Once Upon a Time in Lagos: Episode 4

 

To begin following my plan, I got out an atlas and looked at a big map of Lagos, paying particular attention to its closeness to Abeokuta – a neighboring city. My plan was to get off to some neighboring village or a city, where I could hide at some motel or guest house for some time. I decided to do this because I would be like a trapped animal in Lagos. I was convinced that Abeokuta or Sagamu areas would be best, for as a black American I could pass anywhere in the  Abeokuta area as an ordinary Nigerian. The only problem I will have is the language, for though my father was an Ibo from Nigeria, I was brought up to speak English pretty fluently. No one I knew at the time had taught me how to speak Ibo language. While I can’t speak the  Yoruba language fluently, I  can write it very well, having learned how to do so from my ex-girlfriend. She was a Yoruba and was an international student at the time, and she had insisted that I should learn her language if I really loved her as I claimed. We dated for three years before calling it quits.

The Yoruba language is the main language of the Abeokuta natives. A few of the residents, particularly those of them that do government jobs, does speak Pidgin English – a grammatically simplified English comprising of English words and local dialects  drawn from multitudes of Nigerian languages. Pidgin English is a popular means of communication among the various ethnic groups in Nigeria: its popularity stemmed from the fact that all the ethnic groups who do not speak the same language understands it. The good news is that most of those Nigerians who can speak Pidgin English also understands the regular English. I figured that Abeokuta or even Sagamu areas  was the best place to go for  their   proximity to Lagos means that I would have a better chance of meeting those residents that speak both Yoruba and Pidgin English. And, from what I could see in the map, Abeokuta or Sagamu areas  were not over thick with population at the time, which also made them perfect hideouts for me.

 

A more detailed search in the atlas informed me that a train left Lagos Terminus, which is located at Iddo Island, at 7.10. If I’m able to catch this train, it would land me at the Sagamu station in the late afternoon, for I heard that Nigerian trains moved very slowly at the time. Well, as good as this move sounds, I still had a problem, which was how to make my way to Lagos Terminus, for I was pretty sure that the five majors must have stationed some of their hitmen outside to watch out for me. At first I couldn’t figure out what to do, but then an idea came to my mind, and I kept thinking about it as I went to bed and slept for three troubled hours.

I got up from my bed at four in the morning and opened my window and curtains a little bit. The faint light of a fine dry season morning was flooding the skies. And, since Lagos was not as urban and noisy as it is today at the time, I could hear the songs of some birds. What happened to my guest still left a bad taste in my mouth, and I was still very worried about my situation. My inclination was to let things slide, and trust to the Nigerian police taking a reasonable view of my case. But, once again,  as I reviewed the situation I could find no arguments to bring against my decision of the previous night, for I was convinced that even the American Embassy officials will find it hard to believe me unless I can provide them with a very convincing and verifiable evidence. So, with the bad taste still in my mouth, I resolved to go on with my plan. I was not trying to be a hero – I was only not ready to go looking for trouble, if you know what I mean.

I hunted out a well-used blue jeans trouser, a pair of strong black boots, and a light-blue  T-shirt. Into my pockets I stuffed a spare t-shirt, a Tweed cap, some washcloths, a tooth-brush and a toothpaste. I had withdrawn a good sum of money from the bank two days ago, just in case Mr. Reddington should need money, and I took three-hundred naira of it (a large sum in those days) in one of my belts. That was about all I needed at the time. Then  I had a bath and shaved off my moustache.

 

Now came the next step in my plan. Adeyemi, my house boy, used to arrive punctually at 7.30 in the morning and let himself in with a spare key. But at about twenty minutes to seven, the  newspaper man turned up with a loud croaking sound coming from his  old motorcycle  and deposited a copy of the Daily Times outside my door. The Daily Times was a popular Nigerian newspaper at the time and I paid for a special subscription to have a copy delivered to me every morning and to my lab office every day. Anyway,  I had seen that newspaper man sometimes when I had gone out for an early  morning walk. He was a young man about my own height and complexion, and with a moustache just like mine. He also wore a dark green uniform with the Daily Times logo inscribed at the back of the shirt. The problem now became that I have already shaved off my moustache. However, I was convinced that his uniform will do the trick. So, I staked all my chances on this newspaper man.

