You Must Set Forth at Dawn (75 page)

The moment I arrived at the airport, with virtually no luggage, and presented my passport at Immigration, I knew that I was not going to leave the country. The pit of my stomach also informed me, very clearly, that I had taken a nearly unpardonable risk in coming to the airport at all. After a while, you simply
know.
It is inexplicable. A man is seated at the desk. He takes your passport. He is the Immigration officer. Standing over him is a man in mufti, a superfluous presence in that booth, except of course that he is there to scrutinize passengers, even those whose names have not shown up in the computer that is located, and slyly consulted, beneath the desk. The Immigration officers and the SSS agents are clearly not on the best of terms. The latter are usually arrogant, filled with an inordinate sense of power. They consider not just Immigration officers but all other officials—and passengers, including visitors— inferior beings. Yet—thank goodness—there are exceptions to be found among them!

It is only natural that a bond should exist among “inferior” beings, a silent but palpable hostility toward overweening superbeings. It has to be this current of sympathy that transmits itself to the potential victim, and the greater the danger, the stronger the current. It is not so much that they speak directly to you, it is a language in their body, eloquent, effortlessly communicated to others with whom they share the bond of this imposed “inferior” status. Since they know what is happening or what is about to happen, they emit a silent wave of despair or anguish, a deep resentment, and a sense of impotence. It flashes past you, and your antenna picks it up—I think that is all there is to it. And so, when you arrive at the Immigration counter and hand over your passport, there is a way in which the officer does
not
look at you that is beyond verbal expression. You sigh inwardly—Uh-oh, here we go again! Then follows the immediate question: Where, in the course of this night, shall it all end?

The SSS agent, of course, stands there as if indifferent to your presence. He is just passing the time of day, has no interest whatever in the immigration process. He does not care that the Immigration officer and you are engaged in a defining moment:
Sorry, Mr. Soyinka, I'm afraid you cannot travel.
Oh, really? And why not?
I have no idea, sir, but you cannot travel.
In that case, can I have my passport back? The SSS man is obviously bored by this uninteresting exchange, he knows it all beforehand and he knows how it will end, so he steps backward, maybe to see something more worthy of his attention at the Customs or security check, which is just behind the line of Immigration booths, or else to pick his nose more comfortably. As for you, you have to make a clear statement, so you insist on having the passport back, but the response is just as clear as it is expected:
I have instructions to detain your passport.
Detain my passport? Do you see what passport that is? That is a United Nations passport. It is not the property of the Nigerian government, so you have no right to it!
I'm sorry, sir, I have instructions to detain it.
Of course I demand it back once more, just for the record: I don't think you understand—that passport is property of the United Nations, not of the Nigerian government. I want it back! Well, sir, all I can do is give you the address where you can go and claim it. When?
Tomorrow morning, if you like!
In that case, I want a receipt for it!
I'm just
preparing it, sir. The address is on the receipt—that's where you go to reclaim the
passport. I suggest you telephone in advance to make an appointment—this is the
telephone number.

Work at the other booths has slowed virtually to a stop. The officers are still flicking through the pages of passports, looking over immigration forms and stamping them, but their minds are elsewhere, their minds are within this one booth, and their motions have become heavy with apprehension. It weighs on the air and percolates through to you. The SSS man has become less and less interested in what is going on, his covert eyes having taken in what is on the form to ensure that no secret information is being passed from one lesser being to another. Now he is merely sightseeing, taking the air, and refuses to have his equanimity disturbed by any unseemly row. Yet even if he had retained his earlier attentive position, virtually looking over the shoulder of the Immigration officer, he would have missed the tense whisper that issued from the closed lips of the latter: Please, Mr. Soyinka, go now. Please go. Leave the airport.

That Immigration officer does not look up, not even with the sparest of glances. He busies himself pushing my passport into an envelope, then into a drawer, pulling up a file or whatever. And then once more:
Go now, please!

Hardly the time to compliment him on his impressive ventriloquial skill. I permit myself a departing tirade against fascism, the abuse of my human rights, the commencing rape of the nation, and so on, and so on. “You can tell Abacha I said that he thinks he owns this country, but he does not. And we'll reclaim it even if he fills all the airports with his goons and his mimic Gestapo....” Noises of support and sympathy reach me from the other travelers as I snatch my carry-on and move toward the exit with a set face. Anyone would think I was about to commence a one-man march right there and then go and yank Abacha off his seat! I rage past incoming travelers—Prof, what happened?
Have they stopped you again?
But I only increase my pace, snarling invectives as my eyes search for my escorts, whom I had warned not to leave the departure hall until the plane was actually airborne and friendly ground staff had assured them, as prearranged, that I was actually inside the plane.

AND NOW I AM BACK to these same stressful grounds, five years later, within the same airport, the circumstances much closer to those in 1986, when a reception committee awaited me after the announcement of the Nobel Prize for that year. But I feel far less harried than on that occasion, when I had not expected an exultant intervention of the Nigerian government—and a military dictatorship at that—in a foreign award, thinking, very foolishly in hindsight, that I was returning home to a haven of peace, away from the European journalists, who appeared bent on rending me limb by limb. The contrasting sense of peace on this occasion is further augmented by the flushed figure of the army commandant, who has just reentered the VIP lounge, sweating, hot, and bothered.

“Professor, the crowd is becoming impossible to control!”

I find this puzzling. The airport had seemed quite empty to me. Arthur Nwankwo interjects, “There is quite a crowd outside. We could enter only because we had passes.”

I ask him, “When are the others coming?”

“Any moment now,” Arthur replies. “The plane arrived early....”

“I know, I know!” the commandant wails. “It overflew Lomé. But what do I do about the crowd?”

I make a proposal: “Do you think I should go and show my face?”

