifeanyi Sixtus Agbaegbu, his friend and comrade, who emerges from the enclaves of naivety and beats the hardship of Lagos in quest of the golden fleece; or where he tells Madu Chisom of how the supposed one-ness in the Niger-area contraption remains a mirage and death wish, thereby justifying his charge of Frank Eze to join him in “throwing stones, real stones” (26). In my view, what makes this part more interesting is the satiric imbuement in “Questioning Naza” in which the poet questions the power sector following heavy precipitation: “NEPA HAS TAKEN THEIR LIGHT / tell me, Naza / Tell me how to make love / In a country full of heat?” (34). He doesn’t fail to venerate his significant other in “I Dream of Sunflowers.” He doesn’t hide the fact that he found a jewel in this crazy clime where love is monetized and true love is stifled with materialism and several nonsensical lores, stemming from varying degrees of idiotic ideologies that have seen the light of day, no thanks to the Internet. He calls her

                        my fine lady of Oji River
                        I have known laughter again
                        the rock in my heart softens now
                        into a sweet pulp of peace
                        I now dream of sunflowers (32).

The twilight of this collection enjoins us with Nwàdiké’s take on societal ills, ideologies and personal matters — the laughable Big Bang Theory which he sarcastically reimagines and retells his son for the renegotiation of Africa’s place in the order of creation. Nwàdiké’s take on the loose morals that have enveloped our contemporary society is seen in the “Four Haikus for Dear Mother.” So much for a culture shock for our Generation X parents.

The Lekki Toll Gate heroes aren’t left out because “when the flags are sighted, hoisted / high enough to raise the bar of comradeship / the bullets rippled like staccato thunders…” (53). We share in this piece of solidarity as I, in my own poem “They Fell,” had given them a wreath: “…There they fell / In the march against injustice yoked in justice / Against fleeing, mismanaged and swallowed trillions…The air was as cold as a kiss from a corpse / Before the reaper’s scythe bequeathed patriotic lives with an unripe free ride to the great beyond.”

Biblically, rebellion has an evil undertone, but this collection reconstructs it as a life saving ritual in which “There is beauty in the Splendour of the king’s blood” (12). “How We Became Heroes” portrays Nwàdiké as a messiah who prophesies, leads the long-awaited rebellion and eventual armageddon against ideologies, unhealthy rituals against nature, religious fanaticism and most importantly, the blood-sucking ruling class within the confines of strong imagery and stinging satires. Sometimes prophetic, sometimes ironic, the collection is an artistic fine balance, demonstrating Nwàdiké’s other side as a thorough-going humorist who sadly finds himself in a climate full of sad events, so much so that even in the midst of serious expressions, bits and pockets of sarcasm and humour find their way into the lines.