I went into the darkened visitor’s room where the rays of morning light were beginning to creep through the window and curtains. There I breakfasted off tea and  three slices of buttered bread from the cupboard. By this time it was almost six o’clock. I put a packet of my Benson and Hedges cigarettes in my pocket and as I was about to get a box of matches on the table, I saw Mr. Reddington’s wallet. To me that was a good omen. That prompted me to lift the cloth from his body. When I did that, I was amazed at the piece and dignity of his dead face.

“Goodbye, my good friend,” I said. “You did not deserve this fate and I’m gonna do my best to get justice for you. Wherever you are, I want you to wish me well.”

Then I hung about the corridor waiting for the newspaper man. That was the worst part of my plan, for I really want to get out of this house. Six-thirty passed, then six-forty, but still there was no sign of him. Where the hell is this guy? Why did he chose this day of all days to be late?

At about a minute after the quarter to seven I heard the sound of his motorcycle  outside. I opened my door and there was my guy the newspaper man, singling out my newspaper  from a bunch he carried and whistling through his teeth. He jumped a bit at the sight of me, for he usually knock first before I opens the door to collect my paper from him.

“Good morning to you, sir,” he said.

“Morning, my good friend,” I replied. “Could you come in here a moment? I want to talk to you.”

“No problem sir”, he replied.

I led him into my sitting room.

“I’m sure you are the type of guy who doesn’t mind winning a lottery,” I said.

“What do you mean, sir?” he asked.

“I need a favor from you,” I said. “How much are all the newspapers you have here worth?”

“You mean all of them?”

“Yes.”

“Two naira fifty-five kobo,” he said.

I brought out my wallet and gave him six naira. His eyes almost fell out of their sockets.

“Thanks a lot sir!” he said.

“You are welcome,” I replied and, as he was about to get up and leave, I said, “Don’t go yet. I want you to do me a favor. Lend me your cap and your uniform for ten minutes, and here’s a twenty naira note for you.”

His eyes opened even more at the sight of the twenty naira note, which was a large amount in those days. Even his cap and his uniform together are worth less than two naira. He grinned broadly.

“Why would I do that?”  he said.

“It’s a game – a bet,” I replied. “If I win the game, you will also win another twenty naira note from me. You don’t wanna win this twenty naira note?”

“Em, eh, you know…,” he began to say, but I cut him off.

“Look mister,” I said, “I haven’t got the time to explain the details, but for me to win, and for you  to win this twenty naira I’ve got to be a newspaper man for the next ten minutes. All you have to do is just to stay here till I come back, see?  It’s not that hard, right? I know you will be late in your delivery, but believe me nobody will complain, and you will have the twenty naira note for yourself.”

“You are the boss, chief,” he said. “You can have them all – my cap and my uniform, newspapers and all.”

I put on his Tweed cap and his dark green uniform, picked up his bag containing all the newspapers he had with him, banged my door and went whistling downstairs. The landlord’s son at the foot told me to shut my mouth or else, which sounded as if my disguise was adequate and that he doesn’t recognize who I was. He later apologized when he discovered that the noise was coming from me.

At first I thought that the street was empty, but then I caught sight of a policeman holding a baton in his hand about a hundred yards down the street, and a man wandering aimlessly past on the other side of the street. Some impulse made me raise my eyes to the house opposite. What I  saw almost sent me into a spin. I saw a face at the first-floor window and, as the man wandering aimlessly on the other side of the street passed he looked up. I was very sure that a signal was exchanged between them.

I crossed the street, pretending to whistle happily and imitating rough movement of most newspaper vendors. Then I took the first side street, which was almost deserted at the time. I went up a left-hand turning which led past a bit of an elementary school play ground. There was no one in the little street and I believe I knew why: it was not even seven o’clock in the morning yet, so people are still either indoor getting ready for work or are preparing their children for school. So I dropped the bag of newspapers beside a signboard, making sure it was leaning on its pole. And, taking off the cap and the uniform, I placed them on top of the newspaper bag. I had only just buttoned my shirt when another newspaper man came around the corner. I said hello to him and he answered me inattentively. At that moment, the clock of St. Dominic’s Catholic Church, which was the only church in that neighborhood, struck the hour of seven.

