You Must Set Forth at Dawn

by Wole Soyinka

  Ola was close to Ikorodu town, on the “old Ikorodu road” as it became later known, after the dual carriageway that now links Ibadan to Lagos was built. There was the usual succession of roadblocks, the personnel at each hardly knowing or caring what the dictator of the last—sometimes within sight of each other—had done. Ola Rotimi, a short man with broad shoulders and a boulder of a head, was a lecturer and dramatist at the University of Ife. He had his family with him, his foreign wife and children. Sometimes when the line of vehicles was long—which was often—the soldiers would go up and down the line, scrutinizing the passengers, pounce on a random choice, and wave the others on. This was what happened to Ola. A soldier came alongside and looked into the car—it was a station wagon without a closed luggage section— asked to see his papers, and then waved him on. Ola pulled out of the line, like others who had been similarly cleared, and moved. Suddenly a soldier stepped out from the head of the queue, stopped him, and ordered him to pull over. Ola Rotimi obeyed.

  “Come outside!” he ordered.

  Again, Ola did not argue.

  “Everybody, come out. Yes, all of you, come out!”

  Ola opened the door of the car and helped his family out.

  “Stand there. Stand over there.”

  Ola began to protest. “But what’s the matter?”

  “Shut up! You no know wetin you do?32 You jump queue.” Ola Rotimi began to explain that he had been cleared to move, but the soldier again shut him up. “You jump queue, you tink say I no see you? You tink you be big man so you no fit wait like everybody?”

  Ola pointed in the direction he had just come from. “Your companion over there passed us. You can ask him, he’ll tell you.”

  The man snarled. “Oh, you telling me what to do? You still dey talk grammar? I show you pepper today. Come on, turn your back.”

  “What?”

  “I say turn your back!” The soldier had slung his gun over one shoulder, and Ola now saw that he had replaced it with a horsewhip. “You getting twelve lashes to teach you lesson—turn your back.”

  For what must have seemed an eternity, said Ola Rotimi, he merely stared at him, unable to believe his ears. Another soldier had moved up, with his gun pointing at the trapped man. The first one screamed at him again, unslinging his gun, “You deaf or what? If I count three and you no yet turn your back, I fire you on the spot!” And Ola both heard and saw him remove the safety catch on his gun.

  “One! ...”

  In between “One” and “Two,” Ola Rotimi told me, he reviewed his life in a flash. His intense eyes must have enveloped his wife, his three children, through his thick-rimmed glasses, aimed another look at the unprepossessing figure towering over Ola’s five-foot-three frame and now virtually frothing at the mouth with insane rage. In that brief moment, his entire world was wrapped up in one thought: Am I about to make my wife a widow and these ones fatherless?

  “Two!...”

  Again a flash of his lifeless body on the road, his wife and children kneeling and wailing but helpless beside it. He presented his back to the soldier.

  “Put your both hands on the car!”

  Ola obeyed. As the lash tore into his back again and again, Ola, who was anything but pro-Biafran, swore that his wish at that moment was that a rogue Biafran plane would penetrate through to Lagos and unleash a barrage of bombs on the very spot where he stood, pulverizing everyone, including himself, equalizing torturer and victim with its deadly weaponry of arbitrary terror.

  For a long time after Ola had poured out his bitter heart to me, I continued to sweat out that lethal question: What would I have done?

