You Must Set Forth at Dawn (36 page)

The explanation lay in his conversation with Pierre. He had believed it because Pierre told him. When it was all over and the misadventure was put to rest, I asked Yai to go through the scene at the party at which this “confession” had been made—to leave nothing out, consider nothing of no importance, see nothing as lacking in significance. I made him go through Pierre's dialogue and his, their gestures, comportments, states of inebriation—in as full detail as he could recollect.

The exchange, Yai reaffirmed, had taken place on the top landing of the suspended stairs. Pierre had gone outside for fresh air with a drink in his hand. He had sat on a step, and Olabiyi, who, all that evening, had had the hidden eyes in his head riveted on no other object but that bronze piece, had finally said to Pierre, “Baba, is that not the famous head of Olokun sitting on that shelf?”

“Of course,” said Pierre.

“But—what of the one in the museum at Ife?”

“Oh, that. Everyone knows it's a fake.”

“Are you quite sure about that?”

“There isn't any serious scholar who believes in that thing.”

“Then how did Carybe get hold of this? When? How did he get it out of Nigeria?”

And then Pierre looked warily right and left, as if to make sure that there was no one within earshot. He leaned forward, put a finger across his lips, and said, “Shh. Don't tell anyone. I brought it here myself.”

I believe that narrative of their exchange. What Yai missed was Pierre's boyish sense of mischief, not too different from that of his countryman Abdias do Nascimento. Abdias's contribution at any symposium on identity, culture, race, and the like was always guaranteed to immobilize his audience in a denunciation of Brazilian racist policies, reeling out statistics and calling for world intervention. And then Abdias, ending his diatribe abruptly and resuming his seat, would turn to me and—
wink
!

That evening outside Carybe's studio, Pierre, the scholar, was making a mockery of all efforts—including his, probably—to solve a mystery that had defeated dozens of archaeologists, art historians, and ethnologists. He was amused, it now seems clear, by Yai's naive belief that this long-sought head was actually sitting among the jumble in some architect's studio gallery in Bahia. Pierre did not consider for a moment that his act was convincing. He forgot that this was a party atmosphere, with plenty of booze, where lurked the possibility of confessions made—
in vino veritas.

AFTER ALL THE DIPLOMATIC hassle had subsided, tempers had cooled, and even the police were acting somewhat chastened, I commenced the process of inviting Pierre back to Ife, as a special guest. The university was more than willing to create an occasion to make public amends, offer him an open apology and exonerate him before the university community. But the Ministry of Foreign Affairs refused to approve his visa. Indeed, we discovered that he had been placed on a forbidden list!

There could be only one explanation for this. Many more—undoubtedly vicious—lies that would embarrass officialdom were they to be revealed must have been spilled to Pierre by the police. They could not afford to have Pierre back in the country, where the episode could be aired at a public postmortem, even as we, the principals and associated conspirators, winced in chagrin and wiped mud off our own faces. The role of the government and its agencies would have garnered the greatest opprobrium, however; at worst, we would only have to endure some good-natured mockery.

We let another year or more go by, until a civilian regime had taken over the reins of government. I succeeded in cutting through all obstacles—no one, as usual, could recall how they had come to be placed there anyway or who had ordered them—and obtained a visa clearance for Pierre. Using mutual colleagues such as Doig Simmonds, the dancing instructor Peggy Harper— a refugee from South Africa—and Abdias do Nascimento, we invited Pierre to one public event after the other. I swore that I would meet him personally at the airport and escort him to Ife with full grandeur. We arranged that a Yoruba traditional title would be added to the one that he already enjoyed.

We should not have been surprised that Pierre declined. At seventy-plus, his rough treatment at the hands of the police and his conviction of a betrayal by trusted colleagues were simply too much to overcome. The episode was more or less smothered in Brazil at the time but was exhumed by some enterprising journalists when I was awarded the Nobel Prize. Those journalists homed in on both Pierre and myself. Pierre was still bitter but quite generous in saluting my award. For my part, I heaped all the blame on an ignorant and high-handed police, asked the journalists to pass on our invitation to Pierre yet again to return to Nigeria as my personal and university guest, where he would learn firsthand what had transpired and how the misunderstandings had come about. I added, however, that unfortunately, it had been Pierre's impish sense of humor that had triggered off a chain of events among us, his humorless colleagues.