I knew I didn’t have much time left. As soon as I got to the end of the street where the elementary school was located, I flagged down a taxi and jumped in, giving the driver Lagos Terminus address. While inside the taxi, I looked at my watch. It showed five minutes past the hour. Luckily for me, there was little  traffic on the road due to the time. At Lagos Terminus I had no time to take a ticket, let alone that I had not settled upon my destination. A station clerk showed me the platform, and as I entered it I saw the Sagamu bound train already in motion. I saw two station officers blocking the way but, somehow, I was able to dodge them and jumped into the last carriage.

About three minutes later, as we were roaring through the rail line heading to Sagamu, a furious  guard confronted me. He knew there’s nothing he could do at this time since the train is already in motion. He’s not going to push me out of the train, even if he had wanted to. He wrote me a ticket to Sagamu and took me from the first class compartment where I was sitting to the third class compartment. At the time, the third class compartment was occupied by  a photographer and a young  woman with a child.  He then went off grumbling about how disruptive some customers could be and as I mopped my brow I told my companions it was too risky to catch trains that’s already leaving the station. I was just trying my luck to see if they understand English or Yoruba and, to my surprise, they did.

“You are a foreigner, correct?” the photographer asked.

“Yes and no” I replied. “I’m an American, but my dad is a Nigerian – an Ibo”

“Very interesting,” the young woman said. “But that’s not a reason for that stupid guard to treat you like that. Just ignore him, you hear? Most of them are not even qualified for the job but were hired anyway, simply because they ‘knew somebody who knew somebody’, you know. That’s why they disrespect the customers.”

The photographer agreed, and I started my new life in an atmosphere of protest against Nigeria’s authority. I reminded myself that about a week ago I was as bored as a louse, and had been finding the Nigeria too dull a place.

 

END OF EPISODE 4

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 5, which  will be published here next Sunday.

 

Once Upon a Time in Lagos: Episode 3

 

Sometimes being afraid is the most reasonable thing you can be. This was what came to my mind after I saw Mr. Reddington’s corpse on the floor of my visitor’s room. I sat down in an armchair and felt as if I was going to throw up. That lasted for, perhaps, five minutes, and was followed by an intense feeling of more fear. The poor staring face of Mr. Reddington on the floor was more than I could bear. With great effort I managed to get a towel in the bathroom and covered it. Then I staggered to a cupboard in my kitchen, found the whisky and quickly swallowed two mouthfuls.  I mean, I had seen people die violently before; indeed people got shot almost every month in the streets of Baltimore City. However, this cold-blooded indoor murder of my guest, Mr. Reddington, really hits home. Still I managed to pull myself together, even though I was convinced that I was in a very hot soup. I looked at my watch, and saw that it was ten-thirty.

Suddenly an idea seized me, and I went over the flat with a small knife I found in the kitchen. There was nobody there – not even a trace of anybody – but I shuttered and bolted all the windows and doors. The good thing was that there was electricity so I could turn on my air-conditioner to deal with the heat. By this time my mind have calmed down and so I could think again. It took me about an hour to figure out what to do. I did not hurry because  I told myself that, unless Mr. Reddington’s killer came back, I had till about six o’clock in the morning to think about my plans and put them into action.

I had no doubt in my mind that I was in a big trouble – that was pretty clear. Any shadow of a doubt I might have had about the truth of Mr. Reddington’s story was gone. In fact, the proof of it was lying under the towel in my visitor’s room. The men he was running from – possibly, the five majors of  the Nigerian Army or the people working for them, who knew that he knew their plans to take over the government – had found him, and had silenced him. The problem now is, he had been in my flat for four days and his enemies – the five majors and their clique – must have reckoned that he had confided in me. So naturally, I would be their next target. They might decide to take care of me to make certain of my silence that very night, or tomorrow, or even the day after tomorrow; but the bottom line here is that my days are numbered.

Then suddenly I thought of another idea. Why not just inform the police, I told myself, or go to bed and let Adeyemi find the body and inform them in the morning? If I do that, what kind of story was I to tell about Mr. Reddington? I had lied to Adeyemi about him, and the whole thing looked desperately fishy. Suppose I tell the police everything Mr.  Reddington had told me, what would be their reaction? They would simply laugh at me. The odds were a million to one that I would be charged with his murder, and the circumstantial evidence was strong enough to put me in prison or  hang me, for capital punishment for murder was the law of the land in Nigeria at the time. By the time the real truth comes out, I will be already dead. Apart from the American Embassy and my research assistants, few people knew me in Nigeria; I had no real friend in the country who could come forward and swear to my character. And even if American Embassy is able to convince Nigerian government to save my life and send me back to America, my situation will not be better. I would definitely be sent to prison for murder  and that will be the end of my career. Perhaps that was what the five majors and their clique were playing for. They played this one very beautifully, since a Nigerian prison was as good a way of getting rid of me till after January 15^th as a knife in my chest.