  SUCH DEHUMANIZATION OF the populace did not take place only at checkpoints that were formally manned, but these were the most public places, and their audiences were guaranteed to cover the entire gamut of civil life. Day by day civil society endured, witnessed, and passed on the message. The uncertainty with which a traveler set out in the morning, deprived of the authority of office and security of the home, was a constant, debilitating companion. It preyed on innocence itself, instilling an irrational fear because of the irrationality of the lords of existence to whom an unintended slur, a gesture adjudged to be lacking in the respect that was due to the wielders of guns and horsewhips, could result in instant, public humiliation or worse. The most favored school of domination by the occupying force was thus the public arena, or the nearest to it, sometimes improvised or converted, as might be a private occasion such as a wedding, a child-naming ceremony, or a funeral. It might be one of those ostentatious parties—the ubiquitous owambe parties—that routinely spilled over into streets sealed off to traffic to accommodate the over-affluent of civil society or relatives and cronies of the military. There, any act deemed lèse-majesté would result in the open “drilling” of the offender or his kidnapping on orders from the unofficial chairman of the occasion, bloated already by commandeered authority, doubly bloated by ample food, XO cognac, Veuve Clicquot champagne—nothing less would do for khaki—and triply bloated by the obsequious attention of his hosts. And if the erratic Electricity Power Authority chose that moment to inflict a routine blackout on the arena of pleasure, what better sport than to send a military jeep for the local station manager, haul him out of bed, and order him to shed power from other sources and restore electricity to the hallowed spot! Then, to impress on the locals the lesson that such acts of gross disrespect would never be tolerated, he would order his underlings to strip him half naked and frog-march him around the dance arena, then send him to the guardroom, where his head would be shaved with a piece of broken bottle, his body lashed with the infamous twisted cable and subjected to further indignities for days, until friends, relations, local and distant dignitaries of the town came to plead for mercy: “Sorry, Suh, the slight was unintended, he didn’t know that your Excellency would be attending the party, or he would have suspended the power-shedding schedule until the party was over.” And no question about it, civil society constantly collaborated in its own humiliation. A private quarrel was no longer arbitrated by any of the traditional routes of community intervention or even by the local courts. It sufficed that one knew someone in uniform, however low in rank. Come Judgment Day, the man of khaki connection would descend on the offending party with a bunch of his pals. They would smash their way into the household, slapping, kicking, vandalizing, and often making off with the miscreant—or hostage—until the terms of settlement, as dictated by the complainant, were accepted by the accused.

  And it spread and spread, and the culture was imbibed by a prostrate society, one governor and petty administrator striving to outdo the next in sadism. From major and petty contractors to teachers and students, to all seekers after essential documents—title deeds, certificates of occupancy, certified true copies of this and that—to unpaid pensioners, to hoteliers, to local government councillors, and more, more, and more, sooner or later members of all strata of society found themselves knocking at the door of some government office, usually located at the secretariat. Thus the secretariats were guaranteed regular captive spectators as these were turned into stadia of blood sports masquerading as “discipline.” And of course, to ensure that the lessons there were driven home, literally, state television and other media would be summoned in advance to capture and disseminate the images—the spruced-up, ticktock, no-nonsense administrator, enforcing public discipline in set-up scenarios.

  A BRIGADIER, CAPTAIN, OR colonel administrator arrives at his office five minutes before the official opening hour. On the dot of half past seven, he orders the gates to the secretariat closed while his soldiers take up positions by the main gate and seal off all other entry points. Then any worker arriving late, no matter his or her rank, age, or physical condition, is made to do the “frog hop.” A frog hop? Literally to hop or jump like a frog! The culprit attaches his fingers to his ears, lowers himself on his haunches, and hops in one spot, circles a tree or parked vehicles, or goes up and down the road. Laggards are assi
sted to improve their performance with the application of the koboko, the infamous rawhide whip, across their backs or knees. The real horror, however, is not this act of public torture but the ingratiating “Uncle Tom” smile on the faces of some of the victims. It is as if, knowing there is no other purpose to this spectacle, no other intent than to destroy their dignity, they try to draw the sting from their abasement and pass it off as a joke. Don’t show resentment, pass it off as merely humoring the strange ways of this unwanted breed, and behold, the shame evaporates. It is all a staged performance in which symbolic roles have been assigned—and without prejudice.