Many of our colleagues believed in turn that I would not step into Brazil ever again, but I have done so, more than once, and even while Pierre was still alive. I looked for him, but he had traveled out of Bahia and we never met. (Had an unforgiving Pierre quit Bahia because he heard I was coming?) The media appeared to have decided to draw a veil of discretion over the episode. Not one mention of the “quest for the Holy Grail” appeared in the press during my entire stay, when I was also received by the president, himself a novelist of note.

Pierre died some years ago. Reconciliation with that misused scholar was one that I truly craved, but appeasement must now be delayed until our reunion under the generous canopy of Orunmila.

The “Evil Genius”

GENERAL IBRAHIM BADAMASI BABANGIDA, WHO FOR MOST OF THE EIGHT-year dictatorship that began in 1985 affected a convincing indifference to public image, eventually revealed his vulnerability. Nettled by a seemingly consensual and persistent view in the media that he was evil at heart and in intent, he finally retorted that if he was indeed evil, he was at least an evil genius. It was inevitable that he would prove to be another devil with whom I would willingly share a dinner table. If anything, he intrigued me far more than Olusegun Obasanjo. Suave, calculating, a persuasive listener and conciliator—but with sheathed claws at the ready—ever ready to cultivate potential allies, he had a reputation for meticulous planning. I was one of many coup watchers who knew Babangida only by reputation, as the mastermind behind a number of earlier coups d'états.

But first, how—apart from his affable exterior—did Babangida succeed in enjoying, at least at the beginning, a quite remarkable level of national acceptability? The answer to that was straightforward: he rode to public favor on the brutal and hypocritical record of his predecessor, Muhammadu Buhari, one devil for whom, in my calculation, no spoon existed that was long enough to justify the risk even of an impromptu snack.

WITH HIS PARTNER, Tunde Idiagbon, General Buhari blew onto the Nigerian stage, raising a whirlwind of corrective energy. His first port of call was the Ministry of Petroleum, which, during the Obasanjo regime, he had headed as minister. During the succeeding rule, that of Shehu Shagari, a hue and cry had begun about a missing $3.4 billion of the nation's petroleum funds, a sum that was later upgraded to $4.1 billion. The scandal was not new. The accusations were public, pursued with vigor by the social critic and schoolmaster Tai Solarin and by an activist with an even more volatile temperament, Dr. Ayodele Awojobi, a professor of engineering at the University of Lagos. Lithe and intense in every inch of his six-foot-four frame, Awojobi was, however, more fastidious and persuasive than Tai in his acquisition and presentation of facts. The Shagari government was compelled to set up a commission of inquiry. Its findings were negative: Tai Solarin, it decided, was merely whistling in the wind, and no such funds were missing.

Nevertheless, it raised not a few eyebrows that General Buhari, who was at the center of this scandal, should stage a coup d'état against the civilian regime that had inquired into the affair. The eyebrows were raised even higher when, having seized control of the nation, he made a beeline for the Petroleum Commission, raided its offices, and carted away its files, swearing publicly that he would get to the bottom of the missing funds and announce his findings in a matter of months. This was the last that the nation heard of those files or the missing billions. Buhari sacked the incumbent head of the Petroleum Commission, reinstated his right-hand man from his previous ministerial stint in that department, and, at the first opportunity, locked up Tai Solarin on an unrelated pretext—for distributing leaflets calling for a return to democracy.

It was a harsh confinement. Tai Solarin was subjected to a life-threatening regimen in an inclement far-north prison. He was refused access to his accustomed medication for asthma, one that had been prepared for him for years by a traditional herbalist and had proved a hundred percent effective, whereas Western medicine had failed. As for Professor Awojobi, he died soon after Buhari took over. A vigorous personality and brilliant engineer, Awojobi simply passed away conveniently, ostensibly of hypertension.

