AWKA NA NJAKILI: WHEN WE CONSUME OUR OWN

A painful reflection on family, envy, youth and the crisis of brotherhood in Awka

There is a peculiar kind of tragedy unfolding within our families in Awka, and we must have the courage to speak about it.

I have complained for years about the disturbing level of wickedness that can exist among people who share the same blood. Brothers against brothers. Sisters against sisters. Cousins quietly praying for the downfall of cousins. Family members gathering, not to build one another, but to strategise on how to pull someone down.

And for what?

Most times, it is over nothing.

Ego. Pride. Envy. A perceived slight. A small disagreement. Somebody bought a car. Somebody built a house. Somebody travelled abroad. Somebody’s business is doing well. Somebody’s child is succeeding.

Instead of celebration, suspicion.

Instead of encouragement, mockery.

Instead of asking, “How can I help you?”, it becomes, “Let me see how far you can go.”

They call it Awka na Njakili.

But what happens when Njakili becomes a culture rather than an occasional weakness?

We must ask ourselves honestly:

What kind of home are we creating for our children?

Today, some of our children are afraid to come home.

Some young people who have achieved something outside Awka hesitate to return with it because they are afraid of the attention it may attract.

Some people would rather hide their progress than become the subject of family gossip, ridicule, suspicion, intimidation, or outright hostility.

This is not about global travel.

It is not about academic excellence.

It is not about whether someone has a master’s degree, a doctorate, a foreign passport, or a sophisticated job.

You can find the most educated and exposed Awka man or woman participating in the same destructive behaviour—laughing at someone else’s failure, celebrating another person’s setback, or deliberately talking down a fellow Awka person at the slightest opportunity.

Education has not necessarily cured us of envy.

Exposure has not necessarily given us wisdom.

And money has certainly not given everyone character.

These are difficult times.

Our young people are struggling.

Economic pressure is everywhere. Opportunities are limited. Synthetic drugs are being abused at frightening levels. Despair is becoming normalised.

In such an environment, the family should be the last safe harbour.

Unfortunately, for some people, the family has become another battlefield.

This is why some of us have reached out to the South East Development Commission (SEDC) and its leadership, seeking greater attention, ideas and intervention around the economic shocks confronting families and young people across the South East, particularly in the Anambra State capital territory.

We cannot continue pretending that everything is fine.

There are consequences when young people lose hope.

There are consequences when families lose cohesion.

There are consequences when communities become divided against themselves.

And there are consequences when we allow internal conflict to consume the very people we are supposed to protect.

The greatest enemy may sometimes be the one we create among ourselves.

When a family is divided, it becomes vulnerable.

When brothers cannot trust brothers, outsiders do not need to destroy them.

When cousins cannot celebrate cousins, enemies do not need to manufacture hatred.

When elders refuse to confront wrongdoing because the wrongdoer is their favourite, silence becomes a weapon against the innocent.

Some people still believe that “I better pass my neighbour” is an achievement.

It is not.

Humiliating your brother does not make you greater.

Seeing your sister struggle does not make your own success more meaningful.

A full bank account does not compensate for an empty family.

You are not truly rich when the people whose blood runs through your veins are afraid of you.

I know this personally.

At the age of 17, precisely, I bought my first car.

My late father, of blessed memory, Chief George Ezenagwu Dibor, a great philanthropist and Chairman of GEDI Border West Africa Limited, told me at the time that I was “the most successful legitimate boy Awka had produced.”

Those were his words, and I have never forgotten them.

The car was shipped directly from Hamburg, Germany, into Tin Can Island under an official import licence—not through Cotonou, and not through any smuggling route.

Yet I never drove that car into Awka.

I was afraid.

Afraid of jealousy.

Afraid of envy.

Afraid of the unnecessary attention that success could attract.

And this was many years ago, when the consequences of envy and rivalry did not appear to me to be as physically dangerous as they seem today.

Back then, some of what we feared was expressed through whispers, rumours and what people described as mythical or spiritual intimidation.

Today, the situation can be far more frightening.

What was once whispered about can become physical.

People are threatened.

People are attacked.

People are losing their lives.

