As I reflect on the past week, I am still filled with a sense of wonder and gratitude as I celebrated my 87th birthday. But what made this occasion even more special was the investiture of the title Nnaobodo, which translates to “Father of the kingdom” in my native Akwukwu-Igbo. I must admit that I was profoundly humbled by the bestowal of this prestigious title, and it is not just because of the great responsibility that comes with it. What struck me most was the realization that I would be expected to assume a paternal role, guiding and leading individuals who are not only older than me, but in some cases, have lived for nine or even ten decades.

As I looked back on my life, I realized that this title was not just a personal honor, but also a testament to the rich history and traditions of my people. The title of Nnaobodo has been a part of our cultural heritage for centuries, and I am glad to be a part of it. I learned that there have been predecessors who have held this title in the past, and it is a reminder that this honor is not just about me, but about the legacy of my kingdom.

The celebration of my birthday and the investiture of the title Nnaobodo was a grand affair, with people from all over the kingdom and even from faraway places coming to join in the festivities. It was a carnival of sorts, with music, dance, and feasting, and I was overwhelmed by the love and support of my community. But as I looked around at the sea of faces, I realized that this celebration was not just about me, but about the kingdom as a whole.

The investiture of the title Nnaobodo was a long-waited event, one that had been expected by the kingdom for over two decades. I remember when I was first mentioned as a potential candidate for the title, back in my late fifties or early sixties. At the time, I did not think much of it, but as the years went by, I began to realize the weight of the responsibility that came with this honor. As an explorer, I have always been drawn to the unknown, and I have had my fair share of adventures. I have driven alone from London to Nigeria, crossing the Sahara Desert and traversing more than half the continent. It was a journey that was not without its challenges, and I came close to death on more than one occasion. But as I look back on those experiences, I realize that they were a preparation for the role that I am now expected to play as Nnaobodo.

In this five part series, I would like to take you on a journey through my second book, “Me, My Desert and I”, a publication that has stood the test of time, having been released over two decades ago. I wrote about my experiences as an explorer, and the challenges that I faced on my journeys. In chapters five and six, “The Longest Journey” and “Sahara Desert: The Horror & The Victory,” I recounted the story of how I came close to death in the desert, and how I overcame the obstacles that stood in my way. As I reflect on those formative journeys, I have come to realize that they were not merely tests of physical resilience, but also profound opportunities for spiritual growth, self-discovery, and personal transformation. The experiences I accumulated during those travels have had a lasting impact on my life, instilling in me the capacity to adapt and endure in the face of adversity. The challenges I overcame, the obstacles I navigated, and the triumphs I achieved have collectively prepared me to confront and overcome the myriad hurdles that we inevitably encounter at various stages of our personal and professional development. In retrospect, I can see that those journeys were a crucible, refining my character, sharpening my resolve, and equipping me with the emotional, mental, and spiritual fortitude necessary to tackle the complexities and uncertainties of life.

The lessons I learned, the wisdom I gained, and the insights I acquired have been invaluable, enabling me to cultivate a deeper understanding of myself, my place in the world, and my purpose in life. As a result, I have developed a heightened sense of resilience, a greater ability to navigate uncertainty, and a more profound appreciation for the beauty and complexity of human experience. In essence, those journeys have been a transformative odyssey, one that has empowered me to face the challenges of life with courage, confidence, and a sense of purpose, and to emerge stronger, wiser, and more compassionate with each passing day.

THE LONGEST JOURNEY

I stood staring blindly at the sun, grains of sand burning deep into the soles of my feet, the brown desert dust rattling in my lungs, and as I looked in both directions, there was 300km of track behind me, the way I had come and 5000km ahead. It was too late to turn back, and I was too weak to go on. At that moment, I realized I had to make a decision, to live or to stay there and die. The choice was mine and mine alone. There was no one in sight to discuss it with.

This was the thirteenth day of my solo drive from Nigeria to the UK, across the Sahara Desert. I was at this moment standing right in the middle of this huge sun-baked landscape, thoroughly exhausted; no two-way radio, no telephone, no cold drink, no resting place, not enough water to have a bath, and no place to sit on. Quite frightened, I turned away from my pacing and stared at my car, which had my tent and my tins of corned beef and Campbell’s soup. These were all I had for company.

I thought I had prepared myself well. I had all my provisions- water, food, fuel, and oil for the car- enough to last. I had worked out that it would take about ten days to cross the dunes and to do that, I would have to cover some 300km a day. This was no problem for the first two days. This day in February, I woke up at a about 4am, a little anxious and slightly apprehensive. I exercised in the cold morning air, some jumping and running and stretching, mentally and physically tuning my 62-year-old body for the day ahead. I came out of my tent and stepped onto the surrounding dormant and relatively cold sand. The temperature was close to zero, and a soft breeze caressed my cheeks.

