You Must Set Forth at Dawn (37 page)

Nigerians had been brutalized—deliberately—by the new culture of public executions, dubbed, with gallows humor, “The Bar Beach Show,” after a television show then current. After the Biafran war of secession, no one should have been surprised that violent crimes, mostly armed robbery, would rise in frequency, and the military government of Yakubu Gowon introduced public execution by firing squad as its ultimate solution to this terrorization of the nation. Executions took place on the much-patronized Bar Beach in Lagos, and the general public—to my personal chagrin—took to them with gusto, turning them into public fiestas at which refreshments were hawked and the audience danced, jeered at the felons, and cheered the execution squad. Children were conspicuously present. Eighteenth-century England could not have boasted a more macabre occasion for public roistering.

Not at the execution of these three young men, however! The volume of
No
s and the wailing rose to a hysterical pitch as the priest moved forward to offer the last prayers and an officer began to apply blindfolds. Then the subdued retreat of the priest, the officer's crisp march back to the line of the firing squad, the order, the shots. There were some faintings. A subdued crowd trickled away slowly, numbed with disbelief. Across the nation, a cold cloud appeared to press down on several million roofs, insinuating the unknown. Some years later, I would write
A Scourge of Hyacinths,
for radio, and its stage version,
From Zia with Love,
creative efforts to cauterize the wounds that came from one's impotence.

If the execution of the three young men was the most execrable deed of the Buhari government, designed to cow the nation and condition its people into an acceptance of unguessable extremes of judicial violence, the actual process of establishing a norm of despotism—in all its ramifications—was much simpler. Buhari passed a decree that forbade any discussion of a return to democratic rule. And that was it! Buhari had interrupted a democratic process that had been thoroughly corrupted by Shehu Shagari and his National Party of Nigeria. All this threw into immediate prominence in public discussion the one question: When? When would the military relinquish power? It took only a few months for Buhari to answer that question. A decree was rolled out: the very word “democracy” was criminalized.

NOT ANYMORE, chortled the suave General Ibrahim Babangida as he served Buhari a taste of his own medicine, overthrew him, and confined him in a government residential house not far from the new ruler's home state. Babangida promised democracy but set up structures that ensured that democracy did not proceed “too hastily.”
We must learn from the lessons of the past, do it properly
and enduringly this time, get rid of the “moneybags,” create an environment that
will favor the “new-breed politicians,” debate the actual democratic will of the
Nigerian people, evolve an unriggable system for the ballot box, construct state-sponsored headquarters of the political parties in every state
—
which must be two
and two only, one “a little to the left,” the other, “a little to the right,” embark on a
“learning process,” launch one, then two, then three di ferent structures of mass
mobilization. . . .
It was clever and succeeded with many. The people were kept busy. The charade took a while to become transparent.

This dictator made a fascinating study. Some time after he came into power, probably a year afterward, I was invited to participate in a media assessment of his time in office thus far. My contribution took the form of a cautionary tale—a factual though whimsical anecdote that drew a parallel from his “fate” at my hands—unknown to him—in the uncertain hours that followed the first announcement of the 1985 coup, when that coup had yet to identify an heir apparent. For someone who prefers to scoff at auguries and other superstitions, it was a revelation—and not the first—of the irrational part of myself, an authentic component, however, that one learns to accept as part of one's makeup.

I WAS TEACHING at Ife at the time and was on my way out of the country for a conference. Stopping, by habit, at my office for a last-minute desk clearance, I observed a group of lecturers clustered around a transistor radio. Some abnormal event had clearly taken place. Surprised by my evident insulation within a shattered normalcy, they waved me over—Hadn't I heard? What did I think? Where would it all end?