That beginning established the pattern. The Buhari regime redefined all concepts of moral scourge, incorruptibility, transparency, and even-handedness in the execution of its own codes of justice. It was this regime that presided over the saga of some fifty-three suitcases that passed through Customs at the international airport of Kano. As a measure to stabilize the Nigerian currency and terminate the business of illegal speculation, currency trafficking, and other dodgy financial dealings, the Buhari regime ordered the production of a new national currency. So comprehensive were the measures undertaken to ensure that not a single forged or obsolete currency note was blown across the borders, either entering or exiting, that all land, air, and sea borders were sealed tight without notice. If migrating birds were not exactly ordered to be shot on sight, it was only because the Nigerian Air Force was too busy ferrying in the new notes. International transactions were suspended. Too bad for those who were trapped outside or inside until the fiscal exercise of several days was over!

Nonetheless, a Northern emir arrived at Kano airport with fifty-three bulging suitcases and—who would be waiting to clear him through Customs? Buhari's own aide-de-camp, Major Mustapha Jokolo! He encountered and tried to brush aside the stolid opposition of the Customs officer in charge of the airport—an unknown civil servant by the name of Alhaji Abubakar Atiku who would later become the vice president of the nation after the return of democracy. The Customs officer held his ground as long as he could but was no match for the aide-de-camp, who had flown to Kano from his duty post in Lagos solely to facilitate the passage of the emir's camels through the needle's eye of Customs. Entry was eventually effected with only one casualty: not long after, the stubborn Customs officer was unceremoniously bundled out of Kano and redeployed to Lagos. Based on the provisions of an allied regulation, however, Fela Anikulapo Kuti, the Afro-beat musician, would be sentenced to a long term of imprisonment for failing to declare some foreign currency that he had legitimately brought into the country. Fela had kept the funds as immediate living expenses for his band, due to begin an overseas tour shortly after.

After Babangida came to power, the trial judge visited Fela in prison, apologized to him for his role in his conviction, and admitted that he had only acted on orders. The poor judge! Did he really think that my uninhibited cousin would keep quiet after such a confession? “The judge done come beg me o!” screamed Fela to the media, leaving Babangida no choice but to set free the victim of Buhari's reformist zeal and dismiss the judge.

So implacable in its dubiety was the moral code of the duo—Buhari and Idiagbon—that most Nigerians involved in routine, legitimate, decades-old monetary arrangements learned to take self-protective measures. On my part, I ensured that I was thoroughly “sanitized” at least a dozen times before boarding an airplane into or out of Nigeria. The decree was uncompromising. Even the possession of a worthless coin or two guaranteed several years in jail. Currency forms had to be filled going in and out, and an inaccurate entry left the voyager at the mercy of the law. My forms always read “zero” going in and out—a crossed line across the page and my signature, nothing more. After Fela's ongoing ordeal, no one in his senses would take his chance with those reformists who had placed themselves on high moral ground, tasking themselves with the laudable goal of stemming the nation's financial hemorrhage! The decrees extended to foreign accounts. They were to be closed down by all Nigerian citizens and existing funds repatriated to Nigeria. The results were predictable. Anxious not to lose Nigerian business, foreign banks—and without any prompting from their customers—would offer to send their bank statements to proxy addresses, and many Nigerians took up the offer.

Irrationally, perhaps, there I drew the line! I had had an account with Lloyd's since my student days in Leeds, and I was not going to close it down for any sanctimonious terror. Royalties earned outside the country had always remained outside; those from within, within; and that was the way it would remain. Not seeking martyrdom, however, I instructed my bank not to forward any statements to me or even write me a letter—I would call whenever I passed through London if I needed to check the health of my balance or withdraw from it!