For some reasons that I could not explain, I decided that I must survive this. Somehow or the other the sight of Mr. Reddington’s dead face strengthened my determination and also made me a passionate believer in his scheme. Yes, he was gone, but he had taken me into his confidence, and I was pretty committed to carry on his work. That could be my ticket to surviving this problem. My malaria research in Nigeria will have to wait. I will explain to Dr Black and to my lab assistants later, when this problem is over.

You may think this ridiculous for a man in danger of losing his career and his life, but that was the way I looked at it at the time. I may not be a brave man, but I hate to see a good man like Mr. Reddington downed, and that long knife would not be the end of him if I could play the game in his place.

I spent about two hours thinking the whole thing out. Suppose I contact the American Embassy and tell them the whole story? Well, like Mr. Reddington said, I must have concrete evidence to back up my story before I can do that. That will be the only reason they will believe me and then take the risk of informing Nigerian government. Right now I have no such evidence except what Mr. Reddington told me, which I have not really verified. Not only that, they may not believe my story anyway given that I am somehow linked to his murder. They might think that I am trying to lie myself out of the problem. My problem will become more complicated if they don’t believe me because of Mr. Reddington’s murder since they may decide to send me home to face trial. Besides, how will I contact them anyway? Remember, this was in the 1960s. Only a few rich Nigerians have telephones at their house.  I definitely don’t have any telephone in my flat, even though it was one of the most luxurious flat in Lagos at the time. There was nothing like the internet or cell phones either. The quickest way to send a message then was through the telegram. But then you will have to get down to the post office first, which at this point is too risky for me since my enemies will be waiting to pounce on me outside. Getting to the American Embassy, which is also located in Victoria Island is also risky: the street where it was located is very far from my house. These people are very smart: I’m sure they must have known by now that, as an American citizen, the first place I will run to hide myself will be  the American Embassy. So, naturally, they must have their men stationed on the way to the American Embassy, waiting for me to show up. In any case, I wasn’t planning on going there anyway, so it is out of the question.

While all these were going through my mind I came to a decision: the best option for me would be to vanish and remain vanished till the end of the second week in January. Perhaps I may get something more concrete and convincing to add to Mr. Reddington’s tale. Then I must somehow find a way to get in touch with either the American Embassy or the Nigerian Government people and tell them the whole story. I wish Mr. Reddington had told me more before his death, and that I had listened more carefully to the little he had told me. Right now, I knew nothing but the barest facts about the five majors and their clique. And, like I have noted earlier, there is still the risk that I would not be believed in the end even if I’m able to weather the other dangers. In plain terms, I must take my chance on my decision and plan, and hope that something might happen which would confirm my tale in the eyes of the American Embassy officials or the Nigerian Government.

I told myself that my first assignment was to keep going for the next three weeks. It was now the 22nd day of December. That means that I have about twenty-two days of hiding before I could venture to approach the American Embassy or the Nigerian government. I reckoned that three sets of people would be looking for me: Mr. Reddington’s enemies to put me out of existence, the Nigeria Police, who would want me for Mr. Reddington’s murder, and my lab assistants who would want my direction to close the lab so they can spend the Christmas with their families. I wasn’t too worried about my lab assistants though. I’m more worried about the police and Mr. Reddington. I knew then it was going to be a serious hunt, and I was surprised how the prospect comforted me. Since I came to Nigeria, apart from my research work,  I had been slack so long that any chance of activity  that is not my regular work makes me excited. When I had to sit alone with Mr. Reddington’s corpse and wait on ‘mother luck’ I was no better than a bored Alsatian dog. But now that my own safety lies on a balance I seemed to be prepared to be cheerful about it.

