PATRON OF TERROR

by Adimchinma Ibe

  For nearly fifty years, oil had been pumped from beneath the creeks, swamps and forests of the Delta, an area the size of Scotland. The oil earned the companies and the Government billions. Yet the communities in the Delta lived in poverty. Most of the promised development projects, the schools, roads and electricity--never materialized. Instead of progress, the Delta’s land and water have been polluted by oil spills, the air ruined by the constant burning-off of natural gas.

  In the 1990s the military ruler invited people from the Delta to the new capital, Abuja, for talks. The idea was to ‘solve’ the Niger Delta ‘problem’. When they saw the modern roads, bridges and high-rise buildings, they realized what oil money could do. And how little of it they had seen. When he met with them all he offered was talk and empty hands.

  That was when the trouble really began.

  If I was going on pride and emotion, this leader of the resistance was the guy to go with. He was fighting for everything the Niger Delta clamors for. He was fighting for their rights and for their hope as a people.

  “What about the kidnappings?”

  “Not us.”

  “Who?”

  “Wariboko. That and some killings was why we left. Too many people have died already, too many lives perverted.”

  “And who’s behind Wariboko?”

  “We’ll get to that. I want to show you something, journalist. Let’s get out of here.”

  He took us outside. The rest followed close by, Tari at his right. The man did like to talk. Ade did his best to get it all as he took us through the camp and village. We walked along sandy paths, among huts of driftwood, thatched palm fronds and rusting corrugated iron, stopping to talk with the villagers, who were either fishermen or farmers.

  The concrete jetty, they told us, was one of the few development projects they had seen become reality. It helped as fishing was their livelihood. But the jetty had proven useless these days because most of the fish had gone away. The villagers blamed a sunken barge, about two kilometers upstream. They said it had been leaking oil for half a year.

  No clean water, no electricity, shacks falling into disrepair, unemployment.

  They showed us the brackish well, the half-completed school. They showed us the oil-damaged nets. Between the diminishing fish and the nets, they could not earn a living, and even finding food was getting tough. Food they were not afraid of eating, that was even tougher to find.

  Violence and kidnappings? He condemned, in front of the militants. He said it undermined their struggle to get greater local control of the oil wealth. But that he understood why some of the violence took place, if it was self-defense. The boys seemed in agreement.

  From the bank of the river we watched a line of six small Nigerian navy patrol boats passed by the village. They were headed back to their base--the military's attempts to ensure security for the oil operations by making a show of themselves.

  We ended up back inside the building.

  30

  This room had a computer.

  Ebiegberi took my flash drive and put it into the computer, then downloaded a file. It only took a moment. He opened the file on the drive. I saw several documents and videos. Then he ejected the flash drive and handed it back;

  “We don’t like what happened to Puene any more than you. It’s time to stop the violence, and that means stopping it at the top. Henry was going to help us. He’s gone. You take this and use it.”

  “What is it?”

  “Handwritten meeting notes, receipts, emails, security videos. We have collected them over the years. Even tried to show them to people we thought would do something. And here we are today. Trying again. But now the file is a lot bigger. And it has some cell phone calls we overheard. And recorded. Maybe this time, you can do something with it, Mr. Journalist.”

  He looked at me and smiled. If I had been a journalist, I would have apologized. I was a cop. “Will this,” I said, looking at the flash drive in my hand, “put anyone away?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  “Watch the tapes,” Was all he said and began to walk towards the river bank.

  Back in the boat with the kid speeder and Tari, I turned to face Ebiegberi who stood and watched us load our gear and get on the boat. I wanted to know one more thing.

  “What about Senator Pepples? Where does he fit in?”

  “Senator Pepple is okay. He’s provided us with backing to try and get the Government to listen to our grievances. The Governor is the bad man here.”

  “Governor Fangbe?”

  “We knew for a long time he was on the wrong side. Then he came to Wariboko, and offered to help him. Wariboko ate it up. It was phony from the start. Wariboko became Fangbe’s private army, or at least one of them.

