You Must Set Forth at Dawn (16 page)

“What's the matter?”

“I don't understand,” he said. “I've been standing there watching you for at least thirty minutes.”

“Don't exaggerate.”

“But . . . how can you? Tomorrow is the day, isn't it?”

“You mean, the verdict?”

“What else is there tomorrow? You know, you're not normal. Wole,
eda ni e
o. Eda ni e.
²²
You are not normal at all. How can anyone normal just sit there reading as if nothing is happening?”

He put down the hamper. I must have been truly absorbed to have failed to respond much earlier to the aroma, but then I had developed a fussless capacity for obliterating my environment. I lifted a corner of the cloth, drew in a lungful of delights.

“Hm. Last supper.”

“It's not a joking matter!” he protested.

I lifted the cloth aside to inspect the dishes. “I am not yet condemned, you know. And if I were, even the condemned man is allowed his last breakfast— and of his own choice.”

“You're not normal.”

We ate, but it was all I could do to eat as heartily as I felt, since Femi's mood could not be breached. For once, his famous appetite appeared to have deserted him. “You're ruining my dinner,” I complained.

“Look, suppose the judge hands you the full life sentence?”

“Femi,” I assured him, “there is nothing like life imprisonment in what I see of my future.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Just take it from me—no lifetime in prison. In fact, no prison stay at all.”

“So what are you doing here?”

“Resting. In police detention.”

“You can afford to be flippant,” he complained.

“That's a good one, coming from you.”

For the umpteenth time, he cast his eyes around the prison cell, took in my camp bed, which was folded against the corner, as usual, until it was time for me to turn in. Femi shook his head, as if he were seeing it for the first time.

“You may not get that in prison, you know.”

Again, I assured him that I had no intention of rotting away in prison. “It does not matter in the least if the verdict goes against me. I promise you, I am not going to prison.”

“You think he'll give you a suspended sentence? You think he can?”

“I have no idea what sentence he's going to pass. He can give me the full life sentence. I'm simply assuring you that I am not going anywhere near the prison.”

There seemed no other way to handle his dolefulness. It hung over him like wet smoke, blotting out the sheerest vestige of his normal ebullience. In a way, it was quite comic, since it ill fitted an irrepressible prankster and raconteur who could tell the same story a hundred times to the same audience yet drag a laugh out of them. He drank, and that appeared to give him a little appetite. I tried to fill the space with conversation, but his responses were desultory.

Finally, it was time for him to go. A huge sigh came from somewhere in his bowels and he dragged himself up heavily. I watched him walk to the door and step into the corridor as if he were taking in the air. His purpose, however, was to cast a rapid glance right and left, to ensure that no one was within earshot. He then dashed back into the room and spoke rapidly.

“Look, just listen. I am not a brave man. I am not crazy like you are. I couldn't stand even this condition, being cooped up like this. I would simply break. My driver over there, Mufu, he's different. More like you. And you can't imagine what a fanatic of yours he is. He's ready to do anything for you, you have no idea. So he's all yours. I don't know what your plans are, but I know you're planning something. You're so secretive. Just as well, because I don't want to know. If I don't know anything, then I can't give anything away. I can't imagine torture, I tell you. I'll break before a hand is even laid on me, so it's better for me not to know.”

I tried to stem the rush of words. I assured him that I had no sinister plans, but he bore down on me with his intensity and sense of urgency. “You can abandon the car anywhere you want or take it with you wherever. When I leave you, I'll send Mufu to pack up the plates and things, then you can give him any instructions you want. If you want him to park at a spot near the court premises or somewhere else, go and wait somewhere, at the border or wherever, just tell him. I have to make some contribution to what is happening. After all, those who are taking on the government's murder squads, they're human beings too. And they are fighting for us all, same as you. Well, that's all there is to it.”

I succeeded in interrupting him at last. “All right, all right. I accept your offer. You're being unduly alarmist, I tell you. But if it will make you happy, send in Mufu. When you've said your good night, send him in.”

