I still remember vividly how as a child, we went in pursuit of lizards, rats and the smelly shrew to catch and eat. This was because of the intense hunger that pervaded in the besieged Biafra and to avoid our legs being swollen occasioned by kwashiorkor which was called 'rain boots' those days. Our flight in the middle of the day in our village, being pursued by Federal troops is remarkable. My mother and two brothers, my only sister having been claimed by the war earlier, survived the war by sheer providence. We lived in the forest like animals. Some of my cousins died right before me for their legs became swollen because of hunger and malnutrition and the pendant kwashiorkor. They became white or sickly discolored like a plant covered from the sun. Death came majestically to lead them to early and unwilling graves. Their mothers looked with tear filled bloodshot eyes as they were lowered unto the bosom of the earth, wrapped in disused wrapper for coffin too was luxury and unaffordable. It was sorrow filled days. This is all this narrative is about. Our ordeal in the fratricidal war.