It was, of course, another coup d'état. No new head of state had yet emerged, and my colleagues were caught in a fever of guesswork. Various names were tossed about, known players in this game of deadly musical chairs. The first question, of course: Would the coup succeed? Had it already? Where was Buhari? Idiagbon? Was it Joshua Dogonyaro's turn this time?—his name had been prominent on radio as the John the Baptist of the coup d'état, after which he made way for one greater than he. This time, it was a new town crier: name, Sani Abacha. Other names were trotted out one after the other, chewed over, discarded or pushed aside for the moment. The new herald with a high-pitched voice, who identified himself as Sani Abacha, went through the routine incantation—
All soldiers, except those otherwise authorized, are confined to bar
racks. Military governors to report for redeployment. Offices, airports, and borders
closed
—I shrugged with indifference, though also with a sense of relief; I had not especially wanted to make this particular journey.

With a bonus day in hand, I left my colleagues to their anxieties, drove back home, dumped my luggage, substituted my traveling gear for a rough-and-ready shirt and boots, and set off for the agricultural farm, where I hoped some bush fowl would still be found browsing on a late breakfast. My intrusion was swift, deadly, and productive—unusually so for such a brief spell, well above my average.

The first
aparo
—that bird halfway between a quail and a partridge—flew excitedly above my head, flapping untidily. Without any prior intent, on the spur of the moment, I shouted, “Buhari!” and fired. It came down, plumb line. I drew a sight line with my finger and followed its trajectory to the distant crash site.

A crucial part of the hunt is bringing down the quarry. The rest, depending on the terrain, often turns out to be the harder work—finding the bird in what is often tangled thicket. This first offering was most obliging. I nodded with satisfaction: Buhari was definitely gone.

I had hardly secured it to my waist strap when another took off at some distance, offering a very disciplined flight path. It was all an unusually smooth reflex—I pulled the trigger, muttering, “Idiagbon.” Buhari's number two man was away on a pilgrimage to Mecca, but that made him even more dangerous to the coup makers; he could rally loyalists from a distance and try to reverse events. I need not have worried. Down came Idiagbon to join his master.

It was a most auspicious beginning, since this one also proved an easy find. Ogun appeared to be taking a hand, compensating me, perhaps, for my aborted journey. Next, “Dogonyaro!” Smack! Find. Next, “Magashi!”—one of the shadowy ones. I could not believe it—they were all so cooperative, either falling in clearings or staying put where they fell in the bush. As for the actual shooting, there was none of the usual calculating effort; arms moved in unison, on smooth pulleys, guided by invisible hands. But the tempo of flights remained the most astonishing. I had hunted that patch before. At that time of the morning, the
aparo
is more difficult to rouse. Having already breakfasted its fill, it tends to dig deep into the bases of thickets, perhaps take a midmorning snooze, yet here they were offering themselves up as eager sacrifices. I had been in the bush for less than thirty minutes. One more, I thought, and I clumped around, hoping for one parting shot. Up it went and I swung after, then ahead, muttering, “Babangida.”

No other word for it, this was—
smoking
! Babangida followed the example of his predecessors—a hit! Eyes glued to the landing spot, I plunged into the bush. This time there was a variation. A clump of feathers marked the spot, but, search as I would, there was not a sign of Babangida. Not a trace! Greedy to post a most unaccustomed hundred percent kill, I devoted another fifteen minutes to the search. Not a sign. I gave up. The sun had risen beyond
aparo
tolerance level. It was time to return home.

As I drove into campus, using the back route that took me past the faculty, I noticed the group of lecturers still huddled around the radio, talking animatedly.

“Well, any announcement yet?” I asked them.

“No,” they replied. “Just a repeat of the same announcement, plus martial music.”

I announced, matter-of-factly, “Babangida is your next head of state.”

I received incredulous stares. How could they have missed the announcement? “Which station was it on?” someone wanted to know.

Another: “Oh, have you been on the phone to someone in Lagos?”

“It's his turn,” I repeated. “That one who's been masterminding all the coups, he's behind it, and he's taking over this time, that seasoned escapologist!”

At home, even after a sobering shower and a coffee, I found no reason to examine the premises of my conviction. It was just a factual, inconsequential tug of knowledge, and I turned my attention to other chores. Toward late afternoon, the rest of the nation also learned that the new despot was indeed IBB.

