You Must Set Forth at Dawn (49 page)

The Norwegian, or Swede, was interrogating the radio when a man walked into Bernard Pivot's program and handed him a piece of paper. Pivot excused himself, adjusted his glasses, and read it, then faced the discussion panel while the camera focused on him. “Breaking news,” as the Americans call it, and Pivot smoothed out his piece of paper and made his statement. The Swedish Academy had announced the winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature for 1986, and the winner was—the writer from Nigeria . . . and he managed to garble my name. Across the room, the Nordic journalist continued his frantic struggle with radio static.

I suppose it is time to attend—as honestly as one can—to some personal dissection. The first admission I must make, and truthfully, is that I did not sense any quickening of my pulse. Did I know this writer? I was not sure. Was I asking, Did I hear right? No, I did not ask such a silly question. My French was sufficiently competent, the man had referred to the Nobel Prize in Literature, and he had coupled my name with it. So there it was. The trouble was that the announcement had been made in the most ordinary fashion, quite routinely, so it did not really tie in with all the excitement with which I had been confronted from the moment I had stepped into my cousin's apartment, beginning with his long rigmarole. Nor was it linked to the Scandinavian gentleman still fiddling with the radio controls and wearing a lengthening frown on his face.

I continued to sip my coffee and watched him return to his chair, from which he proceeded to give his undivided attention to the Bernard Pivot program. It ended some twenty minutes later, and now the man really looked defeated, totally baffled.

“But that's the end of the program,” he announced piteously.

I nodded in agreement.

“But what happened? The official announcement should have been made. It was supposed to be on Pivot's program.”

“Do you mean, the Nobel Prize in Literature?”

Irritated, he snapped, “Of course. At eleven o'clock.”

I told him, matter-of-factly, “But it was announced.”

He looked thunderstruck, and I saw immediately what was going on in his mind: he had been chasing the wrong quarry. But I wasn't being mischievous in prolonging his agony. I think that, in taking my time, I was also passing the news to myself. I did not feel I owed the intruder any special treatment, so there was no reason why we should not both learn of it at the same time, my absorption rate having been slowed down, probably, by the transatlantic flight.

“Well, well, what . . . ? Who? Tell me.”

I shrugged, I think. “You were right. It was me.”

Now he really was staring wide-eyed. “You? But when? What happened?”

“You were fiddling with the radio. Someone walked up to Pivot and handed him a piece of paper. He looked at it, and he made the announcement.”

“It was you? Well? Well?” Now his voice was accusing. “But why didn't you call me? That's what I was waiting for.”

I was not sure how to answer him, how to explain it, so I simply reminded him, “You didn't ask me to.” I picked up the coffee cups and took them to the kitchen.

“But you are saying nothing,” the man protested, following me. “What are your reactions? What do you feel?”

Did he expect me to fall down in a faint? Or burst into a Yoruba ululation? I did not understand the man's question. Just what did he want? What was the idea behind coming to trap me in my cousin's apartment—so he could report on my reactions? It seemed to me that the world—or his section of the world—was quite mad. Immediately, of course, the phone had to ring, and it was Anne-Marie on the line. “You have to come here at once. You simply have to come. Nobody can move or get past the press corps. This place is a mad-house.”

“I did not invite them. Get whoever invited them to get rid of them.”

“You're not being reasonable. Please try and be reasonable. They know already you're in Paris. There is no way they'll leave here unless you come.”

“I am not coming,” I insisted, and I meant it. Suddenly, all I wanted was the accustomed peace and quiet of my cousin's apartment, or something better. My next course of action, I felt, what I really wanted for myself, was to throw out the journalist and resume my interrupted sleep. I shook my head ruefully as I rinsed the coffee cups, realizing it was too late for that prospect, what with the lethal stuff I had just swallowed.

“Well,” snapped Anne-Marie, “don't complain if they invade your hiding place.”

I hadn't thought of that, but Yemi evidently had, because a few moments later, he was charging into the apartment, ready to drag me to UNESCO, with the aid of the French gendarmes if necessary. I decided to go quietly. I saw the face of the journalist, intently reading my own, looking for what, exactly, I still had no idea. He followed us to UNESCO and disappeared among the crowd.