The next thing that came to my mind was whether Mr. Reddington had any papers in him that would give me a better clue to the whole five majors’ business. I drew back the towel and searched his pockets, for by this time I was no longer afraid of his dead body. For a man who had been so violently struck down in a moment, his face was wonderfully calm. I found nothing in his shirt pocket, and only a few loose coins, a small knife,  and a stick of cigar in his trouser pockets. Also, there was a gold cigar case in the side pocket of his jacket. There was no sign of his diary – the one that had a black cover – in which I had seen him making notes. I had no doubt that whoever was his killer took it. 

As I looked up from my task, I saw something that made me scared again: some of my drawers had been pulled out in my writing table. I knew that Mr. Reddington would never have left them in that state, for he was one of the tidiest American I have ever seen. So, what I had seen means that someone – perhaps, an intruder – must have been searching for something such as a wallet or any other such items. I became more scared when I went round the flat. What I found was these: everything had been ransacked – drawers, cupboards, dresser, inside boxes and books, the sideboard in the dinning room and even the pockets of the clothes in my closet. I could not find the book. To say the truth, I wasn’t surprised that the enemy had found it, but they have not found it on Mr. Reddington’s body...

 

 

 

 

END OF EPISODE 3

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 4, which  will be published here next Sunday.

 

Once Upon a Time in Lagos: Episode 2

 

I came home from my office at about three o’clock on that December afternoon feeling pretty well depressed. By that time I had already spent three months in Nigeria, and was fed up with it. Even though I took a taxi home, my trip was very rough. The stress of going home that afternoon started as my taxi passes through Ojuelegba, a suburb in Surulere Local Government area of Lagos. On both sides of the roads are stalls selling clothes, sandals, and food items. The entire streets was full of hawkers, who are mainly little children and women who weave between lanes of traffic selling drinks, ice water, snacks and newspapers to commuters trapped in their cars in Lagos’ notorious gridlock. Besides one of the stalls, near a disused railway line, is a busy minibus terminal, popularly called ‘motor parks’ in Nigeria. Dozens of minibuses jostle for space in spectacular paint jobs promoting the Rangers Football Club, wrestling stars such as Power Mike, hotels and all forms of confectioneries. As new vehicles arrive their conductors lean out of the doors shouting out destinations such as Yaba and Victoria Island, some of the suburbs of Lagos, and the fares to those the destinations. I do understand some of the things they say, having learned the Yourba language(the predominant language of Lagos residents) from my ex-girlfriend. But still, to an outsider like me, the whole scenario seems chaotic. But for the locals, it is very normal. They know exactly how it works: a bus departs when it is full, and the next bus moves up and the process is repeated.

By the time my taxi reached my house in Victoria Island, my head was spinning. If anyone had told me a few months ago that I would have been feeling this bad about Nigeria, I would have laughed at them. The electricity situation didn’t make things easy either. When it comes to electric lights, Nigeria is one of the most darkest nations in Africa. Just imagine not getting electricity for a whole day and when it finally comes it only lasts a few hours before it goes off again. That means you cannot use your fan to cool down your body in the afternoons and evenings, which were usually hot. It also means that you cannot  ward off mosquitoes at night in this hot, tropical country.  “Jideofor Okorie,” I kept telling myself, “you are in a wrong place, my friend, and you had better hurry up and go back to America.”

This thought made me to bite my lips and I remembered the plans I had been building up before my trip to Nigeria. I had earlier figured out all kinds of ways of enjoying myself while in Nigeria. I had never been to Africa before, so Nigeria was a sort of Gulliver’s Travels story to me, and I counted on making the best of it and eventually retiring there.

The problem was that from the first I was disappointed with it. Now, don’t get me wrong: the Nigerian people, their food and weather were excellent. What made me feel bad about the country is the level of corruption among its politicians, the frequent blackouts and the crazy traffic in Lagos, and, above all, the heat and mosquito bites that often accompanied the blackouts. That aside, life in Lagos was, to some extent, exciting. However, in less than a month, I had had enough of going to restaurants that don’t sell burgers and sandwiches and of cinemas that always had to deal with frequent blackouts. I had no real friend to go to, to cry on her or on his shoulder, you know, which probably explains things. I do have plenty of American diplomat friends in Nigeria who invited me to their houses, but they didn’t seem much interested in me. They would ask me a question or two about what was going on back home in America, and then  get on with their own affairs. A lot of diplomats asked me to dinner to meet some researchers and even editors from Britain, which was a strong ally of America. But to me, that was the most boring encounter of all that I had while in Nigeria. Here was I, twenty-six years old, sound in mind and body, with enough money to have a good time in Nigeria, but yet yawning my head off all day due to mainly loneliness. I had just about settled to clear out and get back to Baltimore, for I was feeling like the most bored man in Nigeria.

