From the very depths of my gin-soaked conscience, a verdict. A Grammy winner, a man who has presumably seen things on tour buses that would make a lesser journalist weep into his Pimm's, has released a documentary on the Biafran war. And what does this celluloid sermon reveal? That the colonial legacy, that grand old British tradition of drawing lines in the sand and then charging admission to the ensuing bloodbath, is now something we have decided, in our infinite wisdom, to heal.
Yes, you read that correctly. Heal. Like a soothing balm on a third-degree burn inflicted by our own grandfathers. The documentary, if I am to believe the breathless headlines, is a stark reminder of the famine, the suffering, the sheer, pointless carnage that followed our departure from Nigeria. It is a portrait of a catastrophe that we, in our benevolent, post-imperial dithering, helped create and then, with a shrug and a stiff upper lip, abandoned.
But wait. There is a twist. A narrative pivot that would make a soap opera writer blush. Because now, apparently, Britain is helping to heal. How? By acknowledging that it happened? By funding a documentary? By sending a delegation of retired civil servants to offer their heartfelt apologies over lukewarm cups of tea? The nerve. The sheer, unadulterated cheek.
Let us be clear. The Biafran war was not a misunderstanding. It was not a minor administrative hiccup. It was a famine that killed millions, a conflict stoked by the same colonial policies that left Nigeria a tinderbox of ethnic tensions. And now, half a century later, we are supposed to applaud ourselves for 'helping to heal'? This is the moral equivalent of a pyromaniac returning to the scene of the blaze to offer his condolences and a packet of Hobnobs.
But perhaps I am being too harsh. Perhaps this documentary, this offering from a man who understands rhythm and melody better than most, will open eyes. Perhaps it will force the BBC to run more than a segment on 'colonial legacies' between the weather and the sports report. Perhaps it will even spur the government into action, like selling fewer arms to repressive regimes or something equally radical.
Or, more likely, it will be a beautifully shot, emotionally devastating piece of cinema that will be talked about for a week, then forgotten, filed away under 'historical guilt' with the rest of Britain's colonial footnotes. We will nod sagely, say 'terrible business', and then move on to something easier to digest, like the price of avocado toast.
In conclusion, the documentary is a stark reminder that history is not a story with a happy ending. It is a series of tragic acts, and we are still on stage, bowing awkwardly, unsure of our lines. But at least the music is good. That, I suppose, is something.
Now, if you will excuse me, I have a date with a bottle of Gordon's and a history book. The tonic can wait.
