by Wole Soyinka
What went wrong between the two friends, no one could really tell, but it was put down to rivalry between their wives as much as to Mamman Vatsa’s own ambitions. A peer of both men in the military, General A.A., remarked that Vatsa’s ambitions were not unlike Macbeth’s—dormant until fanned by a wife with a stronger will. I never did meet his wife, so I cannot tell. But it has proved impossible to erase from my mind the presence of that soldier who sat watching quietly at the launching of my record and openly bought copies for his colleagues. His appearance was the furthest imaginable from Caesar’s “lean and hungry,” but his sly watchfulness made me think more of his co-emperor’s nervous perspective on Cassius than of Macbeth as putty in the hands of his worthy lady.
But in 1985, the nation’s mildly watchful life under the smooth dictator was suddenly sent awry by the announcement of a coup attempt, and implicated at the highest level was the poet-soldier, General Mamman Vatsa. It was a numbing sight, watching on television the dapper general, emperor of the Federal Capital Territory and friend of Nigerian writers, led in chains into court in the company of other accused. Nigeria had become inured to coups, coup attempts, and rumors of coups, but this was the strangest yet—the dictator’s bosom friend, accused of masterminding his friend’s overthrow.
Mamman Vatsa was found guilty, with several others, and the sentence was death by firing squad. Nigeria’s military regimes were not noted for commuting sentences for treason—always a cynical charge, considering the means by which the complainant government had itself come to power. The public braced itself for the usual announcements of executions and went about its business with a sense of déjà vu: Let them decimate one another; maybe when they’ve become sated with their own blood, they’ll return to the barracks and leave the nation in peace.
But one person felt—no! This was John Pepper Clark, now Bekederemo-Clark, poet and dramatist. We had been quite close in the early sixties, in the heyday of the Mbari cultural project, when Nigerian writers and artists had made a creative home in the slums of Adamasingba, in Ibadan. Indeed I had the distinction of taking off a corner of his German-made Karman Ghia—now an obsolete model—against a palm tree. His coupe, unlike the standard Nigerian vehicle, was a left-hand drive at a time when Nigerians drove on the left side of the road, as bequeathed by the British colonizers. J.P.’s car was one of the rare exceptions. He was also prone to accidents at the time, which was why he readily surrendered the car to me whenever we were together. Such was the rate of his encounters with walls, trees, and gutters that I once felt compelled to slaughter a sacrificial goat on his behalf, right on the open stage, during the production of his play Song of a Goat. Naturally, I never really considered that it was I who had caused the accident; rather, it was his car, which, under J.P.’s aura, took a yen to the palm tree on the way to my university apartment.
J. P. Clark had become troubled. Mulling over his drink—as I imagined it—the stocky, pugnacious poet had perhaps run through the reel of casualties in the numerous coups and allied killings, was perhaps even haunted by a sense of vicarious responsibility for the initial coup; J.P., I always suspected, had firsthand knowledge, albeit vague, of the first coup d’état of 1966. With Christopher Okigbo, he had accompanied one of the principals, Major Emanuel Ifeajuna, across the border, the latter in female disguise. J.P. had turned back at the border, while Christopher crossed over to the Republic of Benin (then Dahomey), taking charge of Ifeajuna, who was by then virtually an emotional wreck, haunted—Christopher related—by images of blood cascading from his dying victims, his superior officers, none of whom was a stranger to him.
J.P. brought back with him the manuscript of Ifeajuna’s account of the coup, hurriedly put together during his period of hiding by that young major and former athlete—he was one of the four who had set a joint six-foot, six-inch record in the high jump at the Commonwealth Games in Vancouver in 1956. Knowledge of the existence of the manuscript set off a wild hunt by Gowon’s military intelligence, desperate for an authentic, firsthand account of those who had plotted the 1966 coup, who had done the killings, what civilians, especially politicians, had had prior knowledge or had collaborated in the putsch. For a while J. P. Clark was deemed a security risk. So was his publisher, Longman, whose editors at one time or the other held the explosive manuscript in their possession, debating the wisdom of releasing its contents onto the market.