That afternoon I had been talking to one of the diplomats   about what we are missing back home, just to give my mind something to work on. And on my way home I turned into my club – Lagos Colonial Sports Club. It was a big club with a lawn tennis court, a swimming pool and a tavern and bar. I had a long drink at the bar and read the day’s newspapers. They were full of stories of ethnic tension between the Hausas, the Yorubas, and the Ibos – the predominant  tribes in the northern and southern Nigeria. There was an article about two popular politicians in Nigeria: Dr. Azikiwe, the President, who is an Ibo and whose agenda was to bring unity among all the tribes in Nigeria; and Chief Obafemi Awolowo, the Premier of Western region who is the political godfather of the Yoruba tribe. There was also an article about Alhaji Tafewa Balewa, a politician from northern Nigeria who was also the country’s Prime Minister at the time. For some reasons that I could not explain, I liked the guy. From all accounts he seemed to be a straightforward and principled man, and he seemed to be less corrupt too, which was more than could be said for most of Nigeria’s politicians at the time. I gathered that they hated him pretty much in the south-eastern and south-western Nigeria – the region inhabited by the Ibos and Yoruba tribes respectively – but that Britain, which is Nigeria’s colonial master, is going to stick by him. One of the newspapers, called the Daily Times, said he was the only barrier between Nigeria and civil war.

I remember wondering if I could get a job at one of the universities  in eastern Nigeria when I complete my research, since my dad, an Ibo, came from that region of Nigeria.  It struck me that eastern Nigeria was the sort of place that might keep a guy like me from yawning.

About six o’clock I went home, dressed, dined at Federal Palace Hotel, and turned into Nigeria Film Unit, a government-owned outfit consisting  of combined cinema and music hall. I did not stay long there because the movie they were showing wasn’t interesting to me. The night was fine and clear so I decided to walk a little before flagging down a taxi that will take me to my flat at Victoria Island. The crowd surged past me on roadsides and the streets, busy and chattering. To say the truth,  I envied the people for having something to do. Almost all the people I saw in the streets – young boys and girls, shopkeepers, and even the policemen – had some interest in life that kept them going. I gave a fifty-kobo note – a large sum of money in Nigeria currency in those days – to a beggar because I saw him yawn; he was a fellow-sufferer. On getting at a roundabout I looked up into the moonlit sky and made a vow: I will give Nigeria another week to fit me into something other than my malaria research. If nothing happened, I will call Dr. Sheldon Black and tell him I have changed my mind about this research. They should send someone else to replace me. With the structures I had already set on the ground, I thought, whoever will replace me won’t have any problem completing this research on malaria.

My flat in Victoria Island was the first floor in a new block behind Ozuomba Mbadiwe Avenue. While there was a common staircase, there was no restaurant or anything of that sort in the building, and each flat was basically shut off from others. I don’t believe in keeping servants on the premises as was common among Americans living  in Nigeria in those days, so I had a young boy to look after my domestic affairs who came in by the day. He arrived before nine o’clock every morning and used to leave at four, for I seldom dine at home.

After walking some distance, I later on took a taxi home that evening, and I was about to fit my key into my door when I noticed a man at my elbow. It was Michael Reddington, and I had not seen him approach. So his sudden appearance made me start.

“Jesus! You scared the death out of me, Michael!” I exclaimed.

“Jesus have nothing to do with it, Jideofor Okorie”, he said. “Anyway, do you have a minute? Can I speak to you? May I come in for a minute?” I noticed that he was trying to steady his voice  with an effort.

I opened my door and let him in.

As soon as he entered my flat, he made a dash for my back room which I used as my reading and my visitor’s  room. Then he bolted back.

“I hope your door is locked?” he asked feverishly.

“Of course it is,” I replied. “What’s the problem, Michael? You are acting  very strange today.”

“I’m very sorry,” he replied. “I’ve known you for only a few months and, for some reasons that I could not explain, I feel I can trust you. You’ve been on my mind all week. Say, can you keep a secret?”

