You Must Set Forth at Dawn

by Wole Soyinka

  Femi’s wife, Barbara, was away in England; her location could not have been more fortunate. Femi—he had now joined in the chase—proposed her recruitment for the next stage of inquiry. She would visit the British Museum and find out all she could about the “missing” original. Obviously the British Museum held the key. I was now certain that news of our escapade had spread and the doors battened against any Nigerian-looking researcher. Barbara was British, however, and she would not arouse suspicion. We fed her all the accumulated information and suggested a few trails for her to follow, the most promising of which was that the head had once been acquired by a British family, then lent—or sold—to the British Museum. We supplied the name of the family.

  Barbara was thorough. She succeeded in tracking down the descendants of that family, located not far from London. She spoke to them on the phone and confirmed that the family had surrendered the head to the British Museum. From the latter, Barbara extracted the information that the main museum had in turn loaned it to one of its branch institutions. A little more probing revealed that this was none other than the Burlington. I asked her to pay a visit to the Museum of Mankind in Burlington Gardens without attracting attention to herself.

  In my head, alarm bells continued to jangle, warning me that discretion was now belated. What mattered was to establish the exact whereabouts of the original, now that we knew that the British Museum had made replicas from it. It would be no exaggeration to state that I had now become obsessed. I wanted Ori Olokun—badly—even if it was only to set my eyes on it! I wanted it more than I had ever craved any object in my life. In moments of sober reflection, long after it was all over and I analyzed my state of mind during this period, I came to understand what the mystique of the Holy Grail had been about, or the Golden Fleece, how the epos of The Quest had come to predominate in the mythologies of nearly every culture. If I could not bring Ori Olokun back, at least I wanted to be able to say, “An end to all these lies, the great distraction contained in ‘whereabouts unknown.’ ” Rubbish! There were those still alive who knew damned well where Ori Olokun was. There was a bronze head, the authentic article, on display somewhere, yet the scholars were pretending that it was not Ori Olokun but its simulacrum, churning out theories to suggest that there was yet another bronze piece, probably an imitation or “sculpture of the head of an Ife king, sometimes mistaken for Ori Olokun.” Regarding this attribution, however, there was something else we had observed.

  This alleged “twin” of Ori Olokun was always photographed from the left profile, never from the right, where the pick had taken off a piece of the cheek and left a distinctive gash. Was this a coincidence? I had researched tome after tome, and while the “missing” original—in black and white or in color—was always photographed frontally, from the rear, and in right and left profile, the “twin” appeared only in its left profile. If there was nothing to hide, why was it always photographed from the undamaged side? The task force had also debated this “coincidence”—Adeagbo Akinjogbin of History, Wande Abimbola the Yoruba expert, Babatunde Lawal of Fine Arts, and others. We had examined photos, monograms, ethnographic and art history books, museum catalogues, and the like, and were always struck by this discrimination—the twin only appeared in its undamaged profile. We had all developed a strong suspicion that there was no twin, that is, there was no bronze head in existence of that particular cast that did not have the crucial hole in its cheek. And there could be only one of its kind! Of no other bronze head did any archaeologist ever report that a piece was taken off the cheek—and at that exact spot!

  FROBENIUS’S JOURNEYS through Africa have been remarked, with some justification, as an exercise in Teutonic obsession with measurements and detail. He traveled not only with an artist who produced numerous sketches—with finicky dimensions—of art pieces, architecture, landscape, and so on, but with a mobile smelting and casting factory. He made copies of several objects, including bronzes. When the British district officer learned of his excavations in Ile-Ife, he put his paid informers on the alert and thus learned of the success of the dig almost at the same time as Frobenius was covering up the ravished dig. The district officer kept an eye on Frobenius’s movements, learned just in time that he was headed for the border with Dahomey, and moved to stop the acquisitive German as he was about to depart with his booty. The story, according to Frobenius, was that he was compelled to part with Ori Olokun and succeeded in keeping for himself only the chip that had come off the end of the careless pick.