I could picture J.P. tabulating the waste, the losses, and the uncertain returns: the 1966 coup and the attendant deaths; the revenge killings of May, known as the “minor massacres”—some distinction!—then the countercoup of July, a truly gory affair where even my serene hometown, Abeokuta, was the setting for the flaying of a garrison commander, tied to the back of a Land Rover and dragged around and around till death took pity on him. Hot on the heels of that countercoup followed the “major massacres” of September, a further revenge killing but also a consolidation of the July countercoup. Then the bloody attempt of 1976, known as the Dimka coup—a failure, but it terminated the life of Murtala Mohammed, the charismatic dictator, a once military reprobate himself who, on attaining power, most unusually became a reformed man and a convinced social reformer, earning adulation beyond an objective balance of his detractions and achievement. At some point, J. P. Clark must have sighed, “Enough.”
I WAS ENJOYING one of my periods of total hibernation in Abeokuta when my peace was crashed by a least expected face, at the sight of which I could only blink in disbelief. I was in fact returning from a successful foray into the bush. Grimy and sweaty I stepped out of my jeep, retrieved my gun and the brace of birds, when I heard a voice I had not heard for a long time, issuing from my front door: “Good God, you mean you actually catch these things when you go in the bush?”
It was indeed John Pepper Bekederemo-Clark, poet and playwright, with whom my relationship had not lately been the best. He came close, inspected the birds, and burst into a loud chuckle. “I’d heard about your hunting, but I never knew it was something you actually did.”
I did not know what to make of that but understood that there was awkwardness on both sides. I could not imagine what he wanted.
“J.P., how on earth did you find this place?”
“Oh, it was tough. But I remembered I knew someone in Abeokuta who was bound to know where you were.” He introduced his companion. “In any case, I was determined not to leave till I found you. If I hadn’t found you today, I would have returned tomorrow.”
I thought, What is he up to now? Our last reconciliation effort had been short-lived, so what had instigated this visitation from my tempestuous colleague?
“Mamman Vatsa,” said J.P., and the words tumbled out. “We must save him. Not just him but all the others. There is far too much bloodletting. We have to persuade Babangida that he can break the spiral of blood and set the nation on a new course. We have to do something, Wole. After all the killing that followed the Dimka coup, we can’t allow this to happen. We have to act. History will not forgive us if we fail.”
J.P.’s idea was that three of us—himself, Chinua Achebe, and I, often dubbed the “elder statesmen” of Nigerian contemporary literature—should make a publicized personal appeal to Babangida and the Ruling Council for the lives of the accused, based principally on the plea that the nation had had enough of killings and all future action should be directed at national healing. Moreover, Vatsa’s attempt, as far as we knew, had been only a plot in the making. We should appeal to Babangida’s sense of history and stress that this was an opportunity to map out a different course for his administration from the accustomed pattern of vengeance. There were hawks within the final decision-making body, but there were also doves, J.P. declared, including probably Babangida himself, who might be inclined to save the life of his childhood friend. Our position would strengthen his hand. J.P. paced restlessly, consumed by his optimism. He had spoken to the secretary or assistant secretary to the cabinet, who would facilitate the meeting. It would help, of cour
se, if I also telephoned ahead. In any case, J.P. pointed out, bristling with confidence, if we three walked right up to Dodan Barracks, knocked on the gates, and demanded to see the president, who was going to deny us entrance? Our combined stature would open any door in the nation.
His enthusiasm was infectious. We would pool our resources. I would not only make the call but would co-opt Ojetunji Aboyade to follow up the case after our visit. Chinua Achebe, J.P. revealed, was already awaiting us in Lagos.
