Fear did not divide the Igbo—policy did.

An Ijaw man in Rivers is the same as the Ijaw man in Delta, Bayelsa, or Ondo. No one questions it. No one divides them.A Hausa man in Chad and Niger see themselves as the same. 
But when it comes to the Igbo, suddenly, an Igbo person in Anambra is told he is not the same as the Igbo in Ikwerre or Anioma in delta state. People who share blood, history, and language are now made to doubt themselves.

Look at the Yorubas: the Yoruba in Osun warmly embrace the Yoruba in the Benin Republic. But the Igbo in Delta or Rivers is encouraged—directly or indirectly—to step back from the Igbo in Enugu.
Why? What is tearing the Igbo spirit apart?
Who cast this shadow on a once united people? The Nigerian government did.

After the civil war, wounds were not just left open—they were deepened. The Nigerian government felt challenged and insulted that the Igbo dared to confront them in war, dared to resist, dared to build the Ogbunigwe— a weapon created with nothing but local skill and desperate courage that disrupted Nigeria’s efforts during the war. They knew they would have almost lost that war if not for the blockade and the hunger strategy. And from that moment, suspicion toward the Igbo became policy, not rumour.

The labelling began. The stereotypes. The quiet punishments. The expectation that the Igbo must become humble, silent, grateful—even fearful.
The message was clear: their identity as Igbo people is dangerous.

Ethnic persecution became the unspoken rule.
A Hausa person can proudly be Arewa, wear Arewa symbols, and be fine.
A Yoruba person can boldly identify as Oduduwa and wear Oduduwa symbols.
No one arrests them. No one calls it a crime or questions their choice.

But an Igbo person? Say “Biafra”, and prison walls open.
Let an Igbo person wear Biafran colors and they become a threat.
Celebrate your culture too loudly and you are watched. Many Igbo programs have been shut down across Nigeria—have you ever asked why?

So fear began to grow, quietly, like a sickness.
Many Igbo people started hiding their identity—not because they stopped loving who they are, but because they wanted to be safe, to get a job, to win a contract, to avoid being judged before they even speak.

Over time, this system—unwritten yet powerful—became a kind of silent apartheid. A separation. A warning. A punishment for simply being Igbo in a country that should protect all its people equally.

And this is why some Igbo now keep their distance from one another—fear of being generalised as disrespectful or ungrateful.
Not because they hate their own people, but because the system has taught them that being visibly, proudly Igbo is risky. Many Igbo people don’t want to take that risk. Their decision is not a choice but a compulsion by the Nigerian Government.

So before blaming the Igbo people for denying their identity or for working against their fellow Igbo, look at the environment that shaped their fear. pushed them into intimidation,
Look at the decades of suppression, the threats, the subtle punishments, the unwritten rules holding them down. Yet many Igbos deny this fear and intimidation imposed on them by the Nigerian Government, which is there, overwhelmingly screening releases me.

Those who cannot boldly deny being Igbos are still there with the fears. It’s true — and it is painful to watch. Many Igbo people no longer feel safe standing proudly in their own identity. You hear them say things like, “I’m Igbo, but I don’t reason like them,” or “I’m Igbo, but I don’t move with them,” as if being Igbo is something they must apologise for. Some distance themselves entirely, saying, “My people are traders and money-miss-road, but me, I’m a professional,” just to gain acceptance from Nigerians, to get jobs, to win contracts, to avoid being judged before they even speak.

This is what fear looks like. This is what decades of marginalisation can do to a people. When a system makes you feel that your identity is a burden, you learn to shrink yourself just to survive. Some are even pushed to speak badly of their own tribe — not because they believe it, but because they think it will help them be accepted in a country that has made them feel unwanted.

These are the scars the Nigerian system has carved into the Igbo psyche — scars made of silence, caution, and the constant pressure to prove that being Igbo is not a crime. Sowore said it that they grow up being told to avoid Igbos because they are bad people.

The problem is not the Igbo spirit.
The problem is the pressure that has been placed on them—generation after generation—until even unity began to feel dangerous.

Yet deep down, the fire is still there.
People cannot forget who they are forever.

The question is not “What is wrong with the Igbo?”
The real question is: Why is the Nigerian government dividing the Igbo with fear and intimidation?
How much can people endure before they begin to hide the very thing that makes them who they are?

Senator Ned Nwoko, a senator of the Federal Republic of Nigeria, said they were told by their parents not to admit they were Igbo to avoid being killed by Nigerian soldiers. The reality of many Igbos, same way many will deny their identity for getting a job, contract and favour.

Beady Nnanna