The Shadow of the Sun (11 page)
They finished, and silence descended. Then, the first voices were heard. As always, there were supporters and opponents of the idea. Questions were posed; a discussion began. Had there been other possibilities, this flight by boat would doubtless have seemed too risky and foolhardy. But there were none. The ground was burning beneath our feet, and time was of the essence. Zanzibar? With the same determination that we had tried to get here, we would now struggle to get out. Only Felix and Arnold were opposed. Felix deemed the plan idiotic, and considered himself too old for such adventures, while Arnold simply had too much valuable photographic equipment he was afraid to lose. They nevertheless agreed to pay our hotel bills when we were already out at sea, so as not to arouse suspicion.
A slight, gray-haired man arrived in the evening, dressed in the traditional costume of British colonial administrators: a white shirt, wide white shorts, and white kneesocks. We followed him. The darkness was so profound that his silhouette ahead of us appeared and disappeared like a phantom. Finally, we sensed boards beneath our feet—it was probably the pier. The old man whispered that we should walk down the steps to the boat. What steps? What boat? We couldn’t see anything. But he insisted, his words now resounding like commands. And we knew the field marshal’s men could be lurking somewhere close by. Mark, the Australian, a massive man with a wide, good-hearted face, climbed down first; during our earlier deliberations, he had maintained that he knew how to sail and could navigate the boat. He also had the key to the lock on the chain with which the boat was secured to the pier, and knew how to start the engine. When Mark’s foot reached the bottom of the boat, there was a splash, and everyone hissed for quiet! Quiet! We were now descending one after the other: the Englishmen, Peter and Aidan; the German, Thomas; the American, John; the Italian, Carlo; the Czech, Jarek; and I. Each tried to feel for the shape and location of the boat, where the side was and how the bulkheads were spaced, and then groped for a spot somewhere on the little bench, or failing that on the boat’s bottom.
The old Englishman disappeared and we were left alone. There were no lights anywhere. The silence was ever more penetrating. Only now and then could we hear a wave hitting the pier, and from somewhere far, very far away, the roll of the invisible ocean. So as to not give ourselves away, we honored the silence, uttering not a word. John’s watch had a phosphorescent dial, and he passed it around from time to time—the miniature glowing dot circulating from hand to hand: 22:30, 23:00, 23:30. We stayed this way, in the deepest darkness, half-asleep, numbed, and anxious, until John’s watch indicated two in the morning. Mark pulled on the line activating the engine. The motor, like a wild animal unexpectedly goaded, roared and howled. The boat rocked, lifted its bow, and took off straight ahead.
The Zanzibar port is on the western side of the island, the one closest to the continental coast. Logically, therefore, one would have to travel due west to reach the mainland, and southwest if the goal was Dar es Salaam. But for now we cared about one thing only: to gain as much distance as possible from the port. Mark set the controls to maximum speed, and the boat, shuddering ever so slightly, skimmed the calm, smooth surface. The darkness was still absolute, and no shots came from the direction of the island. The escape had succeeded; we were safe. This realization pulled us out of our torpor and our spirits rose. We motored along blissfully for more than an hour, then suddenly everything began to change. The hitherto glassy surface of the water started to move restlessly and violently. Waves reared up, crashing against the side of the boat, with increasing force, relentless. It was if a mighty fist were pounding with angry regularity at the hull. Strangely it seemed a force of blind savage cry and at the same time of cool, systematic calculation. A strong wind arose, and rain, the kind of downpour that comes only in the tropics: rain like a waterfall, rain like a wall of water. Because it was still dark, we lost our bearings completely; we no longer knew where we were, or in which direction we were headed. But soon even this became unimportant, for we were being hurled about by ever larger waves, by now so dangerous and frenzied, we couldn’t tell what would happen to us the next minute, the next second. The boat would heave and groan upward, freezing for a moment on the wave’s invisible summit, and then plunge abruptly from the precipice into a roaring abyss, a rumbling darkness.
Then the engine, flooded with water, stopped. Now the real hell. The disabled boat was tossed in every direction, spinning helplessly in a circle, while we waited, in terror, for the next wave to flip it over. Someone was shouting hysterically, someone else was calling to God for help, someone else still was lying on the bottom, moaning and vomiting. Everyone was desperately holding on to the sides. The squall drenched us over and over, seasickness tore out our insides, and if there was anything left of us, it was only an ice-cold animal fear. We had no inner tubes or life jackets, and death loomed with each approaching wave.
The engine was dead; we couldn’t restart it. Suddenly, Peter yelled through the gale: “Oil!” It had occurred to him that an engine of this type needs not only gasoline but also oil, mixed in with its fuel. He and Mark began rummaging through the storage places. They found a can and added the oil to the tank. Mark yanked a few times on the line; the engine sputtered, then roared. Our joyful shouts pierced the wind; the storm was still raging, but at least there was a hope now.
