October 1, 2025
Abuja, Nigeria
While Nigeria celebrated its so-called “Independence Day,” a different story was unfolding on the streets of the capital.
A small group of protesters—Northerners, surprisingly—had gathered at Eagle Square demanding the release of Mazi Nnamdi Kanu, the imprisoned leader of the Indigenous People of Biafra (IPOB). The turnout was modest. The enthusiasm, muted. The expected masses of Biafrans who should have flooded the streets? Absent.
Not because they didn’t care. Not because they had given up. But because fear has become a weapon more effective than bullets.
This book was born from that paradox.
How can a people be so passionate about freedom yet so paralyzed by fear? How can a movement that commands millions online struggle to gather hundreds in person? How can the most educated, entrepreneurial, and resilient ethnic group in Nigeria remain shackled to a country that despises them?
The answer is complex, painful, and ultimately, inspiring.
What you’re about to read is not neutral.
I am not a dispassionate observer. I am Biafran. My grandmother’s bones lie in mass graves from the 1967-70 war. My cousin was shot during a peaceful protest in 2016. My uncle has not been the same since soldiers invaded his home in Aba, searching for IPOB members.
I carry these scars. And I refuse to pretend otherwise.
But bias is not the same as dishonesty. Every fact in this book is documented. Every quote is sourced. Every accusation is backed by evidence. What I offer is not neutrality—it is truth told from the perspective of the oppressed.
Because the “neutral” narrative—the one told by BBC, CNN, Al Jazeera—conveniently omits crucial details. They report “separatist violence” without mentioning state-sponsored terrorism against civilians. They describe IPOB as “militant” while calling Boko Haram “insurgents” (as if there’s a difference). They interview Nigerian government officials but rarely give airtime to Biafran activists.
This book corrects that imbalance.
How to read this book:
This is not a traditional academic text, though it is thoroughly researched. It is not pure journalism, though it is factual. It is not a memoir, though it is deeply personal.
It is a call to action dressed as a history book.
You can read it cover to cover, following the chronological and thematic flow. Or you can jump to chapters that interest you most:
- Want the historical background? Start with Part I.
- Curious about Nnamdi Kanu’s story? Go to Part II.
- Interested in current activism? Jump to Parts IV and VIII.
- Need the legal arguments? Part VII has you covered.
- Want to know what you can do? Chapter 18 is your roadmap.
Each chapter is designed to stand alone while contributing to the larger narrative.
A word about language:
Throughout this book, you’ll encounter Igbo words and phrases. I’ve included translations, but I refuse to sanitize our language for Western comfort. When an Igbo elder says “Nwa m” (my child), it carries warmth that “my child” cannot capture. When we say “Chukwu” instead of “God,” we’re asserting our spiritual autonomy.
You’ll also see passionate language—words like “zoo” (the derogatory term some Biafrans use for Nigeria), “Fulani terrorists” (not “herdsmen”), and “kidnapping” (not “extradition”) when describing what happened to Nnamdi Kanu in Kenya.
This language is intentional. It reflects how Biafrans actually speak when we’re not sanitizing our pain for diplomatic consumption.
Three promises I make to you:
1. I will not bore you.
This is not a dry academic tome. It’s a story of human resilience, political intrigue, digital warfare, and the unbreakable spirit of a people who refuse to disappear.
2. I will not lie to you.
Even when the truth is uncomfortable. Even when it reflects poorly on Biafrans themselves. Even when it complicates the narrative.
3. I will not leave you without hope.
Yes, the situation is dire. Yes, people are suffering. But this book ultimately argues for one thing: Biafra is inevitable. Not because I wish it, but because history, demography, economics, and human nature all point in that direction.
Why “Biafra Rising”?
Because we have risen before, and we will rise again.
We rose from the ashes of the Civil War to become the economic engine of Nigeria.
We rose from marginalization to dominate academia, business, and arts globally.
We rose from being called “saboteurs” to being recognized as innovators.
And now, we are rising again—not with weapons (though some have taken that path), but with something more powerful: consciousness.
A generation is awakening to the reality that Nigeria was never meant to work for us. That the 1960 amalgamation was a British mistake we’ve been paying for ever since. That “One Nigeria” is a lie told by those who benefit from our oppression.
Biafra Rising is not a prophecy. It’s an observation. The only question is not if, but how and when.
