Colonel Victor Banjo: The Yoruba Officer Who Crossed the Lines of War

 By Victor Olubiye

On the morning of September 22, 1967, four men were lined up at Enugu and condemned to face the guns of their comrades. Among them was a tall, soft-spoken officer whose life had once symbolized the promise of a modern Nigerian military—Colonel Victor Adebukunola Banjo. Moments later, the sound of rifles tore through the air, ending not just his life but the ambitions of one of the brightest officers of his generation.

Banjo’s story is not just the tale of a soldier. It is a window into the turbulence of Nigeria’s 1960s—an era of coups, betrayals, and civil war, when loyalty to tribe or nation could decide between life and death.

Born on April 1, 1930, in Ogun State, Banjo grew up in a Nigeria still under colonial rule. In 1953, he joined the Nigerian Army as Warrant Officer 52 and began a journey that would set him apart. He trained at the prestigious Royal Military Academy, Sandhurst, in the United Kingdom, where discipline and intellect combined to shape his career.

Armed with a B.Sc. in Mechanical Engineering, he became the first Nigerian Director of the Electrical and Mechanical Engineering Corps. His colleagues respected him not just for his brilliance but also for his honesty. To many, he represented the type of modern officer Nigeria needed: skilled, principled, and forward-thinking.

But history rarely rewards idealism.

In January 1966, young majors staged Nigeria’s first coup, killing political leaders and military officers. Though Banjo was not among the plotters, suspicion fell on him. Within days of General Johnson Aguiyi-Ironsi taking power, Banjo was arrested and accused of plotting against the new Head of State.

From January 1966 to May 1967, he was shuttled between prisons, cut off from the army he had once served with distinction. For a man of his intellect, the months in detention must have been torment—waiting, thinking, and watching Nigeria slip deeper into ethnic mistrust.

Fate took a dramatic turn when Colonel Odumegwu Ojukwu declared the secession of Eastern Nigeria as the Republic of Biafra in May 1967. One of his first acts was to release political detainees. Banjo walked out of prison, only to walk straight into another war.

Despite being Yoruba, Ojukwu commissioned him as a Colonel in the Biafran Army. To some, Banjo’s acceptance was betrayal; to others, it was pragmatism. For Banjo, it may have been a chance to reclaim relevance, or perhaps to play the role of a bridge in a fractured country.

His test came swiftly: he was ordered to lead Biafran troops in an audacious invasion of Nigeria’s Midwestern Region.

In July 1967, Banjo’s forces stormed Benin City, taking it in less than a day. The speed of the conquest shook Lagos—federal troops had barely recovered from the first shots of the Civil War, and suddenly Biafran forces were advancing westward.

At Ore, about 300 kilometers from Lagos, Banjo’s advance was stopped. The counterattack from federal forces forced a retreat, and soon whispers of doubt surrounded him. Was he deliberately slowing down? Was his loyalty divided between his Yoruba roots and his Biafran commission?

History remains divided on these questions. Some argue Banjo was already seeking a negotiated settlement that would protect the Midwest and possibly Yoruba interests. To Ojukwu, however, hesitation looked like betrayal.

In September 1967, Banjo was arrested alongside Major Emmanuel Ifeajuna, Phillip Alale, and Sam Agbam. The charge: plotting to overthrow Ojukwu’s leadership.

The trial was swift, the evidence contested, and the judgment final. A first tribunal had reportedly found little proof of treason, but Ojukwu convened another—one that pronounced them guilty.

On September 22, 1967, Banjo and his companions were executed by firing squad. His final hours remain shrouded in silence, but his death left an indelible question: was he a traitor, a patriot, or a victim of political paranoia?

Victor Banjo’s life captures the contradictions of Nigeria’s first generation of military leaders. Highly educated yet trapped in tribal politics. Brilliantly skilled yet betrayed by suspicion. A Yoruba officer who fought for Biafra but died as a symbol of mistrust.

Today, he is remembered not just for the battles he fought, but for the possibilities his life represented—a Nigeria where ability, not ethnicity, might have defined leadership. His execution remains a reminder of how fear and division consume even the brightest lights.

Colonel Victor Banjo paid with his life for crossing the fragile lines of tribe and loyalty. More than fifty years later, his story continues to echo—a haunting testament to the cost of war and the tragedy of unrealized potential.