  Ogun be praised, there were always a few who hissed their contempt at their would-be disciplinarians, turned their backs on the scene, got into their cars or simply walked away, and went home to write their resignation letters. Some got away with it; others were forcefully compelled to comply or else were arrested and taken away, where they received an augmented dose in the military guardroom. A number of deaths occurred—from heart attack—from this unaccustomed exercise, but it made no difference. Dis’pline was dis’pline, and the civil servant was required to submit to its irrationalities. It did not matter in the least—to come down to administrative realities—that the nature of the employee’s duty sometimes required that he or she visit some other offices, do some rounds in a relevant professional constituency, resume the routine of inspection of some critical installations before resorting to his or her desk. No— such explanations were dismissed with full military aplomb. Be at your desk on the dot of 7:30 A.M. or else—prepare to be dis’plined.

  Humiliation filled the streets, the highways, in competition with violence. It entered the homes on camera cables and infested the media with tales of horror. Freedom had begun to compare most unfavorably with prison existence, yet the mood around me appeared to be one of celebration—of victory over a great evil called secession. I now began to feel like a stranger, though surrounded by familiar landmarks. It was rather like going to sleep in a familiar room, yet waking up each morning in the wrong neighborhood, a feeling that was undoubtedly aggravated by recollection of those months in solitary, difficult as they sometimes proved, in which one constituted the entirety of his world, undisturbed. Resumption of my friendship with Femi provided some solace, but nothing really helped to resolve the question that obsessed me: What would I have done in Ola’s place? That is, what would I have done in place of the many Ola I knew, some of them old enough to be the grandfathers and grandmothers of the agents of their humiliation? The only certitude in my mind was a negative one—I had not thought that the prison regimen could ever lay claim to leaving the inmate with more dignity than victims of the dis’pline in which civil society daily acquiesced.

  MY SENSE OF ESTRANGEMENT was compounded by the lingering effects of a loss that had taken place in my absence: that of my private den. All animals need a hole into which they can crawl from time to time. With every passing day, I acknowledged that, while in prison, I had looked forward to retreating into mine once I was released. Indeed, solitary confinement appeared to have deepened what had once been mere habit into a visceral need.

  The den was gone. Its shell remained—a converted motor garage—but only as another space of estrangement. A visitation—or a series of visitations— had turned the den into just another warehouse. I had not thought that so much empathy could be lodged, over time, within a mere array of man-made objects, creating an aura of near inviolability. Without that den of escape, I turned increasingly irritable, impatient, and restless—even I could sense that, without the aid of surprised stares and protests. A physical distancing from an alienating environment was only a matter of time.

  I was discovering much about myself. I had thought that the state of imprisonment, where the environment is not of one’s choosing, would inoculate an inmate with resistant germs against any future sense of privation, make one indifferent to possessions. I gradually learned that the state of freedom also breeds desires and expectations, including the craving for an accustomed space, a sanctuary, a physical, palpable, intimate space, not unlike solitary confinement in a prison cell but, of course, of one’s own choice and designation. Already alienated from the public environment, I was now deprived of an intimacy that I had once relished, one within which I could take refuge from the outside world and also regain a sense of fluidity in the creative process.

  Perhaps if my marriage—briefly resuscitated by shared tribulations and the emotions of reunion—had held out, the throb of alienation would have been muted. However, the differences that had turned that marriage into a mere effort before my imprisonment resurfaced in no time at all, increasing a daily, prolonged craving for a handy escape, a familiar, welcoming lair. I still entered the converted garage from time to time, but it had lost its deep, self-absorbing aura.

  I threw myself into the filming of Kongi’s Harvest, under the direction of Ossie Davis, the black American actor, with the possessed cineaste Francis Oladele as the producer. Day after day, the designated lead, Gaius Anoka, expected from the Biafran territory, failed to turn up—we later found out that he had been denied a clean bill of health by the debriefing team of the victorious federal side and thus was not permitted to leave the subdued enclave. Ossie Davis filmed around and around his absence, but in the end there was not one scene left that could be shot without the figure of the dictator, Kongi.

