By the time the sun began to rise over Ihiala each morning, the streets were already empty. The laughter of schoolchildren, once a familiar sound across the town, had faded into memory. Markets that used to buzz with traders became ghostly corridors of shuttered stalls. Even the churches—long seen as refuges in times of fear—stood silent.
For many residents across Ihiala, Orsu, Orlu, and surrounding communities in the Southeast, the years of turbulence involving the Eastern Security Network (ESN) left scars that remain deep and unhealed. What began as a group declared to defend Igbo land, many locals say, slowly transformed into a force they came to dread.
This is the story they remember.
This is the story some say should never be allowed to repeat.
“They Told Us to Hand Over Our Weapons or Die”
In Ihiala, local vigilante groups recall the moment things changed. According to several community members, ESN operatives suddenly emerged in their towns, demanding that vigilante officers surrender their weapons. “Hand them over or be killed,” was the warning many say they received.
Those weapons were reportedly destroyed, local security dissolved, and police officers forced to flee. In their place, ESN members positioned themselves as the new authority—controlling movement, enforcing curfews, and dictating daily life.
But over time, residents allege, the mission of protection turned into a reign of fear.
The Towns That Fell Silent
Within months, entire towns were deserted. Families fled in haste. Traditional rulers abandoned their thrones—some escaping to Awka and other cities for safety. Markets closed. Schools locked their doors indefinitely. And the sound of sporadic gunfire became a daily reminder of insecurity.
“We left everything behind,” one displaced resident recalls. “Our homes, our shops, even our livestock. There was no safe place.”
In Lilu, locals recount that a young man who spoke openly against the activities of the armed group was killed. Similar stories ripple across the region—stories of silenced voices, disrupted communities, and dreams cut short.
Levies, Fear, and Dark Tales
As fear spread, residents say the group began imposing levies on everyday activities—burials, weddings, thanksgiving ceremonies. Some families claim they were forced to pay exorbitant sums before they could bury a loved one. Others say refusal attracted deadly consequences.
It wasn’t only about money. Communities allege kidnappings, extortion, and other criminal activities became rampant. In churches and schools—once sanctuaries—there were reports of attacks, intimidation, and destruction.
The killing of Reverend Father Tobias Chukwujekwu Okonkwo in Ihiala remains one of the most painful memories for parishioners of Our Lady of Lourdes, who describe the incident as a wound that time has not yet healed.
After Ikonso’s Death: A Turning Point Toward More Violence
The death of ESN commander Ikonso marked a turning point. Following his killing, tensions intensified dramatically. In controversial claims during interrogation, a captured ESN figure, Emeoyiri Uzorma Benjamin (popularly called Onye Army), alleged that Nnamdi Kanu ordered Ikonso to be buried with human heads—an allegation that shocked the nation.
Kanu publicly blamed the Imo State Government for Ikonso’s death, and soon after, a wave of retaliatory attacks swept across several LGAs. Police stations were burnt. Security personnel targeted. Public buildings destroyed.
For residents, it meant only one thing: a new cycle of fear.
“They Burnt Everything”
Perhaps the most heartbreaking stories are those of ordinary families whose lives were turned upside down. One resident recounts how his friend’s family mansion—a structure built over decades—was razed to the ground after being accused of sheltering security agents. Community schools, churches, and police stations were not spared.
“They didn’t need proof,” another resident says. “All they needed was suspicion. And once they suspected, the building was gone.”
Many who fled during this period still struggle to return home. Their childhood houses are in ruins. Their villages now carry memories of smoke, gunfire, and fear.
A Region Longing for Peace Again
For elders who lived through the Nigerian Civil War, the memories of this recent violence strike an uncanny resemblance.
“The last time Igbo land felt like this was in the late 1960s,” one elderly man said quietly.
“We prayed never to see such days again.”
Today, despite improvements in security, the emotional and economic damage lingers. Some communities are still rebuilding. Some families are still searching for loved ones. And many young people are trying to understand why their towns became battlegrounds in the first place.
“Ozoemena” — Never Again
Across Ala Igbo, the call is growing louder:
a call for the government to completely restore peace, dismantle remaining criminal elements hiding under the guise of agitation, and rebuild trust in official institutions.
It’s a call for a return to normal life—the sound of schoolchildren running through corridors, the reopening of bustling markets, the rekindling of church bells on Sunday mornings.
Above all, it is a call for healing.
A call for unity.
A call for remembrance.
Ozoemena.
May these dark days never return.
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