The dawn was gloomy, the clouds hung low in the sky, but the rain was breaking, and it was finally growing light. Where were we? All around was water, vast, dark, still agitated. In the distance, the horizon, rising and falling, undulating, in a measured, cosmic rhythm. Later, when the sun was high, we spotted a dark line on the horizon. Land! We headed in that direction. Before us was a flat shoreline, palm trees, a group of people, and in the background—huts. It turned out that we were back on Zanzibar, but far beyond the town. Not knowing the sea, we didn’t realize that we had been caught by the monsoon, which blows at this time of year, and which luckily spit the boat up here—it could well have carried us to the Persian Gulf, Pakistan, or India. No one would have survived such a journey—we would have died of thirst, or eaten one another from hunger.
We got out of the boat and fell, half-dead, on the sand. I couldn’t calm down, though, and began asking the assembled people how to get to town. One of them had a motorcycle and agreed to take me. We sped along through fragrant green tunnels, between banana trees, mangoes, and clove trees. The rush of hot air dried my shirt and pants—they were white and salty from the seawater. An hour later we reached the airport, where I was hoping to find Karume—and hoping he would help me get to Dar. Suddenly, I spotted a small plane standing on the runway, and Arnold loading his gear inside. In the shade of a wing stood Felix. When I ran up to him, he looked up, greeted me, and said:
“Your place is empty. It’s waiting for you. Get in.”
The Anatomy of a Coup d’État
F
rom a notebook I kept in Lagos in 1966:
On Saturday, January 15, the army staged a coup d’état in Nigeria. At one o’clock in the morning, an alarm sounded in all the military units across the country. The various divisions set about carrying out their designated tasks. The difficulty of the coup lay in its needing to be implemented in five cities at once: in Lagos, which is the capital of the federation, as well as in the capitals of Nigeria’s four regions—in Ibadan (Western Nigeria), Kaduna (Northern Nigeria), Benin (Central-Western Nigeria), and Enugu (Eastern Nigeria). In a country with a surface area three times that of Poland, inhabited by fifty-six million people, the coup was executed by an army numbering barely eight thousand soldiers.
Saturday, 2 a.m.
Lagos: Military patrols (soldiers in helmets, battle dress, and carrying automatic weapons) seize control of the airport, the radio station, the telephone exchange, and the post office. By orders of the military, the electrical plant cuts power to the African neighborhoods. The city sleeps, the streets are empty. Saturday night is very dark, hot, and airless. Several jeeps stop near King George V Street. It is a small street at one tip of the island of Lagos (for which the whole city is named). On one side is the stadium. On the other—two villas. One is the residence of the prime minister of the federation, Sir Abubakar Tafawa Balewa. In the other lives the minister of finance, Chief Festus Okotie-Eboh. The soldiers surround both villas. A group of officers enters the prime minister’s residence, wakes him, and leaves with him. A second group arrests the minister of finance. The cars drive off. Several hours later, an official government communiqué will state that the prime minister and his appointee “were taken to an unknown destination.” Balewa’s subsequent fate is unknown. Some say he is imprisoned in the military barracks; many believe he has been killed. People maintain that Okotie-Eboh was also killed. He was not shot, they say, but rather “bludgeoned to death.” This version may be less a reflection of reality than an expression of public opinion about the man. He was a deeply repugnant individual, brutal, greedy, large, even grotesquely fat. Through corruption, he managed to amass an indescribably large fortune. He behaved with the utmost contempt toward the people he ostensibly served. Balewa was his opposite—likable, modest, calm. A tall, thin, almost ascetic Muslim.
The army seizes the harbor and surrounds Parliament. Patrols circulate through the streets of the sleeping city.
It is 3 a.m.
Kaduna: On the outskirts of the capital of Northern Nigeria, surrounded by high walls, stands the one-story residence of the region’s prime minister, Ahmadu Bello. In Nigeria, the titular head of state is Dr. Nnamdi Azikiwe. The head of the government, Tafawa Balewa. But the actual ruler of the country is Ahmadu Bello. All Saturday long Bello receives guests. The last visit, at 7 p.m., is paid him by a group of Fulani. Six hours later, in the bushes across from the residence, a group of officers sets up two mortars. The group’s commander is Major Chukuma Nzeogwu. At three o’clock in the morning, a shot is fired from a mortar. The shell explodes on the roof of the residence. A fire erupts. It is the signal to attack. The officers first storm the palace’s guardhouse. Two of them die in the struggle with the prime minister’s security force, the rest make it into the flaming building. In the hallway they encounter Ahmadu Bello, who has run out of his bedroom. He is felled by a bullet, which hits him in the temple.
