You Must Set Forth at Dawn

by Wole Soyinka

  Immediately after, the murderous explosion.

  I saw Dele Giwa on the very night of my arrival in Lagos. After the impromptu official reception at the airport, I fled to the home of my junior sister Yeside, in Suru-lere, a partially developed part of the suburb and thus reasonably quiet, where I had decided to spend the night. Fooled again! A handful of friends knew that I sometimes stayed with her and were lying in wait: Deji Akintilo, the budding entrepreneur; Yemi Ogunbiyi, an editor at The Guardian; Vera Ifudu, the broadcaster; Sunmi Smart-Cole, the photographer; and a handful of others. The determined celebrants were committed to making an evening, even a night of it. Vera Ifudu and Deji Akintilo lived only a few blocks from Yeside’s, and, after a brief tussle, we moved to Ifudu’s place.

  It was about an hour before midnight when Dele arrived, casual but rumpled in a loose shirt and equally loose Bermuda shorts, looking like an American on vacation. In his hand was a bottle of his favorite XO cognac. He had already gone to bed when someone—Yemi Ogunbiyi, undoubtedly—had called and broken the news to him, informing him also that an impromptu party had commenced at Vera Ifudu’s. Dele had promptly shaken himself out of bed, grabbed a bottle he had earmarked for some other event, and driven to join the group. He left, like most of the others, in the early hours of the morning, by which time I had long since retired.

  Dawn found me on my way to Abeokuta, the only place from which I could mount effective defenses against any further encroachment. I needed time to sort out my thoughts, the enormity of the award having finally begun to percolate through to my mind. The media assault in Paris had merely impressed on me the monstrosity of the event; it was the palpable fervor with which my own nation had embraced the award that finally imbued it with exceptional value. I could not believe that even total strangers whom I had encountered as I left the airport, and since, had taken it so personally, that they saw in the award something that was individually and collectively theirs. It was not possible to underestimate the sense of triumph, of vindication, that rode on their responses— a disposition, if they could, to slaughter all the goats, cows, and chickens and milk all the palm trees within reach, in celebration. I realized now that I had to do some stock taking, and start studying how to cope with this avalanche of attention.

  It was in Abeokuta that the news about Dele slammed into my mundane planning through the telephone. Given the background to the murder, one thought flashed instantly through my mind—the national award! I could not accept anything at the hands of the government. Not unless it could demonstrate, quite openly, that its hands were clean of the murder.

  The following day, I called my friend Oje Aboyade, Babangida’s right-hand man. Your boss’s hands are covered in blood, I told him. I cannot accept any honors from those hands. Neither will I accept any government representation at the Stockholm ceremony. The appointment agreed upon earlier with Aboyade over the telephone—to meet the dictator and discuss the modalities for a special ceremony for the national award—should be regarded as canceled.

  Aboyade fell in with my position. We agreed to meet a few days later to discuss it, perhaps to agree on the wording of my letter of rejection, about which Oje was apprehensive—quite unnecessarily, in fact. Sending out a downright accusing or abrasive letter without any hard basis in fact, despite plausible deductions, was not an option.

  First, a visit to the bereaved family, then prolonged discussions with his immediate associates, friends, and other journalists and a calm review of details of the events that preceded and surrounded the murder, and I felt ready to embark on my own plans for looking into the case. At the heart of those, as usual, was the Pyrates Confraternity, with its information network. We were, still are, everywhere—within the army, the police, Customs, the SSS, the media, and so on. Every member was a schoolmate of, married or related to, or professionally or otherwise connected with some listening source. I was not particularly close to the murdered man but, like many, had long admired his investigative verve and identified with his political attitudes, which were progressive and fearless.

