by Wole Soyinka
There was an ominous incident at the French airport that morning, and perhaps it played a role in the airline’s decision not to land in Lagos—unlike others flying from other European airports. At the beginning, it did look as if it were simply another false alarm—an absentminded passenger had left a shopping bag on a bench, and the area was cordoned off. The French SWAT machinery went into action, and eventually the package was blown up in a mild, controlled explosion. It was sufficiently near our departure gate for my curiosity to be aroused, so I spoke to one of the police officers who had been left behind to guard the debris. The bag, it turned out, had contained a small radio. After poking through it, the bomb squad had determined that the radio was packed with some timers, detonators, and other bomb-related materials, though it contained no real explosives. The owner of the bag could not be traced, but everything pointed to him or her as being one of the Lagos-bound passengers. It was not a comfortable prelude to returning home. I could not help surmising that the owner had panicked for some reason—perhaps at the sight of an approaching officer—and decided to abandon the compromising baggage. Was this linked in some way to the confrontation that was building up in the nation over the aborted elections?
Knowing the volatility of Lagosians especially, a delay of even a day or two might mean that it would become impossible to enter Lagos at all. It was not a pleasant prospect, having to wait out the protests in Europe. How would I explain it to others? How would I explain it even to myself, who, after all, bore the responsibility for traveling out just before the planned eruptions? The airline staff proposed that the next day’s flight might be able to enter Lagos and offered to put the passengers up for the night. That was not only dangerously late for me, but there was no guarantee that the next flight would not undergo the same fate. There was only one solution—to fly into neighboring Cotonou with Air France, then travel overland to Lagos the following morning, by taxi if necessary. I had friends in Cotonou from whom I might be able to borrow a car and a driver. I would play it by ear. This was one instance when I definitely lacked prescience, but my passage into exile was about to begin—only I was journeying in the wrong direction.
Paulin Houtounji was minister of culture in the Republic of Benin at the time; he was a feisty academic philosopher with a small, compact frame, now tending toward a slightly comic rotundity, who never allowed his stammering impediment to prevent him from saying whatever he had in his head. On arrival, I decided, I would check in to a hotel, then contact him. Air France may have exaggerated the Lagos situation—other flights did land without any problem in Lagos, we found out later—but then, many passengers also found themselves compelled to pass the night at the airport and all of the following day, and the next, as the streets were impassable. Still, if I wanted any confirmation about the grimness of the situation in Lagos, Paulin soon settled that for me when I appeared in his office the following morning. He snorted his disbelief, struggled with his stammering for even longer than usual, then exploded.
Lagos? He declared to everyone within earshot that I was mad. He had no problem providing a car to take me to the border at Seme, but after that, I would be on my own. Both his car and driver, as well as his secretary, were at my disposal for as long as I needed them, but I would discover, he assured me, that Seme was as far as either could go, no matter how willing they were. No vehicles had been able to cross the border for the past thirty-six hours. Official diplomatic vehicles, commercial transport, whatever—everything was being turned back. Paulin insisted that his secretary accompany me in the hope that, along the way, she might talk some sense into me and bring me back in time for a reunion lunch in the sane environment of Cotonou.
I must confess here to an irrational presumption of my ability to penetrate any space, however hostile. It has to do, I suspect, with a deeply lodged rejection of restriction of my movements, be it on the authority of the state, of an individual or circumstance, or of some material impediment directed at me, personally or generally. Perhaps it is not so much irrational as it is nonrational; that is, I tend not to subject such challenges to the process of reasoning. If the space is obviously unbreachable, then, of course, it simply never occurs to me to want to go there. It poses no challenge whatsoever since it has placed itself beyond my human interest. Need also has something to do with it: Do I need to go from Apanla to Oponlo? I do? Good! I need, therefore I shall. Obstacles are supposed to disappear, simply because oga49 needs to go. It is one of the mysteries of my existence—looking back, that is, oh yes, only on looking back after the event, after several such instances. Only then does it strike me that I have conducted myself in a nonrational manner. At the time, however, the situation is outside the province of reasoning. Have need, will travel. End of doubts and beginning of motion.