“I don't know, I don't know. If anything goes wrong... I'm worried. But they say we must wait for the rest of the delegation before escorting you out.”

Before we can assess the situation any further, a breathless inspector of police—or some officer of such ranking—rushes in and informs the commandant that the situation is getting out of hand. The crowd is threatening to break through the security cordon.

“You see what I mean? Oh God, I just want this night to be over so I can go home to my family and sleep.” And he rushes out with the inspector.

Ten minutes later he is back, and this time his immaculately pressed uniform is rumpled, his cap askew, and his swagger stick flailing wildly.

“Professor, we have to do something about the situation. They think we're holding you here against your will, and they're threatening to break down the barriers and force their way in. The security forces are going to be overwhelmed any moment.”

“In that case...”

“There is one man in particular. Most uncooperative. I warned him I would arrest him, and he dared me to go ahead. He wanted to come in and I said no, he had no permit. We have strict instructions that only those with passes can come in. We are in charge of your safety, and we can't afford to take any chances.”

“Who is the man?”

“I don't know him. The man sounds quite educated, so I was very disappointed. I expected someone like him to understand the situation but he's the worst, the very worst of them. Very bad-tempered. They all call him ‘Doctor'...”

“Doctor?” That wouldn't be Agunloye, who was already inside. “Is the man short, tall, thin, fat, or what?”

“Stocky. Dark complexion. He's throwing his weight all over the place, inciting the crowd.”

I laugh. “I think I know who that is. My advice is, let him in.”

“But the crowd will just follow him in.”

“No, you let just him through. Announce that he's coming in to see things for himself. Once he comes in and sees I'm all right, he will go back and calm down the others.”

The commandant only looks more confused and uncertain. “I don't know, Professor....”

Suddenly it becomes clear that he simply does not wish to face the crowd another second without me, so I get up. “Let's go. It's too bad about the rest of the welcoming delegation, but I'd better go and show my face.”

The relief on the commandant's face confirms my suspicion. “Thank you, Professor, thank you. I think that's the best thing to do right now. Let's go, sir.”

We have barely reached the hall containing the duty-free shops when we encounter “Dr. Troublemaker” himself in golfing shorts, a “Welcome Home” T-shirt, and a “Welcome Kongi” cap, accompanied by some half-dozen others, all of whom were sensibly let in by the next in command after the harried departure of the commandant. They had been mandated to go and investigate what was happening and report back to the crowd. The commandant points a shaking swagger stick at Yemi Ogunbiyi.

“That's the man! He's got in! You see what I mean? He has forced his way in!”

“Look at this
yeye
man,” Ogunbiyi retorted. “You've been creating unnecessary tension for the crowd.”

The rest is lost as the cause of all the commotion is himself smothered in hugs. The next moment both the troublemaker and the commandant are engaged in friendly insults as we double-quick march our way through the corridors. I am escorted through the departure, not the arrival, section, so we march through the line of security and scanning equipment and approach the Immigration kiosks, where the officer warned me off five years before with his ventriloquist performance. A blur of salutes, beaming faces, and shy “Welcomes” from passing airport staff, very restrained, as if yet under watchful eyes. Still I feel no particular excitement. Now we are right at the infamous line at which so many Nigerians lose their passports, vanish into interrogation rooms, and from there are rendered invisible for long spells. Officers leap to attention, salute follows salute. It is all a very correct welcome, nearly emotionless, as if they are adhering to some strict textbook of protocols. But I
know
them. These are longtime conspirators in furtive transmissions, and I know what is really going on inside their minds, so, after passing through, I stop, turn around slowly, and, summoning a deadpan face, I demand, “Which of you last seized my passport?”

A moment of double-take, and the tension is dissolved. Now their laughter roars out loud, their uniforms vanish, and their stiffened bodies explode in a gamut of emotions. In turn, I distinctly feel myself thawing—not much, but definitely responding to the human warmth.

Outside, twilight has descended. The vast departure hall is virtually empty. It strikes me yet again as strange—there were no passengers milling around on the departure side of Immigration, in the lounges, or around the duty-free shops, and now, none at the entrance to Immigration—and this at about six in the evening. I find it extraordinary that the airport should be so free of teeming humanity at this hour. To complete the unusual feeling of a deserted hub, hardly any of the varied uniforms of airline staff are visible—none since the occasional stragglers we met on our way from the VIP lounge.

And then something makes me turn around, and—there they all are, choking the long balcony that runs above the departure hall where they must have been herded, just to empty the floor. Whose idea of security was this, in heaven's name! I wave, and that is when the gods of vocal decibels turn loose. The pent-up torrents of “Welcome” cascade in my direction, and at that very moment a wave of humanity, from the opposite side, comes crashing through the shut gates of the main entrance, and then it becomes a matter of struggling to keep my feet on the ground or be crushed. The Pyrates—that fraternity of unending controversy—are on hand and form a protective phalanx to clear a path to the waiting vehicles. Their tactics are not working quite as well as they might and threaten to create further tension. Bola Ige, friend and political ally since student days, has joined up, and together we succeed in shouting instructions over the crowd noise. The Pyrates change tactics, and we move more easily through the crowd, but the arms that reach out for a handshake, a grab, even a touch are like a forest of bamboos, slashing and whipping. A fear that my arm might be torn out of its socket—
Haven't I been here before?
—is soon submerged under the greater fear that some of the crowd might get knocked down and be trampled upon. The scene seems primed for inevitable disaster, and it is now only a question of what form of injuries many would sustain. Then again I find myself compelled to direct my concerns to myself—it has become obvious that it is this very idiot, fast losing his balance while worrying over others, who would prove the likeliest casualty. The loss of balance changes to a sensation of being choked, and I hear the police officer shouting in a panic, “They're going to kill him! They're going to kill him!”