  Some, it was true, and in quite respectable quarters, considered his relationship with the government rather ambiguous—for no discernible reason. Some of his own close associates, even within Newswatch, were not long in beginning to rationalize his murder. One, and a close friend of his to boot, accused him of having been caught in a web of his own spinning, trapped in some power play in Babangida’s court. There were even insinuations, including from his own colleagues in the media, that Dele had been silenced because he had uncovered some hard facts about drug dealing in high places and had been blackmailing the racketeers. Nigeria, alas, is the original rumor mill of the world, and the more untoward the event, the more creative and bizarre are the theories and concoctions that are bruited about as fact! Rumors, however, can provide useful leads, though not in the direction that the rumor purveyors intend, and this was where a loose network of information gatherers could best pursue the most disconnected clues. Nothing justified such a callous murder, nor the manner of his death, which could have equally eliminated any in his household: wife, children, relatives, visitors. At my urging, the Pyrates Confraternity posted a financial reward in the media—in hard currency—for any useful information.

  Now I could concentrate on the president of the nation, who had been mentioned by the slain man as the supposed author of the deadly parcel. After hours of debate among Oje Aboyade, Yemi Ogunbiyi, and myself, we agreed that I would go ahead and keep the appointment as if nothing had happened to affect the agenda. It would then be my turn to spring an ambush—because Oje gave his word not to warn Babangida in advance that I now had negative thoughts about the national conferment. I would simply arrive with a formal letter, then set out my conditions for reinstating the honors.

  “You can say what you like to him,” Oje reiterated. “I’ll back you up. The nation needs to get to the bottom of the crime, and if I find the situation untenable, I shall also hand in my resignation.”

  We met in IBB’s office, the dictator all set to finalize the details of the participation of the Nigerian government in the Swedish event. Oje also came along, as did Yemi Ogunbiyi. No sooner were the courtesies over and we were seated in front of the vast presidential desk than he brought out a slim file from a drawer and carefully opened it, began to turn over some papers. It was Oje who stopped him.

  “Mr. President, I think we’ve run into a snag. Maybe it would be better if you heard it directly from the horse’s mouth.”

  Still unsuspecting, Babangida turned to me. “Oh, Professor, I am sure we can sort out whatever difficulties there are. Is the Stockholm date clashing with ours?”

  I studied him very carefully, eyes glued to every gesture and motion of his hands and face. This was perhaps the most absurd test I have ever set myself: attempting to decide, within those first seconds, whether I was seated before an unconscionable killer or simply an innocent drawn into some fatal survival struggle that had been engineered by his subordinates. This was a soldier to whom killing was no stranger, a schemer who had had a hand in several coups d’état. I knew all about the rumors that surrounded him. Even his coup against Muhammadu Buhari has been strongly rumored to have been a preemptive coup for his own survival in the military, based on the assumption that Buhari was about to move against him and push him out of the army.

  Among the rumors that were floating around the murder mystery was that the dead man had been investigating the mysterious death of one Gloria Okon, caught red-handed with hard drugs and said to be a “mule” of one of Ibrahim Babangida’s close relatives. Had her death under arrest and hospitalization been “natural”? Was she dead at all? Had she been spirited abroad, another corpse interred, and a coroner’s report fabricated? Dele Giwa was credited with having penetrated the seamy intrigues and then become ensnared within them—the Nigerian rumor mill is fecund, each story spun for a purpose that might divert attention away from, neutralize, or anticipate the rumors of others.
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br />   “Yes, Professor? Is there anything we can do from here to sort out the problem?”

  I kept my eyes on him, my voice dispassionate (I hoped) as I said, “I’m afraid things have gone beyond any solution. Dele Giwa’s death has put a stop to everything. I cannot see myself accepting these national honors. In fact, I don’t think I can accept government participation in the Stockholm event. I would prefer that the government stayed out of it entirely.”

  A chill descended on the room, and a silence that held for ages. I only felt, not recognized, the presence of the other two. At that moment, it seemed that Babangida and I were the only beings in the soundproofed chamber. What I read in Babangida’s face went beyond ceremonies and national honors. It was this: the dictator felt that he was about to be confronted with a new enemy where he had been led to believe that he might cultivate a potential ally. His initial expansive, amiable confidence had vanished. So be it, I thought to myself. I watched him slowly close the file, then slide it, almost imperceptibly, into the drawer. Then he asked, “Do you believe I, or the government, had a hand in Dele’s death?”