BABANGIDA'S FIRST MOVE was to throw open the prisons, a deft, calculating stroke. And he opened up every space of public discourse on every subject under the sun—from democracy to IMF loans—a most masterful distraction, since he could then carry on his own agenda, indifferent, while debates raged all around him.

Quite unlike my encounters with Olusegun Obasanjo when he was head of state, I never once dined—literally, now!—in Babangida's residence and only once in official circumstances, when I attended a banquet for Nelson Mandela. By contrast, he ate at my Abeokuta home on two occasions. The first was a hurriedly improvised affair, organized in response to his own suggestion that he stop by while in my state, Ogun, for some official engagements. I still lived in my rented house at Idi-aba. At the last moment, “IBB” (as Babangida was known) nearly played his
aparo
game with me, pleading the difficulty of extricating himself from an official reception by royal command of the Alake of Abeokuta, the traditional monarch of my immediate domain.

Earlier, his advance team had taken up positions in the cul-de-sac whose
cul
was my house, with a frontage of bamboo trellises covered in creepers. When the wind blew in the right direction, a poultry yard next door stank to the high heavens. I had once threatened to take the owner to court, but he had pleaded that the ex–head of state Olusegun Obasanjo, now a retired farmer, had obtained a monopoly on the importation rights for the chemicals that were required to transform his chicken shit into odoriferous waste. Obasanjo's prices, he said, were prohibitive; that is, when he chose to sell at all. I endured the stench only because I was hopeful of transferring soon to my own house, then under construction.

Babangida's escorts moved back and forth, talking into crackling walkie-talkies and checking on his probable arrival time. Once they came in and announced yet again that he was on his way, next that he might not turn up after all—the Alake was a tenacious host, and it was proving difficult for him to free himself from the palace. I sent word back that he would be forever persona non grata in Abeokuta if he failed to turn up for a dinner that he himself had requested. A newly acquired military acquaintance fast developing into a firm friend, the beanpole Vice Air Marshal Ibrahim Alfa, an ace pilot who had cheated death often, was a member of his official entourage; at the first opportunity he had detached himself from the official train and arrived quite early in the evening. “I don't know about Ibrahim,” he announced, “he's head of state, so he can't escape his hosts—that is, even if he wants to. In my case, my official participation in the tour is finished, and I am here to relax and enjoy myself.”

Military protocol is a curious affair, however. Ibrahim Alfa and his two army colleagues shied away from digging into the food until their
oga
turned up. Nine o'clock, then approaching ten. Among the hungry guests were my own hastily assembled terrors of political confrontation, who were there to add some mildly astringent spice to the fare. The “mildly” was specially pleaded by me on behalf of a long-term agenda, the possibility that something similar to the periodic brainstorming sessions that Oje Aboyade and I had shared with IBB's predecessor, Obasanjo, would develop from the first encounter. It made sense not to scare him off by a hostile reception at his very first venture.

When Babangida arrived, halfway through the meal, I was treated to quite a display of body language! One could see that the military group, unlike the civilians, were ill at ease, clearly wishing they had waited for the
oga
! As for Babangida, it was equally obvious that he was peeved that the company had not waited, though of course he kept mute. Only half jokingly, he said to Alfa, as conversation became easier, Who asked for this dinner anyway? Ibrahim Alfa, I suspected, had agreed to start only because he was convinced that his boss would not turn up at all—“I know Ibrahim,” he kept sighing, as he looked again and again at his watch. Now he looked a little sheepish and quickly pushed his plate aside. I pretended to notice nothing of the discomfiture of the men of arms, even those in mufti. Another of his officers attempted to hide his wineglass. That annoyed me, and I fished it out, filled it, and went around the table with the bottle.

Babangida soon settled down. From his first taste, he declared an instant love affair with Lebanese food. What was more, he demonstrated a largeness of appetite that was quite unexpected—he ate like a battalion on the move. I was so impressed that I immediately announced that I would have to match him against my trencher champion, Femi Johnson. Babangida agreed to take him on any day.