As Yemi drove toward the frontage of No. 1, rue Miollis, I regretted my decision. I suddenly realized that there was an option available, one that I should have taken, and that was—to head in the opposite direction, toward Charles de Gaulle airport, and disappear from sight. But then I would have needed the cooperation of my cousin. For what struck me was that there were no more microphones, no more cameras, no more tripods, flashbulbs, or notepads left anywhere in the world. All had been miraculously and aggressively assembled at No. 1, rue Miollis. I was attacked—there is no other way of describing it— by a bristling, rearing, snarling pack of hunting hounds straining at the leash, blotting out the world of reality. For the first time, I understood how the metaphor “newshound” came about. I tried to duck back into the car, but Yemi, abandoning all cousinly responsibilities, had pulled away, leaving me at the mercy of the rampaging horde. Questions ripped through the air like tracer bullets. I mumbled inaudibly, mostly to myself, asking where I had thought I was heading when I first set pen to paper, then found that someone had managed to take charge and was imposing some kind of order, so that I could at last make sense of a few questions and provide some coherent but uninspiring answers. I was then dragged through the melee and hustled into the office where the ITI executive meeting had assembled. A bottle of champagne appeared miraculously, and now I was feeling safe among my ITI colleagues; never before had I appreciated what a lovable, harmonious family this was, until I had run the gauntlet of the press.

The press would not leave so soon, and we decided to adjourn an impossible meeting. Already I had made up my mind: I would have to escape from UNESCO, then flee Paris on the next available flight, whenever that was. I never wanted to see a news camera, flashbulb, or microphone again for as long as I lived. All I could think of was the 2.6 hectares of bushland that I had acquired and on which I had already laid the foundations of a modest cottage. The vista that opened up before my eyes was W.S. thrashing through the dense forest to that patch of absolute tranquillity, forsaking the world forever. I had not taken the full measure of what I had gotten myself into, but if it was anything like what confronted me at the UNESCO Annex, beginning with what should have been a routine arrival in my cousin's apartment, I wanted no part of it. “Abeokuta, here I come” was all I could think as I gulped down the champagne, looked around the conference room at the faces of my colleagues, and apologized silently for the abandonment that was coming to them, if only they knew it. I had made up my mind to retire from the world, simply—disappear!

Thorns in the Crown

AND THEN CALAMITY STRUCK, AND FROM A TOTALLY UNEXPECTED DIRECTION. I arrived in Nigeria on October 14, to what came close to being a national mood of euphoria, formally abetted by the wily IBB, who sent his minister of culture, Tony Momoh, to spring an ambush as I arrived at the airport. Accompanied by carefully selected colleagues, among them J. P. Clark, Tony Momoh brought with him a letter that conferred me with national honors. It was a carefully executed fait accompli, but one that was not especially difficult for me to accommodate. By October 1986, Babangida had been in office for two years, and at that time—a fact that many Nigerians find most convenient to forget— could lay claim to the approval of much of the nation, in whose mind the terror reign of Buhari and Idiagbon was still fresh.

That Nobel-induced festive mood came to an abrupt—and bloody—ending. It had not lasted even a week when the nation was plunged into mourning, relieved only by a surge of outrage. An unprecedented event had taken place in Nigeria: assassination by a letter bomb. The victim was an investigative journalist whose biting columns had disturbed the peace of many complacent crooks in government.

Dele Giwa was breakfasting in his study with a London-based colleague, Kayode Soyinka—no relation—when he opened a parcel that had just been delivered to him by a motorcycle courier. He took the full brunt of the explosion on his lap. His guest was blown across the room, with permanent damage to his eardrums. Nothing remained of Dele's thighs and legs but pulp.

Only a few weeks before, Dele Giwa, a copublisher and editor of
Newswatch,
Nigeria's earliest version of newsmagazines in the format of
Time
and
Newsweek,
had been summoned by Babangida's head of national security, Colonel Halilu Akilu, where he had undergone an encounter that had shaken him to his heels. He later confided in his solicitor, Gani Fawehinmi, that he feared for his life, and additionally he raised a public outcry. Dele Giwa claimed that Akilu had accused him of gunrunning, or of possessing knowledge of gun-runners and dissident groups who wanted to overthrow or destabilize Babangida's government. The charges were so preposterous that Dele Giwa had only one conjecture: this was a red herring, designed to prepare the ground for his already decided elimination.