  “I have no idea. But I am amazed that up till now, your government has failed to set up a judicial inquiry into the bizarre murder.”

  Slowly, he slid shut the drawer, taking time to regain his composure. “Professor, I give you my word of honor,” he began, very calmly, “I have never indulged in or encouraged any act of murder in my entire career. I am a soldier, and I’ve taken part in coups, but I do not plan murders. If I decided that Dele Giwa needed to be eliminated, I would put on my uniform, put a gun in my holster, drive up to his house, enter, and shoot him. But I would not for one moment engage in a sneak killing. I give you my word.”

  I scanned his face. Truthful? Or a suave, practiced actor? It was, we both knew, a decisive moment. Oje said nothing. Neither did Yemi. They left us alone, watchful.

  “In that case,” I said, finally, “do you agree to set up an independent judicial commission of inquiry? Transparently independent?”

  “Of course,” he said without hesitation. “In fact, it is something we’re discussing right now. We’ve nearly finalized the composition, and I’ll be giving them a time limit within which they must make a report. I want this matter cleared up as much as you, maybe even more. And we’ll put someone in charge in whom the nation will have full confidence, I promise you that. Within the next month, the commission will begin sitting.”

  No, I did not thereby believe in Babangida’s guilt or innocence. I suspended belief one way or the other. What I did believe was that a commission would sit, and in public. And I was confident that the offer of a reward from our side—hopefully augmented from other sources, his own journal, for instance—would loosen a tongue or two, however indirectly. It is never easy to keep secrets in Nigeria; it is just that secrets, when divulged, are tied up in many distractions. But hardly any crime has been committed in the nation whose perpetrators are not known to at least twenty other people. It was all a question of finding which one of them would speak under inducement, with guaranteed protection, or as a result of a falling-out among the conspirators. A judicial commission, sitting in public, would serve as our starting point.

  THE INVESTITURE WAS a near disaster. I went to the wrong venue, itself a giveaway about my enthusiasm and concentration on or attention to details. I had not studied the invitation card particularly well, and so when my brother stopped to see me the night before, I readily bought into his thinking that the venue would not be Lagos State House, as I thought, but Dodan Barracks, the seat of government. Lateness is a self-indulgent habit that I deplore, and I had positioned myself to take care of all traffic hazards and arrive at the venue at least fifteen minutes beforehand.

  My consternation is best left to the imagination when, as I turned into the final avenue that led directly into the gates of Dodan Barracks, I encountered a motorcade belting out of the government seat with outriders and sirens blaring. It could only have been Babangida, but I checked with the driver anyway— had he seen and recognized the occupant of the protected vehicle? Well, he had not seen the face, but that was the usual security detail of Ibrahim Babangida. Even then, so thoroughly had I ingested the last information—my brother’s choice of venue!—that it never crossed my mind that I could have been right all along. Otherwise, I would have ordered the driver to spin around and tail the convoy. I persuaded myself that maybe it was Augustus Aikhomu, Babangida’s deputy, off to represent his boss at some other event, or a visiting dignitary being whisked to the airport. So we proceeded to the gate, where the expression on the face of the security official who recognized me told the entire story even before he opened his mouth—yes, that had indeed been the head of state speeding to Lagos State House to pin a medal on my chest.

  We changed direction and pursued the convoy, breaking every traffic rule on the way. Of course the streets had been sealed off around the security perimeter of the State House. They were opened for the president’s convoy to pass through and immediately closed off after him by trigger-ready soldiers and patrolling SSS agents with walkie-talkies and bulging armpits. All other vehicles were diverted to a different approach. I leaped out of the car and dashed up to the nearest soldier, whose face fell on seeing who it was. He found my gasped explanations superfluous and broke into a run. I jumped back into the car, and he led the way, screaming for the roadblocks to be moved—which was how I arrived only ten minutes late, having nonetheless broken the golden rule of protocol.