All around me was silence. Not a bird sang, not a door creaked, not a leaf fluttered by. Everything was quiet. Suddenly, I remembered that my breakfast was on the boil. I started the engine of my car and left it running to warm up as I returned to the gas stove where my hot soup and macaroni was already bubbling and hissing at me, telling me it was ready for eating. At 6am, when I stepped outside the tent again, the sun was already rising like a white ball of fire in the sky. In the distance, a storm was brewing, too far away to hear, but close enough to see as it blustered and flapped its way across the horizon. The temperature had already risen to 10 degrees. I stripped off the first of many layers of clothing I was to do away with that day, climbed into the 4 x 4 and set off. Mentally and physically, I was prepared. As far as I was concerned, everything was perfect.

Fifteen minutes into my journey, I got bogged down in sand. The rear wheels of my vehicle had sunk deep into the sand. I was ready to dig myself out. It was an exercise I had practiced a hundred times before. I knew exactly what to do. I was calm. I went through this process about two more times. Then, for a while, I was driving away smoothly. This good fortune did not last. I got stuck five more times before I gave up counting. Under the scorching mid-day sun, far away from any human being, I began to wonder if someone was testing me. My white clothes had turned golden brown so that I blended in with my surroundings. I wheezed and coughed, knowing I had inhaled a lot of dust. I was feeling it right in my chest as I breathed.

By mid-afternoon, I was exhausted and physically drained. Once again, I felt stripped of my dignity as I struggled to carry on, and I drove deeper and deeper into the desert. This was when I began to see corpses of human beings again, and their cars littered along the tracks; sometimes with some regularity in distance, as if one corpse was running away from a previous death scene before dying. I must have seen twelve to twenty corpses that day. Some must have died a long time ago for all you could see was a bit of skeleton and a few shreds of cloth. Others must have been there only a few months back. I had been warned about this, but none of it prepared me for what I saw. And by these dead men or women, for I could not tell their sexes, were the broken down cars or vans. Often, it was clear that a car had given up before its owner, who had continued on foot in one last attempt to reach help, and whose collapsed carcass I would pass a kilometer or so further down the track. Some lay out straight as if awaiting their burial. Others were curled up in a fetal position, cowering beneath their arms from the blazing overhead sun, most certainly.

The tradition in my homeland in Nigeria forbids me, as a titled man, to set eyes on a dead person, except that of someone of equal standing in our society. This is the way we live. It is part of our culture. What I was seeing, I was experiencing for the first, second, third, fourth and umpteenth time in my life. With everybody I passed and left behind, something died in me. I kept asking myself “Will my fate be different? What is it that makes me better than them? What is making my car better than theirs? What is it that is keeping me going? Will I be next to join them?” To these questions, I did not have the answers, but perhaps my attempt to find them would be my downfall. 5.30pm came and I wanted to go for another hour, after having driven five minutes or more without encountering another corpse, I had to stop, because there was too little of me left to continue. At this point, I had to decide whether to go on living or to lie down and die like those I had just seen. I continued to gaze unseeingly at my car until I started seeing things. I made conscious efforts to snap out of my hallucination, reaching a point where I began to understand the fine line between sanity and insanity.

The temperature that had risen to over 130o F during the day, and dropped to an appreciable 80o F by late afternoon. Though the air was hazy at this time of the afternoon, far away, I could still see the day’s storm sweeping the tops off the dunes and changing their shapes as it did so. I suddenly felt thirsty. I was still alive after all. I took a swig out of my water bottle to wet my parched throat. It tasted horrible. I poured some into a cup only to find the water had gone brown from the dust and desert heat. I drank it nevertheless, remembering that death was not too far behind me.

I brought out my camping gear, set up my tent for the night, laid out my cooking utensils, and prepared to cook dinner. While waiting for the dinner to warm, I started reviewing the day’s events; testing my memory. My stomach churned at the thought of the shriveled corpses behind me. I could not face the food anymore. I tried the mushroom soup, then chicken casserole, heating them up, as the weather was getting cold. I felt sick at the thought of eating and gave up. I tried eating again, sometime in the dusk, this time with macaroni and beef, and finally, with just plain boiled rice. I tried to force each spoonful down my throat like a mother who is feeding her baby, but every morsel was like a lump in my throat, which I found impossible to swallow. Each time I tried to put some food down my throat, it was the same. My stomach was empty, but it repulsed food. I decided to read for 20 minutes before nightfall. I could not even do this, so I decided to write in my diary.

Thank you for taking this journey with me so far. Next week, I’ll share more about the challenges I faced and the lessons I learned as I pushed through the desert’s relentless trials, I believe we can all connect with in our own way. I look forward to continuing this adventure with you. See you next week!