  Our reconstruction, however, was this: the district officer parted with what he thought was Ori Olokun. It was more likely to have been an imitation—that is, not a direct replica of the original but a totally separate head, a clumsy handiwork by Frobenius’s companion. It is that imitation that has continued, to this day, to occupy pride of place in Ile-Ife. Frobenius’s companion had mastered the art of cire perdue but lacked the skills to make a copy with the finesse of the original. When the district officer demanded that he disburden himself of the precious head, Frobenius had simply given him an original imitation, fabricated by his artist.

  Well, I wanted badly to see the original—or its mysterious “twin.”

  IT WAS INDEED on display in a glass case at the Burlington museum, its jagged hole conspicuously in view. I was overcome with an irrational feeling that the normal, viewing world was seeing Ori Olokun for the very last time, that this “twin” would vanish as the next logical stage in a half century saga. I threaded my way through the museum visitors, mildly disguised in case my picture had been circulated through Interpol as an art thief to be watched at all costs. I walked past it only twice or thrice, always making sure that the attention I paid to it was less than the amount of time I spent viewing other items on display.

  My fears were soon grounded in factual developments. The moment I arrived in London, I called Barbara and asked her to bring me up to date. Through her deft sleuthing, she had found that the director of the National Museum in Lagos, Ekpo Eyo, was on his way to London. I phoned Burlington, provisioned with a formal but phony title, and asked directly for the director of the Nigerian National Museum—had he arrived? Not yet, but he was expected; the museum had received notice that he was on his way.

  Eyo’s visit could not be a coincidence. The police had undoubtedly contacted him for an opinion during their clumsy intervention, and he had begun to conduct his own research; which had led him unerringly to Burlington. How many other roads, and taken by whom, I wondered, now led to the Burlington museum?

  That conviction of a multiple convergence on that Piccadilly warehouse of treasures bred a renewed urgency and made me throw all caution to the wind. I returned the following day—to do what, precisely, I was not sure, especially as I did not bother any longer with any form of disguise. I was overwhelmed by the certitude of shrinking time, of an accelerated and definitive resolution, albeit unwanted, of this conundrum. I think I wanted to see the head again, knowing that it might be for the last time. If necessary, I would seek out the curator, declare my interest in this object, and speak frankly but not in great detail of the efforts of Ife University to establish the truth of its identity. Burlington, after all, was a public institution; it admitted paying visitors and should not be shy of answering questions. I would ask him how Burlington had acquired it, ask to see records. I think I had become reconciled to the mere satisfaction of holding it in my hands and letting it speak to me through some secret, ancestral vibrations, just so I could know—and share with others—the knowledge of the present existence of Ori Olokun.

  My craving would be assuaged by no less. With it went a mental restlessness and fitful bouts of sleep, pocked by the strangest dreams. I greeted dawn with great relief, waited impatiently until opening time, and set off for the museum, a creature under possession, and by the most confused of impulses. I raced up the steps, excited at the prospect of seeing the head again, and headed straight for the hall.

  ORI OLOKUN HAD VANISHED! On the podium wher
e it had stood in proud display less than twenty-four hours before, there was—nothing. Not even a replacement. Not a label. Just—nothing. The case was empty.

  For what was probably no longer than a few seconds but seemed hours, I remained in still confrontation with that glass case, willing its erstwhile occupant to levitate, demonstrate its pristine potency, and astonish all viewers. What did levitate instead was a member of the staff, a black girl who was simply going about her normal duties. There was no longer need for reticence and I approached her and pointed to the case. “What happened to this one?”

  Speaking quite artlessly, she informed me that it had been “taken downstairs.” Any particular reason? I asked. None that she knew of, she replied. It was quite normal for the items on display to be changed from time to time. Rotation of themes was common in that section of the gallery—not throughout the museum but in the sections that were dedicated to special exhibitions. Where was she from? I asked, and she replied that she was from Sierra Leone.