THE APPROACH TO the Nigeria-Cotonou border told the story at first glance. For miles we cruised past a long line of vehicles parked along the road right up to the border, unable or unwilling to cross. On the Benin side of the border, a few quickly conducted interviews with motorists painted an even bleaker picture.
I crossed over to the Nigerian side of the immigration post. There I met those who had earlier risked penetrating the Nigerian space beyond the safety of the border post. They returned within an hour of their venture either with damaged vehicles or with depleted pockets, having been forced to pay a toll for getting even as far as the first roadblock mounted by demonstrators. Check-mate? Well, at least I was now standing on Nigerian soil. I sent back Paulin’s car, his secretary’s voice ringing in my ears till the last moment, urging me to return with them and take up the lunch offer in the affable company of Paulin.
The taxi drivers on the Nigerian side were mostly strolling aimlessly around the border post, usually a beehive but now unnervingly emptied of any noticeable motion. They lolled in the tree shade or hung around the exits with their eyes strained in the direction of Lagos, determined perhaps to be the first to catch any bit of news emerging from there through some luckless traveler. I stood with my all-purpose bag in front of the Immigration office. Resting against a windowsill was an easily identifiable secret service agent—the notorious SSS—perhaps the one in charge of that sector. He recognized me, looked astonished, but was instantly alert. I told him that I needed to get into Lagos.
“Prof,” he said, “I don’t think it is wise to go into Lagos today. In fact, I don’t think you’ll be able to get in at all.” He waved his hand in the direction of the idle groups of men and abandoned vehicles. “None of them will risk it. Some tried, and they’ve brought back sad stories.”
“And you? What kind of stories have you got?”
“Stories? That’s what I have just told you.”
“Intelligence reports,” I said bluntly.
He laughed. “Haba, Prof!”
We went among the taxi drivers, and the response was uniform—and firm. Even as we approached, a number of them scrambled up, waiting expectantly. I wasted no time in disappointing them.
“I am in no position to tell you anything,” I said. “I’ve been away nearly a week, so you know more than I do. I flew in only last night from Paris, through Cotonou. That’s because the captain refused to fly us into Lagos. Now, which of you is taking me into Lagos?”
Almost in concert, their gazes fell away, some to the ground, others to overhead wires or distant spaces above my head. Their feet scuffed the dust, and a few shoulders drooped. These were fervent admirers who, in different circumstances, would have fought one another for the delight of dropping me off wherever I chose. This was different. Finally one said, simply:
“Oga Wole, eko o da o.” 50
Yes, I already accepted that Lagos had gone sour. And I understood that it was simple logic not to wish to venture into Lagos. The taxis were their sole livelihoods, and it made no sense to drive them into an inferno. And even risk their lives in the process. The only problem was that I needed to get into Lagos. Surely somebody had to understand that!
Another
proposed that I wait another day, and then we would see how the situation developed. One came forward, pointed needlessly to his bandaged head with a bandaged hand. He proceeded to narrate the hot reception he had encountered, the bloodthirsty gang that pursued him even as he drove his car in reverse gear at full speed until he found a safe place to turn around. He nodded his head in the direction of his clutch of stranded passengers, seated in the shade some distance away.
“Oga, dose na my passengers. You fit go ask dem if you like. Dose rioters break my windshield even as I dey already reversing back. Na God save me self. Hn-hn. Eko ti daru.” 51
“Babangida done spoil everything. Afi ki e ba wa le lo! ” 52
Heatedly I replied, “And how do you expect us to chase him out if you won’t even take me into Lagos?”
One of them spoke decisively. “Prof, you won’t be able to do much if you run into one of those gangs of wild ruffians and get killed.”
SSS interjected at this point, “What are you talking about? Nobody is going to touch Prof, you all know that.”