A few days after his public outcry, Halilu Akilu telephoned to assure him that all was well, that the charges had been thoroughly investigated and there was nothing to worry about. To reassure him even further, Akilu informed Dele that President Babangida wished to speak to him to allay his fears. Later still, the security chief again telephoned Dele Giwa to ask him for directions to his house, informing him that Babangida wished to send him some documents. This was the background to the well-publicized remark that Dele Giwa made on receiving the package. As he proceeded to open it, he observed to his guest, Kayode Soyinka, “This must be from the president.”

Immediately after, the murderous explosion.

I saw Dele Giwa on the very night of my arrival in Lagos. After the impromptu official reception at the airport, I fled to the home of my junior sister Yeside, in Suru-lere, a partially developed part of the suburb and thus reasonably quiet, where I had decided to spend the night. Fooled again! A handful of friends knew that I sometimes stayed with her and were lying in wait: Deji Akintilo, the budding entrepreneur; Yemi Ogunbiyi, an editor at
The Guardian;
Vera Ifudu, the broadcaster; Sunmi Smart-Cole, the photographer; and a handful of others. The determined celebrants were committed to making an evening, even a night of it. Vera Ifudu and Deji Akintilo lived only a few blocks from Yeside's, and, after a brief tussle, we moved to Ifudu's place.

It was about an hour before midnight when Dele arrived, casual but rumpled in a loose shirt and equally loose Bermuda shorts, looking like an American on vacation. In his hand was a bottle of his favorite XO cognac. He had already gone to bed when someone—Yemi Ogunbiyi, undoubtedly—had called and broken the news to him, informing him also that an impromptu party had commenced at Vera Ifudu's. Dele had promptly shaken himself out of bed, grabbed a bottle he had earmarked for some other event, and driven to join the group. He left, like most of the others, in the early hours of the morning, by which time I had long since retired.

Dawn found me on my way to Abeokuta, the only place from which I could mount effective defenses against any further encroachment. I needed time to sort out my thoughts, the enormity of the award having finally begun to percolate through to my mind. The media assault in Paris had merely impressed on me the monstrosity of the event; it was the palpable fervor with which my own nation had embraced the award that finally imbued it with exceptional value. I could not believe that even total strangers whom I had encountered as I left the airport, and since, had taken it so
personally,
that they saw in the award something that was individually and collectively theirs. It was not possible to underestimate the sense of triumph, of vindication, that rode on their responses— a disposition, if they could, to slaughter all the goats, cows, and chickens and milk all the palm trees within reach, in celebration. I realized now that I had to do some stock taking, and start studying how to cope with this avalanche of attention.

It was in Abeokuta that the news about Dele slammed into my mundane planning through the telephone. Given the background to the murder, one thought flashed instantly through my mind—the national award! I could not accept anything at the hands of the government. Not unless it could demonstrate, quite openly, that its hands were clean of the murder.

The following day, I called my friend Oje Aboyade, Babangida's right-hand man. Your boss's hands are covered in blood, I told him. I cannot accept any honors from those hands. Neither will I accept any government representation at the Stockholm ceremony. The appointment agreed upon earlier with Aboyade over the telephone—to meet the dictator and discuss the modalities for a special ceremony for the national award—should be regarded as canceled.

Aboyade fell in with my position. We agreed to meet a few days later to discuss it, perhaps to agree on the wording of my letter of rejection, about which Oje was apprehensive—quite unnecessarily, in fact. Sending out a downright accusing or abrasive letter without any hard basis in fact, despite plausible deductions, was not an option.

First, a visit to the bereaved family, then prolonged discussions with his immediate associates, friends, and other journalists and a calm review of details of the events that preceded and surrounded the murder, and I felt ready to embark on my own plans for looking into the case. At the heart of those, as usual, was the Pyrates Confraternity, with its information network. We were, still are,
everywhere
—within the army, the police, Customs, the SSS, the media, and so on. Every member was a schoolmate of, married or related to, or professionally or otherwise connected with some listening source. I was not particularly close to the murdered man but, like many, had long admired his investigative verve and identified with his political attitudes, which were progressive and fearless.

Some, it was true, and in quite respectable quarters, considered his relationship with the government rather ambiguous—for no discernible reason. Some of his own close associates, even within
Newswatch,
were not long in beginning to rationalize his murder. One, and a close friend of his to boot, accused him of having been caught in a web of his own spinning, trapped in some power play in Babangida's court. There were even insinuations, including from his own colleagues in the media, that Dele had been silenced because he had uncovered some hard facts about drug dealing in high places and had been blackmailing the racketeers. Nigeria, alas, is the original rumor mill of the world, and the more untoward the event, the more creative and bizarre are the theories and concoctions that are bruited about as fact! Rumors, however, can provide useful leads, though not in the direction that the rumor purveyors intend, and this was where a loose network of information gatherers could best pursue the most disconnected clues. Nothing justified such a callous murder, nor the manner of his death, which could have equally eliminated any in his household: wife, children, relatives, visitors. At my urging, the Pyrates Confraternity posted a financial reward in the media—in hard currency—for any useful information.