  I hesitated only a moment. Was it possible that I could see the head, even outside the display? It was obvious to me that if there was any conspiracy at all afoot, this girl was not part of it. Her guilelessness could not have been faked, and when she said, “Sure, follow me,” I nearly catapulted her downstairs, fearful that some superior officer “in the know” might interrupt this totally unexpected visitation. We descended into the netherworld where art pieces were cleaned, catalogued, and stored until their next emergence to baffle, frustrate, or enlighten the world.

  Yes, finally there did come the belated reward, a long moment of rapture. There on the table with other pieces was the unmistakable head at last—Ori Olokun!

  I did not wait for it to vanish. Outwardly calm, I simply leaped on it inwardly and lifted this exquisite bronze head in my hands. The weight was just what I had anticipated when I had climbed the makeshift ladder in Carybe’s studio and lifted its copy off the shelf. The gash in the missing cheek was exactly where it had been on the copy. Reverently, I turned it around and around in my hands, peered shortsightedly into the cavity beneath the neck, and sought to guess just how old it was. I laughed out aloud.

  The girl looked at me, puzzled. Quickly, I improvised, explained that I was simply thinking of how surprised Frobenius must have been when the British district officer ambushed him at the border and deprived him of his catch. It was a lie. I had just experienced one of those flashes—W.S. taking suddenly to his heels, up the stairs, weaving balletically through the display cases, dodging pillars and visitors, out through the door, onto Burlington Arcade, and into a long stretch heading nowhere in particular, alarms jangling, pursued by the white-coated museum staff shouting “Stop, thief!”—a scene straight out of Oliver Twist, only in this case augmented by the phlegmatic London bobbies on the beat blowing their whistles, motorcycle police, Scotland Yard, the Fire Brigade, Boy Scouts, and St. John’s Ambulance....

  However, the race was over—I knew that!—and I remained rooted to the concrete floor of the chilly semibasement of this outpost of the British Museum, in my hands the authentic Ori Olokun, no matter what the Western pundits said. I sighed, looked around at the other treasures looted by the imperial forays of European powers. I think it was in that process that I noticed, for the first time, that the museum worker was quite pretty, indeed more than merely pretty; she had a solicitous charm, just the kind that tended to set off vibrations for a different kind of pursuit. For a few brief moments I wondered: Should I make a pass, turn her into an ally, and commence slow, meticulous planning for an inside heist? It seemed worth thinking about. Take her out, cultivate her slowly, gently, wait until the madcap escapade in Bahia was forgotten, the follow-up by the director of Nigerian antiquities, and—certainly— my own visit, which, I did not need to be told, would have raised a few eyebrows. It did not matter if it took an entire year from planning to execution. At the very least, here was a chance to keep an eye on the movements of Ori Olokun. No matter where it went, this girl would take note and pass on the news.

  I laid down the bronze head gently, returned the girl’s smile. Her charm drew me, in its own right, and I was more than certain that there was a reciprocal tug. Yet, unusually, even that consolation was not one of which I was prepared to avail myself—it carried with it the certain risk that I would draw her into a renewed web of conspiracy. If I had felt that a resumption would stand any chance of success, I probably would have persisted, but—I knew. The moment I held that bronze weight in my hands, I knew, with every strand of intuition, that we had reached the end of the trail. Too many cooks now had their ladles in this broth. Best to withdraw and abandon the lord of the seas to his overseas retreat.

  ON MY RETURN, I called on Oje Aboyade in his Ibadan home. He had traveled, it turned out, not to Benin but in the other direction—outside the country to escape the hullabaloo generated by the death of the Edo monarch. His first question was—had I briefed Obasanjo since my return? Negative; and I recounted the efforts I had already made. Right, let’s do it now, he proposed. No way, I said to him. As far as I was concerned, his man no longer existed.