“Well, Michael,” I said. “I will listen to your story.  That’s all I’ll promise. But to keep a secret? That depends on what it is.”

I motioned him to a sit, and he sat down.

There was a tray containing vodka, whisky and soda on a table beside him, from which he poured himself a stiff whisky and soda. I watched him as he drank it off in three gulps, and cracked the glass as he set it down.

“Pardon me, Jideofor,” he said. “I’m a bit nervous tonight. I know you won’t believe me but I happen at this moment to be dead.”

“What are you talking about,” I said as I sat down in an armchair and lit a cigarette. I was pretty sure that I’m dealing with a crazy man. “So, what does it feel like to be dead?”

He smiled, and then said, “I know what you are thinking – that I am crazy. But, I’m not, at least not yet. Like I said before, I am convinced that I can trust you, and that you are not afraid of playing a bold hand. So, I am going to confide in you. Jideofor, I need your help.”

“Go on with your story,” I said, “and I’ll tell you if I can help.”

He seemed to brace himself for a great effort, and then started on the strangest story I had ever heard in my life. At first, I couldn’t figure out what he was saying, and I had to stop and ask him questions. I told myself that this guy, who have been so helpful to me this past few months, is crazier than I thought. Anyway here is the gist of his story:

Just like me he was a black American(an African-American) from Maryland, and after getting a college degree in journalism and been pretty well off, he had started out to see the world. He wrote a bit, and acted as the war correspondent for the Baltimore Sun during the Congo crises of 1960 to 1965. He had spent a year or two in London, before moving to Nigeria. I gathered that he was a good linguist too, and that he could speak the three major Nigerian languages(which are Ibo, Hausa and Yoruba) very fluently. As such he had got to know and mix pretty well with the people who matters in the Nigerian society. He spoke familiarly of many names that I remembered to have seen in Nigeria newspapers.

He had researched and written articles about Nigerian politics, he had told me, at first for the interest of them, and then because he couldn’t help himself, since he was a black American trying to find his African heritage. From his story I concluded that he was a smart, restless man, who always wanted to get down to the roots of things – a very dangerous thing to do with African politicians. So it wasn’t too surprising that he got a little further down than he wanted.

I will describe what he told me as well as I could remember. Most Nigerians at the time are not happy with their politicians, he said. Everyday the headlines were filled with stories of corruption and embezzlement of public fund by the country’s politicians. Not only that, there are also stories of ethnic violence and insecurity in the country. And a lot of people, particularly the Ibo tribes who have established very successful businesses in the northern Nigeria, have lost their lives and properties to ethic violence in that region. While all these was going on, the politicians were doing nothing practical enough to stop them. Instead they were busy filling their pockets with public money.  Away behind all the drama going on among the Nigerian politicians there was a big secret movement going on in the country, engineered by five majors in the Nigerian army. Simply put, the goal of this movement is to take over the government through a coup d’état and either kill or put these bad politicians in jail. He discovered this secret movement by accident and it fascinated him. He decided to investigate further and then he got caught. I gathered that, apart from the five majors, most of the rank and file members of this movement were the elite corps of the Nigerian military – the type of people who can easily take over governments. And behind them were the civilian financiers who were playing for money. A smart and rich financier can make a lot of money, he explained,  if the coup d’état he sponsored becomes successful, for the simple reason that the new military leaders will shower him with lucrative government contracts.

He told me some more interesting things about Nigeria, things that explained a lot of things that have puzzled me about the country – how the three major tribes that made up the country had distrusted each other, how one tribe, namely, the Ibos, suddenly came out on top of the other tribes by producing the first president, the first general of Nigerian army, how they occupied the top positions in both the federal and regional civil service, and how they came to own most of the businesses both in the north and in the southern part of the country. He also explained to me why this is the main cause of the tension between the Hausa and the Ibos, why there seemed to be a sacred alliance between the Hausas and the Yorubas, and why other smaller tribes in the country, particularly the Tivs, the Urhobos, the Itsekiris and the Ijaws,  feel alienated and marginalized. He noted that this state of the affairs means that Nigerian people are more loyal to their tribe than to their country, friends and co-workers. He said that tribal loyalty, which is even somehow promoted by some Nigerian politicians, has been elevated to dominate national discourse, control how Nigerian people think and talk, and determines what they oppose or support. Hence merit and excellence are sacrificed on the altar of tribal loyalty, with the result that the wrong people are hired into government ministries or are awarded key government contracts simply because they are ‘connected’ to certain politicians in power. And because such people lacked merits, they cannot provide what the country needs. He said that that was  why Nigeria continued to be held back by corruption and lack of basic amenities – unreliable electricity supply in which blackouts sometimes lasts for several weeks, bad roads, no standard water supply systems, poor sanitation and poor health services. Meanwhile the smart people, the incorruptible professionals and the intelligentsia who can really do things that would create jobs and improve the lives of Nigerians are completely  sidelined simply because they were not ‘connected’ to any of the politicians or to the establishment. He said that the goal of the secret movement headed by the five majors, who are all Ibos, is to take over the government and fix these problems.

