What role do these (online) technologies play in the children’s and parents’ lives?

Martin Dodd would not argue with anybody.

He was not keen on ideologies, he was a home boy from North Dakota. No, he didn‘t want to die in this cave!

The rust of the handcuffs was beginning to irritate his fair skin. He struggled to collect his thoughts wildly running through a maze of confusion; would he see his family again? Tied up in damp darkness, he reflected on his life. He reckons he‘s had a good life till now—a good education, a good wife, a young daughter. He‘d never thought of these natives as people with families too, with children who had aspirations;

he was just an engineer doing his job.

He‘d never thought about death, either, nor of how and where he‘d like to die,

but each day in captivity had given him options:

would his employers pay a ransom;

was there a rescue operation under way?

He could not stop imagining—would it be a bullet through his head or heart, quick and clean; or drowning, slow and painful;

or bone-clubbed to death, messy and brutal;

or the sharp blade of the machete to the neck or limbs; would he bleed to death on the sand?

52 28. Dead Man’s Head

There was nothing extraordinary about the naval boat that powered that morning into the creek, nor the binoculars perched on the nose of Lt Commander Femi Bala as he surveyed the creek for pirates.

It was a routine patrol, and he had orders to guard ship routes. ‗You never know who is running what,‘ he‘d been warned.

‗Oil bunkering is, after all, free for all these days—for senior officers and top politicians to stash away cash in tax havens and finance political ambitions.

Militants use it too, to buy arms and protection.

Pirates and militants continue to follow the time-honoured practice of collecting toll from ships and international bunkering syndicates.‘ Bala knew the connection of these cartels was straight up to powers

that be, which meant that no-one would be prosecuted.

The gunshot that splintered Bala‘s arm rang out suddenly; the pain rattled his brain;

blood spurted; another bullet spun him around as his boat glided into an ambush.

With his left hand Bala pulled his pistol from holster ordering ‗Kill on sight!‘

But his men were no match for Segida‘s men, who blocked the creek exit with flotilla

of timber primed with explosives. The gunboat was boarded and held at gunpoint.

When Segida put a machete to Lt Commander Femi Bala‘s neck, soldiers and militants gasped;

the man‘s body twitched as Segida severed his head, leaving a blood trail.

Segida and his men left the dead and the wounded behind.

Dipreye nauseated confronted Segida in their speedboat: ‗Why did you do that?

That was a man, not an animal!‘

‗And this is psychological warfare,‘

Segida replied, deadpan: ‗Let them look for his head; let them learn to fear;

let them feel our hate and know we can be brutal and unconventional.‘

54 29. The Messenger

Martin Dodd dreamt of freedom.

He wasn‘t a religious man but he began to pray to God—

each of the hostages handled things differently. His instinct told him Shalizo had no qualms

about killing them if it served his purpose; his look and his tone was that of a man consumed by hate.

It wasn‘t just the violence that frightened Martin, but willingness by these men to die! As for Segida, he‘d heard of people under demonic influence and now

he knew he had seen one.

The men had a bizarre camaraderie and, when one of them died,

they drank and laughed and celebrated.

This was madness to Martin; he had to get away! But then Shalizo needed a messenger, so he decided he would offer to be the messenger

if that would enable him embrace freedom.

He began to learn new values in the transient captivity: moving from cave to cave, blindfolded, he was humbled by the hospitality of his hosts and ashamed

at the dignity his captors gave them;

he learned the wisdom of their

philosophy that preserving Mother Earth was worth more to all than earthly gain to a few. Each sunrise

that stung his skin gave him hope;

the grains of sand that irritated his toes began to feel more like encrusted diamonds;

each breath was precious beyond measure; when the cock

crowed again and chickens clucked and played, when night brought a symphony of sound, he was tuned-in sufficiently to appreciate life, to love the cause, to become the messenger.

56 30. Port Harcourt Dribblers Their visit was under duress:

the three local leaders felt no assurance in the pock-marked face

of the military man, who smiled as he shook their hands; his reputation was worse than a rattlesnake;

his sting as readily given as his smile.

The Director of National Intelligence had received the names of youths in the community, with promises to arrange for jobs with the oil

companies—pledges never meant to be.

Months later, the chiefs understood—

too late—that, while they were being cajoled by the pock-faced monster, the police

were being authorised to go and,‗waste‘

the youths who had been unfortunate enough for their names to be given. It was when Chief Barikaba naively rallied militant youths with promises of jobs and scholarships, that he aroused suspicion that the three elders had sold their consciences for gain.

Many weeks later, in Bori town, on a night when the moon was unsure about sneaking out of shaggy clouds looking like the edge of clean silverware—when men with rheumy eyes drank tombo deep into the next day—

a black car cruised into the town, stirring suspicion as it travelled down Douglass Street beyond the square towards Romoulla Street in central Bori. The red flash of light

only stopped briefly at Chief Barikaba‘s house.

By sunup, everyone knew the Chief had visitors in the night. His broadcast on radio later that day to rescind

the boycott of elections, only confirmed the suspicions that he‘d been bribed;

this enraged the youths, who attacked and killed four elders—a violent mob action with brutal police reprisals.

Ken Saro Wiwa and others were accused.

The trial of the Ogoni Nine began.