Our arrival at Dodan Barracks the following day was a much-anticipated event, covered by the media corps that was permanently encamped at the presidency. It was clear that the civil servant who attended us was no hawk. He welcomed the initiative with more than a functionary’s disinterest, took pains to impress on us our chances of success, and offered opinions on what arguments would have the greatest effect, how to stand our ground against any counter-arguments, and so on. Babangida was in a meeting when we arrived, but as we were ushered into his wing of the sprawling complex, he came to meet us outside, beaming his famous, later notorious, gap-toothed smile. Once we were seated, he thanked us profusely for the visit, assuring us in advance that he understood that our intervention had been motivated by the highest humane principles.
Chinua Achebe spoke, I followed, and J.P. added his plea, each using the precious minutes we had extorted from Babangida’s schedule as forcefully as we knew how. It was a somber, intense half hour, and we were all conscious of—no other way to put it—the near sanctity of our mission. I think both Chinua and I were somewhat startled to hear J.P. introduce a rather arcane dimension that he had remarked upon briefly during our earlier exchanges: he had traced the blood pattern of such challenges to power backward and observed that a cycle of violence appeared to emerge every four years. Babangida was uniquely placed, he argued, to break the four-year jinx. Not for one moment did I imagine that such a basically superstitious argument would impress those hardheaded soldiers, but then, one never knew, and soldiers are notorious for their superstitious outlook anyway. Babangida, the consummate listener, gave equal attentiveness to all the arguments, nodding gently.
We were done. Babangida hung his head for a few moments before speaking.
“Gentlemen, I wish to thank you, believe me, with all sincerity. I don’t know if you’re aware that Vatsa and I were very close, very close indeed. His wife and mine—they are like sisters. So you see, for me, this is not just a military affair, it is a heartrending situation, a family tragedy. And I am sure you can see how sincerely I welcome your intervention. I suspended a meeting the moment I heard you were here. In fact, I was annoyed that I hadn’t been informed earlier. Since when has Dodan Barracks been honored by the presence of the three leading writers of this nation?”
He gave one of his broad smiles, then turned solemn once again. “We need more of this kind of exchange, I mean that seriously. And not just when there is a crisis of this nature. You must feel free to call on me anytime. We could do with your advice on affairs of the nation.”
The general took a deep breath, then raised his head to give emphasis to his next words. “Regarding what brought you here, I wish to give you my word of honor—I shall go into the crucial meeting determined to do everything in my power to save them. I assure you, I shall not be party to their execution. That I can promise you. You have no idea how much your visit here has helped me. Again, I give you my word, I shall do my utmost to see that the lives of those men are spared.”
How we maintained a semblance of dignity, and refrained from letting out a loud “Whoopee,” launching into cartwheels, or breaking into an atilogwu43 dance, I shall never know, but we all admitted that our lungs were dying to burst into a victory song as soon as we heard that pledge: “my word of honor.”
The secretary was waiting nervously to debrief us; it was as if he had a personal intererest in the result, and sure enough, he admitted it. A very close relative of his was among the condemned, and, it would appear, he did not believe that there had been as serious an attempt to overthrow the regime as was claimed. When we gave him a quick summary of the meeting, the uplift in his mood could be weighed. He thanked us profusely. We had done a world of good. We had given Babangida all the moral support he needed to deal with the hawks and bring the waverers over to his side. The principal hawk, whom he named, would now find himself isolated, and in any case, now that the commander in chief had set his mind against the executions, that was the end of the matter. The press had picked up news of our visit and were waiting outside. We revealed nothing, gave no interviews, but our presence and purpose at Dodan Barracks went out over radio and television within the hour. The nation, equally sick of the incessant bloodletting, had already begun to breathe some air of hope.
