“We Just Want to Know If He’s Alive”: Two Years After Raid, Okoro Family Still Searching for Answers

More than two years after a deadly security raid in Izombe, Imo State, the whereabouts of Mr. Okoro Chinemerem Emmanuel remain unknown—and his family’s agony is far from over.

Back in May 2022, a joint security team—comprising police and other operatives—stormed a location suspected to be an Indigenous People of Biafra (IPOB) camp in Izombe, Oguta LGA. The raid was swift and violent. What followed was chaos, fear, and for some families, an unending nightmare. Three days after the operation, the Imo State Police Command released a bulletin declaring several individuals wanted—among them, 29-year-old Okoro Emmanuel.

Since that day, no one in the Okoro household has heard from him.

“We have not seen him since the raid,” said Mr. Chidi Okoro, Emmanuel’s older brother, speaking in a pained voice during a press conference held in Onitsha. “We don’t know if he was arrested, shot, or is hiding somewhere in fear. The police never informed us—his name just appeared on a wanted list.”

According to Chidi, Emmanuel was last seen heading to an IPOB monthly meeting—a planning session for the annual Biafra Heroes Day. That was the day the security agents struck. The family insists that while Emmanuel may have held sympathies for the IPOB cause, he was never violent and had never been involved in criminal activity. “He was a peaceful person,” Chidi said. “He wasn’t carrying arms. He wasn’t planning an attack. He was simply there for a meeting.”

The police told a different story.

DSP Michael Abattam, the then-spokesperson for the Imo State Police Command, defended the operation, describing it as a shoot-at-sight mission based on credible intelligence. In his briefing, he confirmed that several people were killed, many arrested, and others fled—some with bullet wounds. Those arrested, he warned, could face life imprisonment or the death penalty after investigation.

But for Emmanuel’s family, and others like them, it’s not just about accusations or propaganda—it’s about basic human dignity. “Is my brother alive? If he is, where is he being held? And if he is no longer alive, we deserve to know that too. We can’t just be kept in the dark,” Chidi pleaded.

Human rights groups are now joining in, questioning not only the legality of the raid but the lack of transparency around its aftermath. They worry that this pattern—of raids, disappearances, and unanswered questions—could further erode trust between communities in the Southeast and the security institutions that claim to protect them.

The Imo State Police Command has encouraged anyone with information about Emmanuel’s whereabouts or those of others declared wanted to report to the nearest station, promising confidentiality and even rewards.

But for the Okoro family, no amount of reward can replace peace of mind.

“We just want closure,” Chidi said. “We want to know if we should keep praying for him or start mourning him. For now, we are stuck between hope and heartbreak.”

And until they get answers, that heartbreak will remain.