You Must Set Forth at Dawn (58 page)

They could not very well take me into their station carrying a firearm, albeit a simple shotgun, so they let me into my house. I deposited the armory and feathered victims, showered, and changed my clothes. I followed them by car to their office, which was in fact in the same neighborhood—albeit tucked away—as my personal office in Lalubu. As I was not sure if I were heading straight for detention, I scribbled a note and left it with my house help: “If I am
not back by a certain time . . .”
It had become routine, even second nature, to many, and my house help knew where to deliver the note.

I entered to strained smiles. The director brought out a bulging file and extracted and pushed toward me the memo from Aso Rock. His office had gone to incredible lengths to track me down—in Lagos, Ibadan, Abeokuta. . . . His voice was tinged with irrational rebuke: But where were you, Prof? I waited until he had rid himself of the umbrage from high up into which I had plunged his office by my elusiveness—of which I knew nothing! At the time, I had not begun any attempt at subterfuge. The trouble was that I was in perpetual motion, since we were mobilizing at all hours of the day and night. Methodically, he reviewed my recent activities, imploring me to understand that the government was not trying to curtail my freedom of expression or right to legitimate activities. Then he moved straight to the point: “Professor Soyinka, this million man march of yours, how do you propose to carry it out?”

“The details were spelled out at my press conference,” I pointed out.

“Well, you realize, I'm new on this case. I've just been transferred from Benin—you know, I was the one in charge of that armed robbery case, you know, the notorious Anini—that implicated one of our officers. I didn't really have much time left to follow much else of what was going on in the country.”

I obliged, first pointing out that the stated theme, “One Step for Freedom,” itself summarized the overall strategy. “Obviously, we are not going to march all the way to the capital, Abuja—if you take Lagos alone, we're speaking of over eight hundred kilometers to the capital. Maiduguri, in the far North, is at least seven hundred. The idea is to create a relay of marchers. Some will accompany the main column no more than a few steps and return to their homes. Others will merely walk from one end of a city to another. The main column will take off from wherever they are based and proceed along designated routes. Their places will be taken by others while they are transported in vehicles to the next stage—you may call it a massed exercise in leapfrogging. Of course, those who are capable of it are free to walk all the way. But the climax will be the convergence at the outskirts of Abuja, when we'll march en masse on Aso Rock.”

The man had begun to shake his head. “Professor Soyinka, do you think you can achieve all this?”

“Why not? It's all being very carefully coordinated. Schools, mosques and churches, private clinics, market women, students, factory workers, and so on, they're all going to be involved. Several schools have already offered their premises as stops on the way. Give or take a day or two, we'll all be in Abuja in a week.”

“But this is a massive undertaking!”

I agreed with him, pointing out, however, that the people were more than willing.

“Professor Soyinka, let me be candid with you: only one organization has the capability and the resources to mount a vast operation like the one you're telling me about, and that's the military. I want you to understand that this is the thinking in Aso Rock, and frankly, I agree with them.”

“You couldn't be more wrong. And we're going to prove you all wrong.”

“Oh, I don't think so, sir. I think that, surely, you will not be allowed to prove anything.”

“Why? If the government thinks the march will fail, then what is it worrying about? All you have to do is watch us fall flat on our faces.”

“Ah, but Prof, that's the point. The government thinks that you can succeed.”

I expressed puzzlement. “You're contradicting yourself.”

“No—you, you, sir, you, Professor Soyinka. The government is convinced that if there is anyone in the country who can pull it off, it's you.”

I confessed to being flattered but assured him that there were thousands of others with even better organizational skills and resources: the trade unions, farmers and market women's organizations, student movements...

“But the international connections, Professor! Your ‘shopping list'! All those items which you solicited at your press conference: camp beds, sleeping bags, first-aid kits, iron rations, banners, boots and backpacks, a hundred thousand balloons—even walkie-talkies! And of course you will need money. This kind of operation requires money. Taken together with all those costly items, it is certain that you are relying on outside sources.”

“Both inside and outside,” I conceded.

He pounced. “So you agree that foreign bodies are involved in this.”

I demurred. “Well, I don't know that we can call them ‘foreign bodies.' We have lots of Nigerians living outside who are just as determined to take the nation back to democracy.”

He sighed and brought out another folder, much slimmer. His demeanor turned primly official. “Sir, it is now my duty to pass on to you, formally, the message from the government. If you don't mind, I must ask my immediate assistants to be present. I am required to read you this message in the presence of witnesses, after which I shall report back to Aso Rock.”

He pressed the bell; two assistants entered and took their seats. It was clear that they had been awaiting the summons. He cleared his throat.

“I am about to pass on the message from Aso Rock,” he said, and his colleagues nodded. “ ‘Professor Soyinka, the government has been disturbed by the announcement of your intention to march on Aso Rock with over a million people. While it is not the intention of this regime to clamp down on anybody's freedom of movement, the government is of the opinion that this may lead to a serious breach of peace. Your group may encounter other groups who disagree with you and may try to stop you. This would lead to a breakdown of law and order. It is therefore the firm intention of the government—in fact, the government considers it its duty—to prevent your march at all costs. This government will act in the best interest of national security.' ”

The riot act had been read. He tucked the piece of paper back into its file, then extracted another and pushed it toward me. “And now, please, Mr. Soyinka, you have to write a statement.”