  Oje could not believe that “our friend” had blocked his phone against my calls, so I called him again from Oje’s house, announced myself, then split the earpiece between us so that he could listen to every word. It was the same voice, and his answer was, if anything, more curt, rudely dismissive. I hung up. Oje said, All right, let’s wait fifteen minutes, and then I will call. I did not doubt what the result would be and remained indifferent. Oje put his call through and as soon as he announced himself received the kind of genial response that I had last received before the fateful trip to Bahia. He made an appointment to see Obasanjo.

  Then he turned to me, and never had I seen Oje so woebegone. “Someone has been feeding him lies,” he announced.

  “And what is that to me?” I replied. “There is only one word for this— treachery! Beginning from him and transmitted all the way down the official ladder. Not only had Pierre been released, he was told the entire truth and put on a plane to go there and—confront us. On his own territory! From then on we were dead meat to this Dodan devil! We were not met on our return, and then, for days, there was no contact. Listen, Oje, if you haven’t worked this out by now, the truth is—we were not meant to return.”

  Oje protested vehemently. I shouted him down. “I tell you, we were not meant to return! These people were getting rid of a problem. We’ve worked out movements on both sides, and we found that Pierre nearly caught us flat-footed in Brazil. One more night! That devilish den did not expect us back.”

  Oje was nothing if not persistent. He went for his appointment and had a long heart-to-heart talk with Obasanjo. On his return he announced that he had made an appointment for us both to go and see him. I laughed. No, I never wanted to set foot in Dodan Barracks again or see the face of that head of state. Oje piled on the pressure—“At least listen to what he has to say.” I remained adamant; I had had enough. I wanted nothing but the solitude of my bush, nothing more.

  Eventually, he prevailed. He had recruited Femi Johnson to his side, yet it was not so much the combined pressure that wore me down but my own curiosity. I wanted to confront the man, study the expression on his Owu cicatriced face, follow those eyes as he tried to wriggle out of this one, then give him a piece of my mind and leave. Even so, I nearly backed out at the last moment. I had developed a visceral revulsion toward not only the seat of government but anyone associated with it. Even Oje had not escaped this guilt by association, I realized. It had, after all, been several days after my return from London before I could bring myself to stop at his house, and then it was only because I had been staying in Ibadan that weekend, nursing back my self-esteem in the congenial setting of Femi’s home.

  Still, I ended up accompanying him to Lagos and into Dodan Barracks, grim of countenance. As we walked through the deserted complex and passed by the sparse allotment of officers on duty, I scowled at each in turn in case
he was the miscreant who had given himself the pleasure of telling me to book an appointment for a telephone call. We entered the familiar space of Obasanjo’s private lounge. I braced myself for the diatribe that was coiled at the root of my tongue, untended, but capable, I was certain, of atomizing the heads of a dozen heads of state. We had hardly settled down before Obasanjo himself entered the room and plunged into what must have been a well-rehearsed and difficult text.

  “The police messed up,” he announced. “But they are my men. The ultimate responsibility rests with me, and so—I accept responsibility for their actions and I apologize. I apologize on their behalf.” Before I could open my mouth to reply, he added, “Look, Wole, if I wanted to get rid of you, I would put you against a wall and shoot you. But I could never send you to a strange country to be killed or injured. I would never send a fellow Nigerian to another country to be killed. I could never do that. It is against my soldierly training.”

  I had too much piled up within me and was not about to let him off easily. I plunged into a bitter reprise of the succession of betrayals Labiyi and I, as well as the others at Ife, had undergone. I was particularly galled at the ignorant intervention of the police—if the police had had to be brought into play, was there no police section better qualified for such a role? What had happened to the Antiquities Squad, specially created to stem the illegal flow of national treasures overseas? Oje interrupted, imploring me to accept the man’s regrets and draw a curtain over the entire episode. And then, suddenly, the devil himself was chuckling. I was taken aback—was it all a joke to him, and did this include his apology?