The secretary saw us to our car. I drove. We managed to hold down our euphoria until we had driven around the first corner and then burst into yells— J.P.’s being the most manic. I drove off as if on a triumphal lap on a race circuit. Mission accomplished, and with an affirmation that we had hardly dared expect. We badly needed to celebrate, so we repaired to Bintu’s restaurant. We ordered the worthy proprietress to “shake up her kitchen double quick” for a special workout and extract whatever wines she kept in reserve for her brother, my friend OBJ, who came there sometimes to lunch or dine. We kept our secret but did not disguise our euphoric condition, raised glasses to one another and to bemused customers, who must have concluded that the “elder statesmen” of Nigerian literature had gone collectively out of their minds. We knew we were celebrating more than the mere reprieve of our fellow writer and his companions, we were celebrating a reunion—the three of us together and bound in a common purpose—after nearly two decades!
For J.P., it was a personal vindication that brought a very special reward. “My circle of friends,” he had admitted in Abeokuta when he bemoaned our prolonged estrangement—and he had made a tight circle with his thumb and forefinger—“my circle of friends has contracted to a mere—dot.” I had never known any human being to make such a humble confession, nor heard one ever since. We were thus celebrating J.P.’s renewed embrace of a loosely defined community of literary pioneers, and he, the main celebrant, had engineered it himself, and in such style—saving the life of a footloose member of the wider artistic community. It was a moment to savor.
J.P. wanted us to make a night of it, but I needed my retreat, and the thought of Lagos traffic at closing hours finally pried me from the table and into my car, with the thought that the next Sunday night would definitely be spent at Femi’s in Ibadan, since no celebration was complete until Femi and I pronounced it so—through a consummatory, summative celebration. He would be waiting anxiously, insisting on a verbatim account—nothing less ever satisfied him: Wait, wait, wait, stop! Oh, you know, you really are very irritating—don’t jump, don’t jump. You don’t know how to knack gen,44 that’s your trouble, it’s not the same as writing. Go back. So he came out of his o fice to meet you. Right. Begin from there. What did he say? All right. Does he go around with bodyguards? What of Chinua Achebe? All right, in what order did you speak? What do you mean—didn’t Achebe come to Abeokuta? He didn’t? You mean J.P. sought you out alone, all by himself ? What! You see, you have to go back. I keep telling you, you gave me the impression that all three of you made the decision in Abeokuta. See? See what I keep telling you? Now you have to start all over again. Don’t leave anything out. So J.P. came to Abeokuta, you were coming in from the bush— which reminds me, where is my share of the aparo?
Driving to Abeokuta, smiling by myself like a lunatic as I anticipated my “debriefing” at Femi’s table in Ibadan in another day or two, I knew that I still needed something to bring me down from the clouds before I could do any work that night—or maybe it was best simply to drink some more wine, go to sleep, and then wake up in the middle of the night to work? I was undecided. There was, however, a good half hour of daylight when I arrived, enough time to go into the walled-in overgrown courtyard just behind
my house where a few aparo families had made their home. I hunted that patch of land with extreme parsimoniousness, just those times when my body needed to be decompressed or I was confronted by the specter of an empty larder and the rare unexpected—and hungry—visitor.
I rushed upstairs, grabbed my gun, rushed out again, and dashed into the bush. I heard Seyi, my landlady’s son, hailing me from the window of their half of the house, but this was no occasion for one of his hunting lessons. I needed my own exulting company, not shared with anyone, least of all an eager young pupil. So I shouted back that I would see him later, feeling a little guilty. Twenty minutes later, I outwaited a bird and forced it to fly.
Seyi came running in after the shot to assist me in finding the victim—so I thought. But no, he was merely waiting until he had heard me fire so he would not alert the quarry, and of course also to make sure that he could safely approach. I heard him coming, and soon enough he appeared. I stood still as usual, with my eye affixed to the landing spot, then signaled to him. Normally Seyi would be leaping and thrashing toward the indicated spot, but now he remained in a kind of apologetic stance, watching me, I later surmised, with a kind of pity.
“It’s over there!” I shouted. “Go where my arm is pointing.”