  All eyes turned to me. Till then, I had contented myself with adjusting the script and tackling Ossie’s queries but mostly working with the music. Now— enter the star!—I stepped into the role of the dictator for one of my least memorable performances. Still, the frenzied and intense pace of that preoccupation helped. As I was on location most of the time, a shifting environment succeeded in blunting the need of the animal for his lair. In between shoots, however, on returning home, there was no congenial space into which I could withdraw. Not until I had lost this sanctuary did I discover how deeply dyed I was in that “deadly sin” from which I had so blithely excepted myself: attachment! It was a surprise—and something of a discomfiture—to find that I did own something that I deeply valued. It did not help matters that the blow that routed my assumptions had been struck from within my family.

  Ironically, the transgressor, my junior brother—who narrowly escaped decapitation or worse at my hands—would provide for me, as for both family and acquaintances, proof of the redemptive potential of any human being. Kayoos—his favorite nickname—became a born-again Christian. Yes, the real thing, I testify to that! As authentic a born-again Christian and evangelist as you would hope to meet on this side of sin. Kayoos was transformed into an actively caring asset to the whole family with all its extensions, and to friends. At the time, however...!

  As I emerged from prison and was reinstalled in my campus home, it was not difficult to observe that among the endless tumult—family, colleagues, friends, and even total strangers—who invaded the house, one face, with its wide, guileless smile and a booming baritone voice, was conspicuous by its absence. This absence was made all the more noticeable by the fact that the face had made a very brief early appearance on my arrival at Ibadan airport, when its owner had held me in a powerful and emotional embrace. And then it had disappeared altogether!

  That was strange. Kayoos’s natural place was at the heart of celebrations, and this was an occasion especially tailored to his expansive, adventurous, and outgoing nature. Kayoos was very affectionate. I knew that he had remained fond of me even when I had totally given up on him, having fully taken my turn at the rehabilitation roulette in which he engaged the rest of the family and gotten thoroughly burned for my pains. I had indeed begun to remark openly that only a prison spell would make him confront the realities of life; thus the ironic fact that my mother and I did have a meeting point—in prayer. I prayed that his prison experience would not scar him for life but would be very short, sharp, and painful, thus achieving what all our efforts in the family had failed to do. Wild Christian, needless to s
ay, harbored no such thoughts. She simply importuned God to change him—in His own good time of course, she hastened to reassure Him—but really tomorrow, preferably.

  Even before my prison detention, I was undoubtedly the most severe on him. I forbade him not only my home and office but my presence. That did not stop him occupying one of the rooms in the tiny annex to the official residence, intended for the house help but often converted into a colorful student pad. I knew that my wife—another of the rehabilitation team—had let him stay there, but I pretended not to know. He kept out of my way and never entered the main house while I was around. Once I was out of the way, however, Kayoos would come in and help himself to whatever he needed, run errands for my wife, and play with his nephews, nieces, and cousins—in short, everyone behaved like a true Yoruba, or indeed the average African: you snarl at the stray sheep but pretend that you never noticed that the side door was left open for it to sneak in at night.

  The garage was home to my modest collection of—mostly traditional— artworks. I lavished all my spare resources in acquiring them, and they were indeed a main source of marital friction. It had become my habit to turn the garage in whatever house I occupied into a gallery cum study, and this was where I spent most of my time, working among the ancestral masks, the gods, their caryatids, shrine posts, and vessels, basking in their aura. It provided a working ambiance that suited my temperament, rather like being within a web of emanations from multiple existences. But the gallery also served a less exalted purpose. Along its backyard, separated by a heavy copse that was home— we would discover much later—to a nest of pythons, ran one half of the dual carriageway that led to the university campus. This meant that a car could stop or be parked behind the house, its passenger walking through the copse directly to the garage without disturbing the household. As my marriage disintegrated, this sanctum sanctorum would serve as a venue for desperate assignations, usually in the dead of night. The snakes, fortunately, did not appear to have been unduly disturbed by these nocturnal intrusions.