One final note:
If you’re reading this as a Nigerian who opposes Biafran independence, I ask only that you finish the book before dismissing it. You may not agree with the conclusion, but you owe it to yourself to understand why millions of your compatriots want to leave.
If you’re reading this as an international observer, I ask that you apply the same standards to Biafra that you apply to Scotland, Catalonia, Quebec, and Kurdistan. If self-determination is a right, it’s a right for everyone—not just those with white skin or Western approval.
If you’re reading this as a Biafran—whether in Lagos, London, or Louisiana—I ask that you remember who you are. That you speak truth even when your voice shakes. That you act, not just comment. That you pressure governments, not just post hashtags.
Because freedom is not given. It is taken. By those brave enough to demand it. By those persistent enough to outlast their oppressors. By those who understand that silence is betrayal.
October 1st is not Independence Day for Biafrans. It is Resistance Day.
The day the chains were placed. The day the forced marriage was formalized. The day a people were told they no longer belonged to themselves.
But it is also the day we say: No more.
No more silence. No more fear. No more waiting for permission to be free.
This book is my small contribution to that resistance. I hope it becomes yours too.
Blessing Ngozi Obi
“Nigerians we are no more. Biafrans we must be.”
INTRODUCTION: Why This Story Must Be Told
“If you don’t tell your own story, someone else will tell it for you—and they will get it wrong.”
— African Proverb
On June 29, 2021, something extraordinary happened that the world barely noticed.
Mazi Nnamdi Kanu, leader of the Indigenous People of Biafra (IPOB) and one of Africa’s most prominent political activists, was kidnapped in Kenya by Nigerian security forces. Not arrested through legal extradition. Not apprehended with Kenyan cooperation. Kidnapped—snatched in broad daylight, held for eight days, tortured, and then renditioned to Nigeria where he has remained in detention ever since.
The international community’s response? Deafening silence.
Imagine if Russia had kidnapped Alexei Navalny from Germany. Imagine if China had snatched a Hong Kong activist from Thailand. Imagine if Iran had abducted a dissident from Turkey. The outcry would have been immediate, massive, unrelenting.
But when an African government violates international law to silence an African activist demanding self-determination? Crickets.
This double standard is precisely why this book exists.
For too long, the Biafran story has been told by others—by Nigerian government propagandists, by Western journalists parachuting in for a week, by academics analyzing us like specimens in a lab. Each telling carries biases, blind spots, and often, outright falsehoods.
The Nigerian narrative: “Biafrans are terrorists, separatists, troublemakers threatening national unity.”
The Western narrative: “It’s complicated ethnic politics in a troubled African nation.”
The actual Biafran narrative: “We are a people fighting for survival, for dignity, for the basic human right to determine our own destiny.”
This book centers that third narrative—the one rarely heard in international forums, mainstream media, or diplomatic circles.
What This Book Is
This is a book about resistance.
Not the romanticized Hollywood version where good triumphs easily over evil. But the messy, complicated, painful, persistent resistance of a people who have been beaten down repeatedly yet refuse to stay down.
This is a book about identity.
About what it means to be Igbo in a country that treats “Igbotic” as an insult. About the power of language, culture, and collective memory in sustaining a people through decades of marginalization.
This is a book about the unbreakable spirit.
About grandmothers who survived the war teaching resistance to grandchildren who’ve never experienced it. About activists who continue broadcasting from prison cells. About youth who’ve turned social media into a weapon more powerful than guns.
What This Book Is Not
This is not “balanced” journalism.
I will not give equal weight to the oppressor’s narrative and the oppressed’s reality. I will not “both sides” a situation where one side has all the military power, political control, and international support while the other has only the truth and persistence.
This is not an academic treatise.
While thoroughly researched and documented, this book prioritizes clarity over jargon, passion over distance, and utility over theoretical abstraction. It’s written for activists, not just academics.
This is not anti-Nigerian.
It is anti-oppression. Many Nigerians are good people trapped in a bad system. Some have even supported Biafran self-determination. But the Nigerian state—its structure, its policies, its fundamental nature—has been catastrophically unjust to Biafrans. That reality cannot be sugarcoated.
The Structure of This Book
This book unfolds in nine parts, each building on the previous to create a comprehensive picture of the Biafran struggle:
