Chapter One: The Cry of a Nation

The sound of gunfire pierced the air like thunder on a dry night. It was 1968, and Nigeria was at war with herself. The Biafran War—raw, brutal, and unforgiving—had turned brother against brother, town against town, and dreams into ashes. That day, the village heard two sounds: the crack of gunfire in the distance and the wail of a newborn. Both sounds would linger. In the heart of Ohaozara, in a little village called Umuka Okposi, a baby girl cried her first cry under the scorching afternoon sun. Her cry was not loud, yet it carried a strange kind of weight—like the land itself was listening. There was no drumbeat, no ululation, no gathering of joyful relatives. The air was too heavy for celebration. People whispered, looked over their shoulders, and scanned the skies for enemy planes.They named her Uloma—which meant “good home.” A name filled with irony, yet heavy with hope. Born into chaos, her name was a silent prayer. Her mother held her close, trembling not from joy but from fatigue and fear. Her father was away—possibly at the war front, or perhaps at the local market where he sold meat and boasted proudly of his wrestling days. No one knew for sure. Communication during the war was a gamble; letters sometimes arrived when the news they carried was already buried.Uloma came into a world that was crumbling. Fathers had become soldiers overnight. Mothers had learned to dig underground shelters for their children. The smell of smoke, gunpowder, and dried cassava filled the air. There was no school, no laughter on the playgrounds, no street songs. The land had forgotten how to rejoice. And yet, a child was born.Uloma’s mother, the first wife of Mr. Okoronkwo Okorie, knew her daughter was different. The moment she looked into her eyes, dark like the midnight sky but full of fire, she whispered, “You are not ordinary. You came in war, but you are not a victim. You are a warrior.”Mr. Okoronkwo was a man carved from granite. Average in height, broad-chested, and muscular, he was a legend in Okposi and beyond. A local wrestling champion and respected meat trader, he had fought many battles in the wrestling pit—and had won most of them. When he walked through the village square, people stepped aside in respect. He was the kind of man who spoke with his fists and sealed his words with action. His pride was not in his wealth, but in his strength, his name, and the many children he fathered.He had five wives—each with her own hut and children. Polygamy was common in their time, but few men could manage it like Okoronkwo. He ruled his household like a king. His first wife, Uloma’s mother, was not loud or forceful, but her presence anchored the entire compound. Quiet but wise, gentle but unyielding, she was the iroko that stood when others bent.Life in the Okoronkwo compound was not without its challenges. Resources were shared, and jealousy sometimes brewed among the wives and children. But Uloma grew up surrounded by stories, discipline, and survival. Her mother taught her to rise early, sweep the compound, fetch water from the stream, and cook for the family. “A woman’s strength,” her mother would say, “is not just in her hands, but in her spirit.”From a young age, Uloma stood out. Not because she sought attention, but because she carried something deeper. She followed her father to the meat stall in the market and quickly learned how to skin goats and cut beef with shocking precision. Men laughed at first, until they saw her work. “This girl no be woman again o,” one man whispered. “Na small Okoronkwo be this.”She was not afraid of knives, nor of blood. She could carry heavy trays on her head and walk across the market without stumbling. Her feet were swift, her eyes alert. She watched everything. She listened. She learned.But what made Uloma truly different was not just her strength—it was her heart.She couldn’t stand to see her younger siblings cry. If there was one piece of yam and two hungry mouths, she would give it away and chew on hope. If a lizard crawled into the house and frightened the toddlers, she would pick it up with her bare hands and toss it outside, smiling. “Fear is not for us,” she would say. “We are warriors.”At night, after the fires had died down and the stars blinked over the village, she would sit with her mother. She would tell her tales—about tortoises and gods, about foolish kings and clever girls. Uloma listened like her life depended on it. And perhaps, in some ways, it did.When the war finally ended in 1970, the land breathed a broken sigh of relief. But the scars remained. Food was still scarce. Some fathers never returned. Some children stopped speaking altogether. Uloma, now a toddler, didn’t understand it all, but she knew something had shifted.She began to ask questions—many of them. Why did people kill each other? Why was there never enough food? Why did the men in the village always speak with anger? Her mother would smile sadly. “The world is not always fair, Uloma. But that doesn’t mean we must become like it.”By the time she was a teenager, Uloma had grown into a striking young woman. Ebony black, with smooth skin that glistened under the sun, she wasn’t the tallest in the room, but she had presence. You noticed her not because she was loud, but because she had a quiet confidence that demanded attention.She walked with her shoulders square and her chin up. She greeted elders with deep respect and carried herself with the dignity of a princess—even though she wore no crown. Market women often said, “This girl go be something great one day.”Uloma never let praise enter her head. She kept working, kept helping, kept dreaming. She wanted more than just survival—she wanted purpose. Her days were filled with chores, but her heart was full of questions. “What is life if all we do is suffer and die?” she once asked her mother.Her mother looked into her eyes and replied, “Then don’t just live. Lead.”Those words stuck.In school, Uloma quickly rose to the top of her class. She read books like they were treasure maps. History fascinated her. Biology awakened something scientific in her. And literature made her heart burn. She wanted to tell stories, to write her truth, to leave something behind.But there were challenges. Fees were hard to come by. Sometimes, she sold firewood after school to support her family. Her father, aging and slower now, still walked to the market but left most of the work to the boys. Uloma didn’t mind. She felt stronger each day. Adversity was her gymnasium.One day, after school, she saw a young girl crying by the stream. The girl had dropped her only water pot, and it had broken. Uloma didn’t scold or walk away. She fetched her own water and gave it to the girl. “Next time, hold it closer to your chest,” she said with a smile. The girl nodded, tears still on her cheeks.It was in these small moments—these ordinary choices—that the warrior in Uloma kept emerging. Not through battles fought with fists, but through decisions made in compassion, in courage, and in love.Years later, people would write about her. They would call her many names: “The Woman Warrior,” “Daughter of Iron,” “The Hope of Okposi.” But for now, she was just a girl with fire in her bones and tenderness in her soul.Born in a time of bullets, raised in seasons of lack, yet destined for something more.She was Uloma.And her story had only just begun.