Now I could concentrate on the president of the nation, who had been mentioned by the slain man as the supposed author of the deadly parcel. After hours of debate among Oje Aboyade, Yemi Ogunbiyi, and myself, we agreed that I would go ahead and keep the appointment as if nothing had happened to affect the agenda. It would then be my turn to spring an ambush—because Oje gave his word not to warn Babangida in advance that I now had negative thoughts about the national conferment. I would simply arrive with a formal letter, then set out my conditions for reinstating the honors.

“You can say what you like to him,” Oje reiterated. “I'll back you up. The nation needs to get to the bottom of the crime, and if I find the situation untenable, I shall also hand in my resignation.”

We met in IBB's office, the dictator all set to finalize the details of the participation of the Nigerian government in the Swedish event. Oje also came along, as did Yemi Ogunbiyi. No sooner were the courtesies over and we were seated in front of the vast presidential desk than he brought out a slim file from a drawer and carefully opened it, began to turn over some papers. It was Oje who stopped him.

“Mr. President, I think we've run into a snag. Maybe it would be better if you heard it directly from the horse's mouth.”

Still unsuspecting, Babangida turned to me. “Oh, Professor, I am sure we can sort out whatever difficulties there are. Is the Stockholm date clashing with ours?”

I studied him very carefully, eyes glued to every gesture and motion of his hands and face. This was perhaps the most absurd test I have ever set myself: attempting to decide, within those first seconds, whether I was seated before an unconscionable killer or simply an innocent drawn into some fatal survival struggle that had been engineered by his subordinates. This was a soldier to whom killing was no stranger, a schemer who had had a hand in several coups d'état. I knew all about the rumors that surrounded him. Even his coup against Muhammadu Buhari has been strongly rumored to have been a preemptive coup for his own survival in the military, based on the assumption that Buhari was about to move against him and push him out of the army.

Among the rumors that were floating around the murder mystery was that the dead man had been investigating the mysterious death of one Gloria Okon, caught red-handed with hard drugs and said to be a “mule” of one of Ibrahim Babangida's close relatives. Had her death under arrest and hospitalization been “natural”? Was she dead at all? Had she been spirited abroad, another corpse interred, and a coroner's report fabricated? Dele Giwa was credited with having penetrated the seamy intrigues and then become ensnared within them—the Nigerian rumor mill is fecund, each story spun for a purpose that might divert attention away from, neutralize, or anticipate the rumors of others.

“Yes, Professor? Is there anything we can do from here to sort out the problem?”

I kept my eyes on him, my voice dispassionate (I hoped) as I said, “I'm afraid things have gone beyond any solution. Dele Giwa's death has put a stop to everything. I cannot see myself accepting these national honors. In fact, I don't think I can accept government participation in the Stockholm event. I would prefer that the government stayed out of it entirely.”

A chill descended on the room, and a silence that held for ages. I only felt, not recognized, the presence of the other two. At that moment, it seemed that Babangida and I were the only beings in the soundproofed chamber. What I read in Babangida's face went beyond ceremonies and national honors. It was this: the dictator felt that he was about to be confronted with a new enemy where he had been led to believe that he might cultivate a potential ally. His initial expansive, amiable confidence had vanished. So be it, I thought to myself. I watched him slowly close the file, then slide it, almost imperceptibly, into the drawer. Then he asked, “Do you believe I, or the government, had a hand in Dele's death?”

“I have no idea. But I am amazed that up till now, your government has failed to set up a judicial inquiry into the bizarre murder.”

Slowly, he slid shut the drawer, taking time to regain his composure. “Professor, I give you my word of honor,” he began, very calmly, “I have never indulged in or encouraged any act of murder in my entire career. I am a soldier, and I've taken part in coups, but I do not plan murders. If I decided that Dele Giwa needed to be eliminated, I would put on my uniform, put a gun in my holster, drive up to his house, enter, and shoot him. But I would not for one moment engage in a sneak killing. I give you my word.”