I lay awake for a long time after his departure, marveling at this man who had said of himself “I am not a brave man,” wondering what his definition of bravery might be. I recollected the many hours he had spent with me in my police cell, the arguments we'd had, the many points of agreement, his total passion for the cause that had landed me in a predicament whose gravity I resolutely refused to confront but that oppressed him so heavily. Now it was time to begin to wonder when next we would meet. In the more natural condition of liberty? Or in the formal visiting room of a walled prison? For now, only one thing was certain—I knew that I was going to have a sounder sleep on that eve of judgment than this friend was likely to have.

I COULD SCHOOL MYSELF to appear as indifferent as I wished; the truth was, the trial had not been without tension, even for me. Indeed, there were days of testimonies and cross-examinations when the mood swung from euphoria to despair. The prosecution would secure an unexpected piece of evidence or testimony. A surprise witness had seen me somewhere or the other on the crucial day, when I was supposed to have been elsewhere. Evidence was given that I had attended a university senate meeting on the day in question, and the prosecution—to all appearances—had turned this to its advantage. I had indeed attended the meeting, and deliberately, to establish an alibi. From the corner of my eye, I watched the sympathetic security agents share the crowd's anguish when hostile witnesses took the stand, providing evidence that sounded damning, since they seemed to puncture the alibi on which my lawyers had built part of the defense structure. On such days, one would sense the spectators drooping, while the prosecutor's team adjusted their wigs at a cocky angle that signaled vindication and triumph, cast challenging looks in the direction of the defense team, and departed to the congratulatory smirks of the sprinkling of individuals who came to see the government win its case. And thus it proceeded, roller-coaster fashion, day after day, until the day of the verdict.

All we knew of this judge was that he had remained impervious to numerous attempts by the government to pressure him into delivering a “guilty” verdict. Justice Eso advised such extrajudicial lobbyists for the regime—including the deputy premier
²³
—that their time would be more wisely spent assigning a competent prosecutor to their case. All through the resistance to the regime of the NNDP, the telephone operators—then situated at Oniyanrin, Ibadan— voluntarily tapped into all calls to and from highly placed government and party officials; indeed, all telephone conversations from Government House routinely passed through the ears of one member of the opposition or another. In several of those calls, every effort was made to “bend” Justice Eso, but he would only respond with a calm assurance that yes, he fully intended to uphold the law.

I meant it when I said to Femi that I saw no life imprisonment in my future, but this went beyond our confidence in the integrity of the presiding judge. The political charge throughout the West was such that change, in one form or another, was imminent. The issues that cried for resolution were already beyond the jurisdiction of the courts. Femi was quite right: I was indifferent to the verdict, except insofar as it could be used—if it went against us—in intensifying the insurrection. Looked at in any way, I was confident that I would not remain a prisoner for long. The government was being brought down, and the trial of one “armed robber” was only a small part of the process.

Came judgment day and—what a sense of drama this judge had! As he reviewed the evidence with a granite scowl on his face, most people in court, Femi most agonizingly, had broken out in rashes, were perspiring blood, or else were intoning last-minute intercessionary prayers, expecting the worst. Justice Eso assessed the case for the prosecution at length, upholding most of its arguments, then spent just a fraction of the time in outlining the holes the defense had punched in the prosecution's case, and, suddenly, there it was— Eso upheld the submission of our defense: no prima facie case to answer. The prosecution had undone itself. We had secured a verdict through a pure technicality that came from a crucial contradiction within the prosecution's elaborately presented case. The defense strategy had worked, and I had not even been placed on the witness stand.

The court exploded, earning the stern, unsmiling rebuke of Justice Eso. “This court is still in session!” he spat. “Any unseemly conduct, and I shall not hesitate to cite the offender for contempt.” His pebbled lenses raked the interior of his domain, daring any contradiction. The spectators fell silent, restraining themselves until the figure of doom had retreated into his chambers and the door was closed behind him. Then the explosion resumed, engulfing even the policemen and the judicial staff—registrar, court orderly, recorder, everyone. These took advantage of their proximity to the dock in which the accused stood and were first to dash over and shake hands. Our squad—Kodak and company—postponed any indulgence in jubilation; they positioned themselves in a different mode, allowed a few moments' intermingling with the crowd, then formed a protective sheath and swept me through.