  Thoroughly flustered as I was, I had time to notice, within the select crowd, even more desperately flustered faces. Among them was one that clearly scowled its displeasure, muttering something about how typical this was of W.S. It had the predictable effect of ending my fluster abruptly, then getting me riled, angry, and aggressive. It was the wrong moment for a voice to be raised in protest at my unintended discourtesy, keeping a head of state waiting. I turned to snap back at that voice but was forcefully steered into the place of conferment. All I wanted at that moment was simply to turn around and tell them all to forget the ceremony.

  When the ceremony was over, I learned that, as usual, some of the panic had been caused by the standard quota of ab’obaku,47 who had voiced loud, indignant opinions that I had deliberately set up Babangida in order to humiliate him publicly, that I had never had the slightest intention of showing up or accepting the honors. This despite the fact that my brother Jamani patiently explained that he had himself discovered his error at the eleventh hour, that he had misled me, and that I was now busy finding my way to the State House!

  No, there had never been any thought of my reneging on a clear understanding: the ceremony would go forward as planned, and the commission on Dele Giwa’s death would be inaugurated. I intended to keep my side of the bargain and expected Babangida to keep his.

  WEEKS PASSED. The national conferment had nearly been forgotten, yet no further word on the commission emerged from Dodan Barracks. I set up another meeting with Babangida, determined to obtain some answers. What stage had been reached? Why had the commission’s composition not been announced and its terms of reference publicized? Why were no dates set yet for its commencement and its duration? Babangida again brought out his file, spread out his hands, and pleaded for a fair hearing.

  “What was I supposed to do? You see it here”—he isolated a piece of paper and some news clippings—“your friend, your fellow activist, Gani Fawehinmi, has filed a criminal action in court, accusing two highly placed security agents of committing the murder—Halilu Akilu, my national security adviser, and Colonel Togun of military intelligence. Still, we went ahead with our publicized moves to set up the commission, and what does Gani do? He continues to breathe down our necks, threatens fire and brimstone in further court proceedings that would stop the commission from being sworn in and beginning its work. He claims that the matter is now sub judice in the criminal courts. Of course, it stopped us in our tracks. We have no choice but to let the criminal char
ges run their course.”

  GANI! BRILLIANT AND ERRATIC, a great humanist and compulsive loner, more than deserving of his Bruno Kreisky Award for Human Rights, yet nearly every colleague, collaborator, or beneficiary of Gani, virtually without exception, has gone through a phase of temporary derangement, wondering whether it would not be much better, for the sake of the very cause that Gani advocated, if he were to be heavily sedated, kidnapped, and hidden away, then revived and released only when the challenge had been resolved. Commissions of inquiry, even when cynically instituted, are productive exercises guaranteed to reveal much outside the official “terms of reference.” In short, commissions provide the very opportunity to expose even what they attempt to conceal, thus throwing the issue back onto the court of public judgment and, sometimes, future reckoning. The one-judge commission set up to investigate the 1977 burning of Kalakuta Republic, the commune of the musician Fela Anikulapo Kuti, under Obasanjo’s regime, cynical though its formal conclusions were, did succeed in removing all ambiguities in the public mind concerning the question of guilt. The role of Obasanjo’s military regime was laid bare beyond all doubt, and the exercise gave birth to what became a public refrain for all suspected state crimes thereafter: “Unknown soldier.”

  Dele Giwa’s murder predictably aroused public outrage at its most intense, a passion for truth and justice at all costs, and Gani had placed himself, as always, at the forefront. It was during this heated period that Gani encountered one of the accused, Colonel Togun, at the airport, and the defiant manner of that officer had produced the expected reaction in the volatile advocate: he not only openly accused the colonel and his superior, Halilu Akilu, of Giwa’s murder, he also proceeded to seek the leave of the courts to file a private criminal suit against the two officers. Gani had set a trap for himself. His request was granted and he sued. Never averse to publicity, he also continued his campaign of open accusation in the media, naming names.