And we cannot continue to call everything Njakili and laugh it off as though it were merely an Awka cultural joke.

Some things are no longer funny.

Some things have become a crisis.

Where are our elders?

Ozo Akputakpu once described some of our elders as “stupid elders.”

It was a harsh expression.

But with all due respect, we must ask whether there was a painful truth behind the provocation.

Our elders are supposed to be custodians of justice.

They should be the people who can walk into a room where two families are fighting and say, “Enough.”

They should be able to tell their own children when they are wrong.

They should protect the vulnerable, regardless of who is involved.

They should stand for truth even when truth is uncomfortable.

Unfortunately, too often, money, influence, family connections and personal loyalty have become more important than justice.

And when good people remain silent in the presence of wrongdoing, that silence eventually becomes part of the wrongdoing.

Silence before evil does not always preserve peace. Sometimes it simply gives evil more time to grow.

Let me also be clear.

Ozo Akputakpu is not a perfect man.

None of us is.

But perfection is not the standard by which every human contribution should be measured.

He has touched lives.

He has inspired people.

He has impacted individuals in ways that cannot simply be erased because of his imperfections.

And that is worth acknowledging.

Then there are those who still dare to speak.

Hungry and angry Dr. Chido is another soul who has chosen to speak out.

Perhaps we will disagree with some of what he says.

Perhaps we will disagree with his methods.

But we should not lose sight of the importance of people who are willing to confront uncomfortable realities.

A society cannot correct what nobody is willing to name.

Imagine another Awka.

Imagine an Awka where a cousin buys a car for his cousin and the entire family celebrates.

Not because the car is expensive.

But because love has defeated envy.

That, to me, is sanity.

Imagine an elder who sees a young man struggling and says:

“Come. Let me help you.”

Imagine a successful businessman who deliberately creates opportunities for five young people from his own family.

Imagine siblings who understand that one person’s success does not reduce another person’s portion.

Imagine a community where the question is not:

“How can he be ahead of me?”

but:

“How can we all move forward?”

That Awka is possible.

We don’t need Peter Obi only at the federal level.

Every one of us should become the Peter Obi of our own family.

Not necessarily by giving money.

By creating possibilities.

By opening doors.

By mentoring.

By employing.

By encouraging.

By protecting.

By refusing to participate in gossip.

By refusing to celebrate another person’s failure.

By standing up when someone is being unfairly targeted.

By helping a younger person believe that there is a future worth fighting for.

You don’t have to become a billionaire to change your family.

Sometimes, all it takes is one person deciding:

“The cycle ends with me.”

Awka cannot survive by consuming itself.

We cannot keep pretending that the crisis is merely an individual matter.

It is becoming a social problem.

It is affecting families.

It is affecting young people.

It is affecting trust.

It is affecting the willingness of people to return home.

It is affecting the way we perceive one another.

And ultimately, it threatens the very social capital that made our people resilient in the first place.

We have built great schools.

We have produced brilliant professionals.

We have travelled the world.

We have excelled in business, academics, medicine, law, technology, politics and countless other fields.

But none of that means much if we cannot sit at home and trust our own brother.

What is the value of sophistication without humanity?

What is the value of wealth without compassion?

What is the value of education without wisdom?

What is the value of success if your greatest joy is watching another person fail?

We must change.

Not tomorrow.

Now.

Our children deserve a home they can return to without fear.

Our young people deserve encouragement, opportunity and hope.

Our families deserve justice.

Our elders must rediscover the courage to speak.

And those of us who have achieved something must understand that our success becomes more meaningful when it creates room for someone else to rise.

Awka does not need more people trying to prove that they are better than everybody else.

Awka needs people who are determined to make everybody better.

Because when your brother rises, you have not fallen.

When your sister succeeds, you have not failed.

When your cousin builds a house, your own roof does not become smaller.

When one family member wins, the family has another reason to celebrate.

Let us stop confusing another person’s progress with our own defeat.

Let us stop feeding the monster within us.

Let us stop destroying what we claim to love.

Because the uncomfortable truth is this:

If we continue consuming ourselves, one day we may look around and discover that there is nobody left to blame.

It is well.

Anthony Ikenna Dibor
August 31, 2026