Mufu, Femi's driver, parked at a distance but deprived, of his own volition, of the moment of victory, had heard the roar, and he was elated—and a little disappointed. He was already primed for the role his employer had fantasized in case of a “guilty” verdict, but now all that was left to do was to sense his adrenaline evaporate. Still, he made the most of the situation: drove his car right at us and screeched to a halt. The next moment I was in, alone, and he took off like the wind, headed toward Lagos in a deliberate feint, slowing down only when he had assured himself that he had shaken off any likely pursuit of supporters or press, then doubling back to the Johnson home, the only place where I wanted to release all hidden tension and ease myself gradually into legalized liberty.

We did not deceive ourselves that it was all over. The government had lost face and would begin, we knew, to seek an extrajudicial solution to the predicament in which it had placed itself. For now, there was only one duty to fulfill, and this was to myself: I
luxuriated
in this welcome home by a man who, even while denying it to himself, had tailored the concept of bravery to a unique definition of his own.

PART II

Ogun, Less
Benign

Uncivil Wars: The Third Force and the Midwest Incursion

IT WAS TO BE EXPECTED THAT THE MILITARY COUP D'ÉTAT OF JANUARY 15, 1966—the first in the “stable, moderate, democratic exemplar, the giant of Africa”—would divide the Nigerian nation more sharply than any other event in its six years of full independence. Up till 1914, the British had ruled present-day Nigeria as two distinct protectorates, the North and the South. In the march toward independence, however, the South had been split into two: the East and the West. After independence, the Western government had allowed the Midwestern people their own region, thus turning the South into three regions: East, West, and Midwest. The North, a mostly Muslim region, remained intact, and culturally distinct—quite apart from religion—from the South. It was this North, with its largely feudal and conservative outlook, that had held political power since independence in 1960. The coup changed all of that, effectively pitting the North against the South.

The coup had taken a bloody toll on the North, which had lost several of its senior military officers and political leaders. Ahmadu Bello, the Sardauna of Sokoto and premier of the Northern Region, a public enigma behind the facial seclusion of his Arabian turban, was shot dead in his palace. Some of his wives were also casualties. The first prime minister of the independent nation, Tafawa Balewa, also from the North, was abducted and executed. So was the minister of finance, the flamboyant Chief Festus Okotie-Ebo, albeit from the Midwest. Several of the killings, objectively considered, were not remotely essential to the success of the coup.

In the West, however, the “wild, wild West,” where the people had inhaled nothing but flames at close quarters for most of the preceding years, the coup was a hand of salvation, and they did not especially care by what means it was extended or how bloodstained it was. Mostly, there was jubilation to the south—in the East, West, and Midwest—while the North was plunged into mourning and into a deep, visceral distrust and resentment of the South. The Eastern Region earned the greatest loathing from the stricken North, since it soon became noticeable that the leadership of the coup was mostly Igbo, the dominant population of the East. In addition, the Eastern political leadership had been left untouched.

There were a few days of standoff between the rebels and the military command structure, headed by General Johnson T. Aguiyi-Ironsi, himself an Igbo. The rebel leaders—mostly middle-ranking officers—eventually surrendered to his authority, and Aguiyi-Ironsi emerged as Nigeria's first military head of state. Once he felt confidently installed, he imprisoned the leaders but dithered over what to do with them: bring them to trial, simply dismiss them from the army, or—set them free? To many Nigerians, mostly in the South, they were heroes. To the Northerners, they were murderous villains.

Eventually, in May 1966, the North rose up in reprisals, killing several Igbo and other Southern residents in their midst and torching their homes and businesses. The Igbo fled to their homeland in the East but, as the wave of killings subsided, were persuaded to return and resume normal life in their adopted homeland. This uprising did not involve a military coup, however, and General Aguiyi-Ironsi remained in power.

The countercoup of July that same year was the bloodiest yet. Aguiyi-Ironsi was abducted from the state house during an official visit to the Western Region and killed, together with his host, the military governor Lieutenant Colonel Adekunle Fajuyi. Many other Igbo officers also lost their lives, often in a gruesome manner, some of them—suspected participants in the January coup—dragged from prison detention and butchered in the streets.

