When dusk falls over Orsu Local Government Area (LGA) in Imo State, darkness isn’t just the absence of light, it’s a thick, suffocating fear that creeps into every heart. Homes once filled with laughter and warmth now lie in ruins, their walls scarred by bullet holes, their compounds eerily silent, haunted by memories of lives lost.

For over four years, Orsu has become a land where survival is a gamble, and death often comes unannounced. The people who once proudly called this place home are now scattered, refugees within their own country, fugitives in their own land.

At a recent press conference in Lagos, members of the Odimma Orsu Initiative, a coalition of businessmen, professionals, community leaders, and traditional rulers, painted a chilling picture of what life has become for Orsu indigenes. High Chief Chukwudi Okparaku, the Initiative’s chairman, did not mince words:

“Our people can no longer live in their homes,” he said, his voice heavy with grief and frustration. “We have become fugitives in our own land. We are pleading with the federal and state governments to take decisive action to reclaim our communities from these terrorists.”

Behind his words lies an unimaginable reality, over 5,000 lives lost, countless families displaced, and entire communities turned into ghost towns.

Once a Homeland, Now a Battlefield

The crisis in Orsu didn’t begin overnight. It crept in, like an invisible plague, fueled by a complex web of political agitation, criminal opportunism, and state response. The turning point came in 2021, with the arrival of members of the Indigenous People of Biafra (IPOB) and its armed affiliate, the Eastern Security Network (ESN). Their stronghold? The dense, rugged terrain of Udeke Valley, a natural fortress turned into a nerve center of violence.

Local leaders allege that the valley became a breeding ground for criminal activities, from kidnappings and assassinations to bomb-making. Despite military raids, including a Joint Task Force operation in 2024 that claimed the lives of several insurgents, the violence never truly ceased. Militants scattered, regrouped, and returned with renewed vengeance.

During the 2024 Christmas season, a time usually reserved for family gatherings and festivities, Orsu witnessed one of its bloodiest periods, over 50 people slaughtered across multiple communities.

“The scenes were horrific,” Orsu Ihiteukwa youth leader and member of the Odimma Orsu Security Committee, Ezeala Ikedinaekpere recalled, his voice trembling. “Innocent people butchered in cold blood. Entire families wiped out. Our communities now resemble mass graves.”

Behind every statistic is a name, a face, a story.

There’s the tragic tale of Ugochukwu Olebu from Amaebu, who was gruesomely beheaded, and Chief Felix Obodoechi (popularly known as Matador), who suffered an even more brutal fate—castrated before being left to die. These were not just men; they were pillars of their communities, fathers, brothers, mentors.

Farmers no longer tend to their crops. Children no longer play in the open. Entire villages like Eziawa, Ubaha Orsu, and Amaruru are nothing more than echoes of the past, abandoned due to the presence of landmines and constant gunfire.

“Our people are afraid to farm, to walk freely in their villages. Even the sound of a car backfiring sends people running for cover,” Ikedinaekpere said.

A Call for Action

The Odimma Orsu Initiative isn’t just pointing fingers, they’re offering solutions. They’re calling for:

Sustained military operations to dismantle criminal hideouts in Udeke Valley and beyond.

Deployment of bomb disposal experts to clear landmines that continue to claim innocent lives.

Strengthening of local vigilante groups with proper training and equipment.

Installation of surveillance technology, including CCTV cameras, to monitor vulnerable areas.

While they commend the efforts of security agencies and local authorities, they argue that what’s been done so far is not enough.

“We appreciate all the efforts so far, but more must be done,” the Deputy Chairman of the Odimma Orsu Security Committee, Onyeoma Ezeifedi insisted. “We need a complete demystification of these criminal enclaves. Only then can we begin to rebuild our lives and communities. We Just Want Our Lives Back”

Perhaps the most heart-wrenching part of the press conference wasn’t the statistics or the strategic recommendations, it was the raw, unfiltered plea from a people exhausted by grief and fear.

“We are tired of living in fear,” Ezeifedi said, his voice cracking with emotion. “We want our lives back. We want our children to grow up in a peaceful Orsu, not in exile or under constant threat of death.”

The group’s appeal wasn’t just directed at the Nigerian government. They called on the international community to take notice, to understand that what’s happening in Orsu isn’t just a regional crisis, it’s a human tragedy.

“Help us reclaim our homeland from the grip of terror,” Ezeifedi pleaded. “The world must not look away.”

As the press conference ended, the room fell into a heavy silence, a silence that mirrors the empty streets of Orsu, where echoes of laughter have been replaced by the distant rumble of gunfire.

For the indigenes of Orsu, this isn’t just a news story. It’s their life. Their struggle. Their fight to exist.

And until something changes, their cry will remain the same:

“Help us. We have become fugitives in our own land.”