While Fela Anikulapo Kuti languished in jail, a blue-blood scion of the Northern aristocracy, Alhaji Alhaji Alhaji, known as “Triple A,” then permanent secretary in the Ministry of Finance, was caught—literally—with his pants down in the Austrian capital, Vienna. He was robbed of a large sum in foreign currency—in cash—well over and above his legitimate entitlement, and by a local “female escort.” The dalliance over, Triple A fell asleep. When he woke up, his companion was gone, and so was his wallet. Such was his confidence in his personal immunity that the super–civil servant made a report to the Austrian police, and the escapade was bruited about in the international press, from which it was picked up and nearly flogged to death by the Nigerian press, calling for equity in the implementation of justice. The media dug deeper and discovered that this civil servant kept not one but several foreign accounts. Their screams became deafening and perhaps did succeed in deafening the ears of the corrective duo. They heard nothing and so maintained a stolid silence, confident that, sooner or later, the media outcry would subside.

A MILITARY COUP is usually undertaken to terminate the life of a serving government. The Buhari coup set a precedent in Nigerian history by being openly directed against the political opposition. Leaders in opposition were detained without trial or else sent to military tribunals on charges for which record, unprecedented sentences became mandatory. Some were freed, then sent back again for retrial repeatedly on the same charges, as was the case of a septuagenarian, Pa Adekunle Ajasin, an elder statesman of an opposition party and governor of Ondo state. Even the pliant tribunal found itself unable to convict the old man, and so, after several trials, he was simply left in detention to rot. Those found guilty received multiple sentences—some, hundreds of years in jail, to run consecutively. By contrast, members of the ruling party either miraculously escaped capture—like the one with the fifty-three suitcases—were never brought to trial, or else escaped with comparatively light sentences or easeful confinement.

The truth was that General Buhari, with his partner in terror, Tunde Idiagbon, struck against the regime in order to preempt a coup by some “young Turks.” Seeing that the corrupt government of Shehu Shagari was doomed anyway, they moved to prevent a radical wing of the military from taking over.

The media was muzzled by the notorious Decree No. 2, which prescribed mandatory prison sentence for any journalist who published anything at all that “embarrassed” a government official, irrespective of whether or not the publication was a hundred percent true. Two journalists, Tunde Thompson and Nduka Irabor, were the first casualties of this decree; they had published facts—and not even wounding facts but facts that the regime did not wish to be published, even though borne out in detail.

Yet another journalist and public commentator, Ebenezer Babatope, was jailed without trial, not for anything he wrote during the incumbency of that despot but for having called attention, a year or so earlier, to the threat of a coup that Buhari had made before actually carrying it out. “Watch yon general,” Babatope had warned, “his ambitions run deep.” Unsuspecting—after all, he had said nothing against the regime once it took power, had quietly enrolled as a student at Warwick University, England—Babatope returned home to prepare for his new life. For his prophetic pains, Buhari honored him with indefinite residency in a maximum-security prison. Babatope did not regain his liberty until the fall of Buhari.

Detention without trial or imprisonment after a mockery of justice ran rampant. Beko Ransome-Kuti, president of the Nigerian Medical Association, in the company of some of his lieutenants, took his turn in prison for leading an industrial strike of doctors. Their demand? An end to the neglect of medical services and the deterioration of teaching and government hospitals, and a demand for improvement in their serving conditions. His place of incarceration was set not within the state where he lived or close by, but all the way in the far North, quite deliberately, as far as would make family visits and media attention a near impossibility.

The most unconscionable act of General Buhari and his partner, however, was the enactment of an anti–drug trafficking law that was made retroactive, so that even offenses that had been committed before the law was passed came under the same forfeit—in this case, of life. Three young men were publicly executed by firing squad soon after the law was passed, a deliberate effort to strike terror into the heart of the nation. The degree of public disbelief in the possibility of such unjust killings would not be equaled for many years—and then not until the killing of the Ogoni leader Ken Saro-wiwa and his eight companions. Individuals and civic bodies protested the sentence and warned against the executions of the three young men; there was an especially intense campaign by the Quaker Society and by some women's organizations. On the day of the execution itself, it was as if the nation were under a collective paralysis. This was discernible on the faces of people one met on the streets and encountered in offices and hotel lobbies, faces frozen with that one question: Would it happen? Would this event really take place? It did.