Fajuyi had been appointed the first military governor of the Western Region following the January coup. I had struck up a rapport with him in his first months in office. Our first meeting was at his request—perhaps he was curious to meet the man who was alleged to have held up a radio station. This encounter led to others. He attended my premiere production of Kongi's Harvest in the Arts Theatre of the University of Ibadan and was full of schemes for the development of the region so unexpectedly placed under his charge. It was quite in the character of this officer, whom I came to know so well in such a short time, that when the coup makers broke into his residence to arrest his commander in chief and guest, he refused to hand him over and insisted on accompanying him. For his gallantry, he suffered the same fate as his superior. They were both taken to a forest outside Ibadan, cruelly tortured, and executed. His end would later wring a poetic tribute out of me.

With the killings more or less over, power reverted to the hands of Northern officers, their Igbo colleagues having been thoroughly routed and decimated. This was when the name of an officer named Murtala Mohammed first came into Nigerian lore; he was widely rumored to have masterminded the countercoup and was expected to take power. However, a young officer from a minority Christian group in the North, Yakubu Gowon, ended up as Nigeria's new head of state.

And there, with the shift of power, the nation hoped that the bloodletting would cease—but no. A progressive pogrom of the Igbo erupted in October the same year, a hunt for Easterners of all ages who were unfortunate enough to have heeded the call of the new regime to return to their places of work and residence in the North, reassured that all was well. They were gruesomely mistaken. Not merely from the North but from every corner of the nation, the Igbo fled homeward, wheeled contraptions of every kind bearing their dismal remains and possessions into Igboland. The trainloads of refugees from the North bore pitiable cargoes: some survivors with physical mutilations, some women in such a state of shock that they clung to the severed heads of their spouses or sons, cradling them on their laps. Even within Lagos, the hunt for the Igbo continued unabated, in their homes and at roadblocks. The depletion of my wife's wardrobe during the months of October and November was only one of many private testimonies to the desperation of one's Igbo male acquaintances—not all of them soldiers—who resorted to female disguise to escape detection as they fled eastward. Images of death and mutilation in Eastern journals and the television coverage of a savaged humanity erased the final sense of belonging in a people who saw themselves isolated within the nation and catalyzed their resolve to secede.

The discovery of oil in huge reserves in the East, largely in the Niger estuary, played a role, unquestionably, in the propulsion of the Biafran leaders toward secession, but it would be a distortion of history and an attempt to trivialize the trauma that the Igbo had undergone to suggest—as some commentators have tried to do—that it was the lure of the oil wealth that drove them to seek a separate existence. When a people have been subjected to a degree of inhuman violation for which there is no other word but genocide, they have the right to seek an identity apart from their aggressors'.

I was not alone in writing embittered articles on the massacres, especially denouncing the lackadaisical attitude of Gowon's government toward the killings. We accused the government of condoning genocide and urged our own people in the West to distance themselves from any act that might suggest approval of such insensate slaughter. In addition, however, the suspicion developed of a Northern-dominated agenda, this time through the agency of the military.

It was a period of great tension and mutual suspicion. Violence hung in the air, threatening to break out at any provocation and consume the nation. The various forces in the West that had resisted the NNDP reign of repression regrouped and resumed their meetings, watchful and suspicious of the new military government. When Gowon summoned a meeting of “Leaders of Thought”—selected prominent citizens in various fields—to Lagos to decide the future of the nation, we worked on the sidelines, contributing to the position of the West through my friend Bola Ige, a stalwart of the Action Group and close lieutenant of that party's leader, Obafemi Awolowo. Awolowo was, of course, regarded as a hero and the political voice of the West, and his release from prison, shortly after Yakubu Gowon was installed in power, was easily one of the shrewdest political moves of the new regime.

Most of these meetings took place in Femi's house, then at Onireke, Ibadan. They were fertile exploratory ground for Bola Ige, the only party politician of the brainstorming group and a member of the Western Region's delegation to the Leaders of Thought assemblage. Little did this colleague dream—or perhaps he did already?—that he would one day become an elected governor of the same region, after it became known as Oyo state. For now, he was only a junior member of the Leaders of Thought—whose meetings, we would later find out, were closely monitored by the British High Commission.