“Aah, you haven’t seen these ones. Won o m’oju. 53; Many of them are high on drugs. They’d have done their damage before they even recognize who it is.”
“No, they won’t touch Prof,” someone else conceded.
I quickly pressed the advantage. “I tell you what—each time we approach a roadblock, I shall come out of the car so they’ll see me clearly. I guarantee they’ll let us through. If I fail, we’ll simply turn back.”
“Prof, there is something else you haven’t thought of,” offered yet another. “Let’s say we get you into Lagos. How do we get back?”
They all looked up in anticipation—Let’s see how he deals with that. I had no response, of course. I tried to lighten the atmosphere. “I could provide you with a laissez-passer. Special passport. We’ll have it signed on the way in, by the leader of each roadblock.” Only the SSS man joined me in a brief chuckle. The general mood remained somber; the silence was thick with fear.
“Come with me, Prof,” said SSS abruptly.
He led the way to where a solitary driver had remained in his taxi, doors wide open and the seat flattened out as far as it would go, fast asleep. “Hey, wake up!” The driver sat up, rubbing his eyes. “I have a passenger for you,” said SSS.
“Where to?” the man demanded.
“Where to? Where you dey take your taxi go? Lagos, of course.”
The driver giggled and began to sink back into sleep. “Oga, I beg. Make you let man sleep.” Just then his eyes caught sight of me, and he snapped fully awake. “Hey, na Prof! Prof, na you wanting to go Lagos?”
I nodded.
“The road is ba-a-ad. Very bad. This oga no tell you?”
“I know. But we’ll get there, don’t you worry. I’m in the car with you, don’t forget.”
Have need, will travel. As we approached that lone driver, I just knew. Right from the preliminaries, I had deposited my bag on the backseat of the vehicle— this was one fish that would not get away. The same arguments ensued. Yes, maybe they know you, but the first rock that is hurled at the taxi won’t know who you are. And even if we make it, how will I get back? But by now I had thought up a solution to that one. Abeokuta was my ultimate destination, I told him, but if passage to Abeokuta proved truly impossible, I would remain in Lagos. He would stay at my place, no matter what, and leave only when the rioting was over. Someone else would drive me into Abeokuta. He thought deeply about this as I stood over him, vulnerably crouched in the space of the front seat, and mentally bullied him. It was not clear if the SSS man had some hold on him that he subtly exerted or if the man was anxious to rejoin his family, who, he told us, were all based in Ota, halfway between Lagos and Abeokuta. There was the factor also—I felt this instinctively as we made our way toward him—that he had unwittingly rendered himself susceptible by isolating himself from the others. This placed him outside the protection of the collective rationality. No matter why, he finally agreed, comic in his dolefulness, with an air of one who felt he was being led to a place of no return. And thus began the most nightmarish journey of my existence—well, one of the most nightmarish.
THE ROADBLOCKS WERE made up of empty petroleum barrels, discarded tires and wheel hubs, vending kiosks, blocks of wood and tree trunks, huge stones . . . anything at all that could form a barrier for any moving vehicle. The strategy for that day was “Stay home. No movement on the roads,” its purpose being to shut down the cities in a national campaign of civil disobedience. This was where all semblance of uniformity ended. The methods of enforcing the strategy varied from roadblock to roadblock, as did the levels of interpretation.
The freelance hoodlums had taken over, or else they had been conceded place, through plain force majeure, by the authorized monitors of the stay-at-home campaign. At some roadblocks there was a going fee; you paid it and were allowed to pass—but that safe conduct lasted only until the next barrier. Sometimes the fee was a gallon or more of fuel siphoned from your car, and then you were permitted to proceed—until the next barrier. The rows of parked vehicles at various roadblocks, with disconsolate passengers taking shelter in the shade of trees, milling aimlessly about, told the stories of those who had managed to navigate a few roadblocks, only to meet their Waterloo at the next. Some vehicles had clearly run a gauntlet of missiles, cudgels, and even fists; others could have arrived directly from the film set of Jurassic Park—one could have sworn there were abnormal teeth marks in the bodywork. The stories had only slight variations: some drivers had been obstinate, tried to force their way through the vigilantes, or had attempted to point out—logically, they thought— that they had paid “tolls” at earlier roadblocks, and were they not part of the same army fighting for the same cause?