I was baffled. “A statement?”

“Yes. Those are my instructions. From headquarters.”

“A statement about what?”

“About everything that has taken place here. The . . . er . . . conversation I've had with you, the fact that I have read out this directive of government— everything, in fact, that has transpired here. I would strongly advise that you include a sentence stating that you have called off the march.”

“Oh no, I cannot do that.”

“Professor Soyinka, the government has decided that this march cannot take place.”

“Sure, I understand the position of the government. You've made that abundantly clear.”

“And the message says clearly that the government will do everything within its power to prevent your march.”

“That's plain enough, but I have no authority to call off the march. I have to consult with others.”

A pause. Clearly this was unexpected. Then: “How soon can we have a response?”

“As soon as possible.”

The director sighed. “Professor, I wish you could find your way to calling off that march.”

“I've told you, a decision cannot be made by me alone. In any case, what's the hurry? The march is still months away. We are only at the beginning of organizing.”

“Well, I'm afraid you will have to put that also in your statement. You have to say something in reference to the government position that I have just read to you. Those are my instructions. Please . . .” And he pushed the statement form to me again and offered me a pen.

I offered him a compromise. I was tired, I sighed, and in any case, I would rather type out a statement at home. I needed time to digest everything he had said, reflect on it, and provide a well-thought-out response.

“My officer can follow you home and bring it back?”

“What of tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow? I have to report back to headquarters.”

“Maybe by tomorrow I will have succeeded in contacting some of my colleagues. You do want an early response, you said. So? Why don't we simply make it one statement instead of two or three? If I gave you an answer tomorrow and the others rejected it...”

He pounced eagerly on this. “All right. Tomorrow morning, then. In the meantime, I shall send a message to reassure them at headquarters that we found you at last and that we've had an amicable meeting. But please sign here, on the government's letter, that you've seen this. That way I can send a signal right away that we've had a frank and amicable meeting.”

“Yes, you may do that. It has been an amicable meeting.” I signed the document.

I was amicably accompanied to my car. We agreed on noon the following day for collection of the “statement,” to allow more time for contacts to be made. I returned home and typed out a brief statement acknowledging that we had had a frank but cordial meeting, that the message of the government had been conveyed to me, and that I would make a due response after consultations with my colleagues.

Noon the following day, and the assigned officer was at my house to collect the statement. He read it, chuckled, shook his head, and proceeded to place it in the folder he had brought with him. I asked him what he found so funny.

“Prof, there is nothing here to indicate that you're calling off the march.”

“No. I've tried all morning and I still haven't reached any of my collaborators.”

“Prof, there is no phone in this house. And you haven't left the house all day.”

“How do you know? Do you know this neighborhood better than I?”

The smile never left his face even as he cast a casual look around him, ensuring that there was no one within earshot. “Prof, you don't know me. You saw me for the first time yesterday, but please believe what I am about to tell you and take my advice.”

“Yes?”

“Don't go on that march.”

“I've told your boss, it's not my decision alone.”

“Don't go on that march, Prof. And leave the country. Please, sir, as soon as possible. And don't even tell anyone before you leave.”

A few nights later, other pursuers would catch up with me, expressing agreement with the man from State Annexe—but the motivations could not be more different. Among them, the most passionate was the old man Pa Ajasin, a constant in the democratic struggle, now in his eighties, one of the recipients of the brutality of another dictator, General Buhari. He had sent more than a dozen emissaries to track me down, but it was Olu Agunloye who knew where to find me to deliver the same message, the same passionate plea:
Do not go on
that march. Do not take anyone on any march. Abacha will mow them down in
their thousands without losing a wink of sleep
—
remember June.

FROM DANGER TO SAFETY, the river crossing had taken less than ten minutes. In real time, however, it had lasted days, weeks, even months. Half a dozen times at least, I had prepared to leave the country, only to draw back at the last moment. Hours before dawn, I pulled on my boots and sat on the doorstep, ready to take off as if on a routine hunt, knowing, however, that this step would end only when I had crossed the national border. The sun rose and I withdrew into the house, exchanged the shotgun for my laptop, and sat down to work. Within Abacha's camp, our sympathizers came close to despair. A fishing boat had been readied in Lagos, stood up, and summoned again, earning me the imprecations of its owner, Chief B.A., a normally cautious businessman, who threatened to personally hand me over to Abacha if I ever commandeered his craft again and failed to board it. A colleague accused me of seeking martyrdom. Others wavered, uncertain of the hazards—and outcome—of any choice. A handful felt that it might be a good thing for the cause—
if that madman
made the mistake of arresting you!
Oh yes, they argued, then the world would have to ask what was the fate of lesser beings, and Abacha would learn just what it meant to fly that far in the face of international censure. Even in Oyo town, halfway to the border, my friend Francis Oladele, a pioneer of the Nigerian film industry, urged me to remain—Abacha would not dare, he insisted. Deep within the cells of my marrow, I already knew better. I tried to make light of the dilemma, justified another day's delay by going for a final hunt. We would read the entrails of any bird or mammal that fell, I proposed, then make a decision. No one laughed.