I would occasionally accompany him, but only to those preliminary, informal meetings, where the various regional groups tested one another's positions and traded tactical moves. It all took place in an atmosphere of indescribable tension. Delegations stayed in fortified apartments, went about under the protection of armed police and army squads. Lieutenant Colonel Chukwuemeka Odumegwu Ojukwu, the military governor of the Eastern Region, used the alibi of this insecure environment to stay put in Enugu and refuse to participate in any of the meetings, even symbolically, by sending observers. It was a ploy—Ojukwu was already making plans to secede—but I had personal cause to agree with his dismissal of any notion of a secure environment.

ONCE BOLAIGE nearly got us both killed in the sedate residential part of Ikoyi, where we had gone to consult with the leader of the Tiv delegation, J. S. Tarka. The Tiv are a people who live within what is known as the Middle Belt of Nigeria—hence the name of their political movement, the United Middle Belt Congress. Politically merged with the Northern Region, they chafed under domination by its ruling oligarchy and commenced armed resistance long before the nation's full independence, continuing, albeit underreported, even for some years afterward. In later years, one of the officers who commanded the pacifying forces of the Tiv uprising publicly lamented his contribution to their subjugation.

Tarka, a figure of unquestioned charisma, led the Middle Belt Congress, a traditional ally of the Action Group of the West. Tarka and I were not close, but we seemed to respond to each other through some hidden waves. On the way to my assignation with the radio station in 1965, I had made a brief stop at Bola Ige's house to let Bola know that I might be away for a while, although I did not tell him why. It was there that J. S. Tarka and I met for the first time. I was instantly drawn to this man of very gentle bearing, sensing that behind a face that smiled so readily were a cast-iron will and a radar mind that constantly scanned his environment and its occupants. We spoke briefly in the living room while I waited for Bola to emerge.

Suddenly Tarka's demeanor changed; it was quite sudden and startling. He looked at me very strangely, broke off in midsentence, and did what, to me, was even stranger. He thrust his hand into his pocket and brought out a slim wad of currency notes, which he offered to me. I looked at him, questioning, but he insisted that I take the money. I was naturally taken aback but finally accepted a pound note. It was a spontaneous gesture, lacking any explanation, except that he seemed to obey an inner impulse. We had only spoken briefly of the political situation; nothing in our exchanges had suggested my being in need of money or on the verge of plunging into some dangerous straits. But he had looked at me as if he knew that he was supposed to help me in some way, was not sure what form the help should take, and could think only of the money in his pocket. Now, a year and a half later, I looked forward to seeing him again, smiling to myself at the thought of what his reaction would be when I solemnly handed back his pound note. I had no thought that I would nearly get killed before I settled my unsought indebtedness.

Bola was at the wheel. At the end of a long driveway into the block of Lagos apartments where Tarka was staying, off Glover Road in Ikoyi, soldiers suddenly emerged from behind the shrubbery. One of them barked out some orders, gesticulating in a manner that was open to myriad interpretations. Bola thought that he was being ordered to go back. Ramming the car into reverse, he began to tear off at full speed. His neck twisted around to maneuver through the driveway, he failed to see the rage-distorted face of the foremost soldier, but I saw him. He slipped off the safety catch of his gun and leveled it at the car, screaming and swearing at us to stop or else! I did not understand the words, but the language of all his body parts was most eloquent! The more the soldier screamed, the faster Bola drove, and my transmission of what I understood as the soldier's wishes appeared to confuse Bola even more. All this took place in seconds, but it was sufficient to instruct me in the often-understated measure of eternity. In desperation I hit Bola on the chest, screaming at him to stop, and this finally gained his attention. He stepped on the brakes, perhaps just in time. The soldier caught up with us, his body convulsed with violence, coiled up for a release that could be obtained only by pulling his trigger. Then Bola remembered that he spoke fluent Hausa and plunged into a torrent of explanation in that language. It calmed the man somewhat, and only then was Bola able to state our business. It was a very relieved Tarka who opened the door to us, having watched the scene, horrified, from the balcony of his third-floor apartment.