Hadn’t I been here before? I seemed doomed to find myself in a replay, with even the violent faces taking on familiar features. It was 1965 all over again, after the rigging of the elections in the “wild, wild West.” There we were, driving to Lagos in my friend Bola Ige’s car, on the old Ikorodu road, heading for Lagos. The same crowds, the same passion or desperation, the same opportunism, all wrapped in violence, so often gratuitous. Between Sagamu and Lagos, a distance of some forty kilometers, we had encountered no fewer than three dozen roadblocks. Several were within clear view of one another, and the guardians of each barrier clearly saw a vehicle being “cleared” just a few yards away, yet the new set stopped the same vehicle and extorted what money they could before letting it through. The occasional dead body lay on the verge of the road, usually burned to death, some unfortunate political figure who had been recognized and whose crimes, in that mindless moment, were considered to merit instant justice. Faces are either passports or death warrants, depending on circumstances. Fortunately, ours were the former and constantly validated. Again and again we were let through to shouts of solidarity. Some ran ahead and cleared our passage.
Inevitably, however, there would be the totally unimpressionable stalwart who did not give a damn whether it was Bola Ige, Wole Soyinka, Jesus Christ, Mohammed, or even Obafemi Awolowo in person. . . . Who cares who the hell it is? We are su fering. The face becomes one extended snarl, its bloodshot eyes incinerate the air. . . . Who cares? They’re all the same. None of them knows what su fering is. If they want to pass here, they must pay something. Others to the rescue: Are you mad? Don’t you know who these are? But the leveler is unmoved; if anything, he becomes more truculent, interposes his body between the car and the barrier. . . . To hell with all of them! They have to pay, otherwise no way! And the sudden, brittle sound of a bottle smashing against the car and its neck miraculously in the hand of this implacable toll collector, its jagged end pushed virtually into Bola’s face since his was the nearer, mere inches away. You want I put this for your face? Put your hand for pocket and pull out money, my friend! I am frightened for Bola, but inside? Mad, raging mad! But there is nothing to do except play for time, play for those extra seconds until the others can leap o
n him from behind, pin his arms behind him, and yank him away. The scene repeats itself, with variations. Mostly any such extortionist holdup is apologetic, even ingratiating. . . . Oga, we never chop since morning, leave us something make we put for mouth. We do not have to wonder what it must be like for other motorists, since we are sometimes obliged to go to their rescue, vouch for their political bona fides. Finally someone with overriding authority plonks himself down on the hood of the car and we drive steadily through until we have cleared all the barriers around Ikorodu. Our last sight of this sergeant major of the vigilantes is of him commandeering another vehicle going in the opposite direction to take him back to his post; that vehicle is the envy of other motorists.
THIRTY YEARS LATER, and here I am undergoing the identical rites of passage. As we approach each barrier, I poke out my head, and most of the time, this is more than sufficient to clear the way. In between such blissful passages I spend my time trying to guess how soon we will come upon the drug-crazed exception with the burning eyes, one who will refuse to countenance any passage. Before long, we encounter the barracks lawyer. . . . You people gave the orders that everyone should stay at home, now you’re breaking your own rules. I wonder how much more gleeful he would have been if he had known that I myself had initiated the stay-home strategy, selling it to the campaign as a variant on continuous street demonstrations, with their often numbing fatalities—a few days on the streets, the next few within doors. That way, the army and police would not know exactly what to expect from day to day. Stock up on food and drink, close down the towns and cities, turn the streets into ghost spaces, and let Babangida rule over emptiness!