The city sleeps, the streets are empty.
It is 3 a.m.
Ibadan: The palace of the prime minister of Western Nigeria, Chief Samuel Akintola, stands on one of the gentle hills over which sprawls this single-storied city-village, “the largest village in the world,” with 1.5 million inhabitants. For three months now, bloody battles have been waged in the region, a police curfew is in effect in the city, and Akintola’s palace is heavily guarded. The troops begin their assault, a gun battle ensues, and then outright hand-to-hand combat. A group of officers finally forces its way into the palace. Akintola dies on the verandah, hit by thirteen bullets.
It is 3 a.m.
Benin: The army commandeers the radio station, the post office, and other important targets. It closes all exits from the city. Several officers disarm the policemen guarding the residence of the region’s prime minister, Chief Dennis Osadebay. Not a shot is fired. From time to time, a green jeep carrying soldiers passes down the street.
It is 3 a.m.
Enugu: The residence of the prime minister of Eastern Nigeria, Dr. Michael Okpara, is silently and discreetly surrounded. Inside, in addition to the prime minister, sleeps his guest, the president of Cyprus, Archbishop Makarios. The commander of the insurgents guarantees both dignitaries their freedom of movement. In Enugu, the revolution is polite. Other army units seize the radio station, the post office, and close off all roads exiting the city, which continues to sleep.
The coup was successfully carried out in five Nigerian cities simultaneously. In the space of several hours, the small army became the de facto ruler of this enormous country—Africa’s superpower. In the course of a single night, death, arrest, or flight into the bush ended hundreds of political careers.
Saturday—morning, afternoon, and evening.
Lagos awakes, knowing nothing about anything. A normal city day begins—the shops open, people are on their way to work. There is no visible army presence downtown. But at the post office we are told that all lines of communication with the outside world have been severed. You cannot send a telegram. The first bits of gossip start to circulate around the city. That Balewa was arrested. That the army staged a coup d’état. I drive to the barracks in Ikoyi (a Lagos neighborhood). Jeep patrols are coming out of the gates, armed with automatic weapons, with machine guns. A crowd has gathered across from the gate, motionless, silent. Women who eke out a living cooking and selling simple dishes on the street are already spreading out in a smoky encampment.
At the other end of town, Parliament convenes. There are many soldiers in front of the building. They search us at the entrance. Out of the 312 members of Parliament, only 33 have arrived. Only one minister appears—R. Okafor. He proposes that the deliberations be postponed. The representatives who are present demand explanations: What has happened? What is happening? At this, a military patrol enters the chamber—eight soldiers, who disperse the assembled.
The radio broadcasts only music. There are no announcements. I go to see the AFP correspondent, David Laurell. We are both close to tears. These are frustrating moments for journalists: we have news of world import, and we cannot transmit it. We set off together for the airport. It is guarded by a division of the navy and appears deserted—no passengers, no airplanes. On the way back we are stopped at a military checkpoint: they will not let us back into town. A long discussion ensues. The soldiers are polite, courteous, calm; an officer arrives and eventually waves us through. We return through dark neighborhoods: there is still no electrical power. The sidewalk vendors are burning candles or oil lamps near their stalls, as a result of which the streets look from a distance like cemetery alleyways on the Day of the Dead. Even at night it is humid, and so airless that it is difficult to breathe.
Sunday—new rulers.
Helicopters buzz over the city, but otherwise the day is peaceful. Such a revolt (and they are more and more frequent) is usually orchestrated by a small group of officers living in barracks inaccessible to civilians. They act with the utmost secrecy. The country learns of everything after the fact, and then most often has to rely on gossip and conjecture.
This time, however, the situation is quickly clarified. Just before midnight, the new head of state—Major General Johnson Aguiyi-Ironsi, the forty-one-year-old army commander—goes on the radio. He says that the military “consented to take power,” that the constitution and the government are being suspended. Power will now lie with the Supreme Military Council. Law and order will be restored in the country.
...
Monday—the reasons for the coup.
Rejoicing in the streets. My Nigerian friends, meeting me, slap me on the back, laugh; they are in excellent spirits. I walk through the square—the crowds are dancing, a boy beats out a rhythm on an aluminum barrel. A month ago, I witnessed a similar coup d’état in Dahomey—there, too, the street was cheering the army. The latest wave of military revolts is very popular in Africa; reaction is enthusiastic.