  “We broke away when we found out Governor Fangbe wanted to use us. We don’t involve ourselves with those kind of politics. We have no interest in supporting the system. That’s why we’re no longer part of the SSND. Fangbe’s in charge and he tells them what to do.”

  “And proof of that’s on the flash drive in my pocket?”

  He nodded.

  “So Wariboko’s Struggle for Survival of the Niger Delta were responsible for the Puenes death? At the bidding of the Governor?” I couldn’t believe it.

  “That was Wariboko’s hit man, Boma. He stayed behind after we split. Boma also killed the Puenes. He was the one that shot Henry too and after he shot Sodienyie Pepples too before Sodienyie got him. Sodienyie died in hospital last night we heard.”

  He shook his head. “Fangbe is a sinister man. If his boy is elected, he becomes untouchable in the State. The man is into every thing. His racketeering cuts across oil bunkering, crime and vice.”

  All this was news to me about the Governor. If the flash drive had the evidence they claimed, he was a far better politician than I’d ever realized.

  “So it’s Wariboko behind the political conflict, some in robbery and extortion, the oil bunkering?”

  “Not all of it. There are several smaller groups, most just bunkerers. But Fangbe uses his money to arm his boys and rig elections. For years he’s siphoned-off oil from well heads and pipelines to sell on the black market. He has a big operation. Us? We can’t afford to bunker crude. You need to be well run, organized. His operation is that, and has international connections. That’s part of what he offered Wariboko. It’s Fangbe’s plan for when he is no longer Governor. He’ll no longer be in charge of the political machine. He wants a source of income and an organization in the Delta he can partner with, and he found it.”

  “Or, he has that and keeps power through his puppet, if that works out,” I said.

  “And the cash keeps flowing.” Tari chuckled. “What the Governor doesn’t know is that Wariboko has plans of his own. He’s planning on double-crossing the Governor as soon as the elections are over, and the new boy’s in power.”

  I shook my head. “Don’t tell me. Some of the most damning stuff on the flash drive, Wariboko slipped to you, his rivals. To get rid of his partner, for him.”

  “You’ll find phone calls or room recordings about killing Puene. Abducting the INEC Chairman, but to make it look like kidnapping. He’ll be found dead. That is supposed to be next. See you around.” And he walked away.

  The boy gunned the speedboat engine, and a little under an hour the speedboat returned to the original dock. Ade and I got off, Tari remaining in the boat. Behind us the white minibus waited.

  “Thank Ebiegberi for the information, Tari. It will make a great story.”

  Tari grinned. “A story, detective? Why write a story when you can arrest somebody?”

  He must have seen the apprehension on my face.

  “Let’s say I forgive Sam this time. Turns out this time we needed a detective more than a newspaper reporter,” Tari said smiling. He waved us off.

  And the speedboat took off.

  Epilogue

  Based on what was on the flash drive, especially the recorded p
hone calls and room conversations, Fangbe was arrested that night. It was pretty dramatic. Even the Commissioner was there, to show us support (given the evidence was undeniable).

  The rioting never reoccurred.

  It took two more months of work to finish the case, then it went into court. After the first breakthrough all sorts of supporting evidence came forward. It took a vote of the House of Assembly to waive the Governor’s immunity, so he could stand trial. He was kept in detention as his organization was taken apart.

  It felt pretty good.

  Wariboko continues, but weakened. The People of the Niger Delta dropped him like a tonne of bad crude when they learned he was behind the violence. They support Ebiegberi.

  I stood outside the court building after the arraignment. My colleagues brought the handcuffed Fangbe out of the courtroom, on his way back to detention.

  He was being held without bail.

  I walked up to him. “Hi there.”

  When he saw me his eyes turned ugly and he spit at me.

  I dodged it.

  I never saw him again.

  Freda? She never called.

  Neither did Ruth.

  I still live alone.