The first expressions of support and of allegiance to the new government arrive in Lagos: “The day of January 15,” says the resolution of one of the local parties, the UPGA (United Progressive Grand Alliance), “will pass into the history of our great republic as the day when we first achieved true liberty, although Nigeria has been independent for five years now. The mad rush of our politicians toward self-enrichment disgraced Nigeria’s name abroad. . . . A ruling caste had arisen in our country, which based its power on the sowing of hatred, on pitting brother against brother, on liquidating everyone who held a view different from theirs. . . . We salute the new regime as if it had been sent down by God to liberate the nation from black imperialists, from tyranny and intolerance, from the deceptions and destructive ambitions of those who claimed to represent Nigeria. . . . Our Motherland cannot be a stomping ground for political wolves, who plunder the country.”
“The widespread anarchy and the disillusion of the masses,” states the resolution of the youth organization, Zikist Movement, “made this revolution necessary. In the years since independence, fundamental human rights were brutally violated by the government. People were denied the right to live in freedom and with mutual respect. They were not allowed to have their own opinions. Organized political gangsterism and the politics of falsehood turned all elections into a farce. Instead of serving the nation, politicians were busy stealing. Unemployment and exploitation were on the rise, and in their sadism toward the population, the small clique of feudal fascists in power knew no bounds.”
...
Thus many African nations are already living through a second phase of their short postwar history. The first phase was a rapid decolonization, the gaining of independence. It was characterized by a universal optimism, enthusiasm, euphoria. People were convinced that freedom meant a better roof over their heads, a larger bowl of rice, a first pair of shoes. A miracle would take place—the multiplying of loaves, fishes, and wine. Nothing of the sort occurred. On the contrary. There was a sudden increase in the population, for which there was not enough food, schools, or jobs. Optimism quickly turned to disenchantment and pessimism. The people’s bitterness, fury, hatred was now directed against their own elites, who were rapidly and greedily stuffing their pockets. In a country without a well-developed private sector, where plantations belonged to foreigners and the banks to foreign capital, the political career was the only road to riches.
In short—the poverty and disillusion of those on the bottom rungs, coupled with the cupidity and gluttony of those on the top, create a poisoned, unstable atmosphere, which the army senses; presenting itself as the champion of the injured and the humiliated, it emerges from the barracks and reaches for power.
Tuesday—the tom-toms call to war.
A report from Eastern Nigeria that appeared in today’s edition of the Lagos newspaper, the
Daily Telegraph:
Enugu.—When news of the arrest of the prime minister of Eastern Nigeria, Dr. Michael Okpara, reached his native region of Bende, in all the local villages—in Ohuku, Ibeke, Igbere, Akyi, Ohafia, Abiriba, Abam, and Nkporo—the war drums began to beat, convening the tribal warriors. They were told that their compatriot, Dr. Okpara, had been kidnapped. At first, the warriors believed this was the work of the agents of the ruling coalition, and decided to go to war. Anyone who owned a wagon put it at their disposal. In the course of a few hours, Enugu, the capital of Eastern Nigeria, was overrun by fighters armed to the teeth with swords, spears, bows, and shields. The warriors chanted war songs. Tom-toms pounded throughout the town. As this was going on, it was explained to the tribal commanders that it was the army that had seized power, and that Dr. Okpara was alive, although under house arrest. When the warriors heard this, they expressed joy and began returning to their villages.
Thursday, January 20—the journey to Ibadan.
I went to Western Nigeria to find out what people were saying about the revolution. At the Lagos tollgates, soldiers and policemen inspect cars and baggage. It is 150 kilometers from Lagos to Ibadan, along a green-lined road running between gentle hills. In recent months, during the civil war, many people died here. You still never know whom you will meet around the next curve. In the ditches lie burned-out cars, most often large limousines with governmental license plates. I stopped near one of them—there were still charred bones inside. All the towns along the road bear the signs of battle: the skeletons of houses incinerated, or leveled; furniture broken, trucks turned upside down, smoldering ruins. Every place is deserted, the people have run away, scattered who knows where.
I reach Akintola’s villa. It is on the outskirts of Ibadan, in a residential, wooded ministerial neighborhood, now completely abandoned. The palaces of the ministers, imposing, luxurious, and kitschy, stand ruined and empty. Even the servants are gone. Some of the ministers have died, others fled to Dahomey. There are several policemen in front of Akintola’s place. One of them grabs a gun before giving me a tour. The villa is large, new. A puddle of blood has congealed on the marble floor at the entrance. A bloodied djellabah is still lying next to it. There is a pile of scattered, torn letters, and two plastic machine guns, smashed to pieces, perhaps belonging to Akintola’s grandsons. The walls are pockmarked by bullet holes, the courtyard full of shattered glass, the window screens ripped out by soldiers during the assault on the villa.