When  I asked why these majors think they can succeed where the politicians have failed, he said that their argument is that because, as military leaders, they will rule by decrees which cannot be debated in any house of parliament before they are enforced. This means that they can change things in Nigeria faster, unlike the acts of parliament that must be debated in the house of parliament for months(and even years) before they could be passed into laws, which sometimes may not even  happen at all. So these majors thought that seizing the government  via  a coup d’état would give them their chance to change things for good overnight through military decrees.

“Do you wonder?” he said. “More than five years after Nigeria’s Independence Nigerians has seen their country’s wealth withered with little to show in their living conditions. While most Nigerians wallow in abject poverty, they watch government officials and the politicians who were supposed to represent them loot public funds with impunity. They watch top government officials and ministers flaunt their wealth with reckless abandon while they, the poor citizens, were struggling to meet their basic needs and  their schools, hospitals, roads, water supply, electricity  and other basic amenities fail. In fact, most Nigerians, including the military establishment,  believe there were no men of good character among  the political class that are ruling the country. The simplest way to put this is that the mindset of Nigerian top civil servants and politicians was based on politics for material gain, making money, and living well. So as you can see, to these majors, taking over the government will be the solution to all the sufferings caused by these politicians.”

I could not help saying that Nigerians are indeed been betrayed by their politicians and government officials.

“Yes, of course,” he said. “But I don’t believe that the military take over of the machinery of government will be the solution. I think it will be the worst thing to happen to Nigeria. The military will have absolute power when they become in charge of things and, as you know, absolute power corrupts absolutely. It will be only a matter of time before the same military leader who was preaching rectitude in public service becomes both corrupt and dictatorial themselves. And this is why I intend to stop these five majors  by exposing them. But I have to find a way to stay alive first. Unless I can keep alive for an additional month the five majors and their secret group are going to execute their plans and win.”

“But I thought you were already dead,” I said.

“I will come to that in a minute,” he smiled. “I’ve got to put you wise about a lot of things first. If you read the Daily Times, I guess you know the name Alhaji Tafewa Balewa?”

I sat up at that, for I had been reading about him in the Daily Times that very afternoon.

“He happened to be one of the few honest politicians in Nigeria,” he said. “Unfortunately, he and other politicians has been marked down by the five majors since last year. I found that out – not that it was difficult, for any journalist who knows his job well could guess as much. But I found out the way they were going to get him and other politicians, and that knowledge was deadly. That’s why I had to die.”

He had another drink and, this time, I poured it for him myself, for I was getting interested in his story.

“They can’t get him in Bauchi, his homeland, for he uses special bodyguards comprising of only his tribesmen, the Hausas. Unlike his regular official government security outfit that comprised of Nigerian policemen who can be bought off with money, these special bodyguards are ready to loose their lives to save his. But on the 15^th day of January, he will be going to Dodan Barracks, the largest military barrack in Nigeria. The occasion is the official promotion ceremony of ten military officers to the rank of Major General – a very important ceremony in Nigerian Army. Usually, a  ceremonial  role is of this type is reserved for the president, Dr. Nnamdi Azikiwe, according to Nigeria’s Constitution. However, Dr. Azikiwe is not in the country now – he is away on an official visit to America. So,  Alhaji Tafewa Balewa will represent him in this important ceremony.  And, if these majors have their way, he will never attend that ceremony. They will get him at his official residence in Ikoyi, Lagos, before daybreak on the 15th.”

“Well,” I said. “Your problem has a simple solution. Why not just warn him of this coming danger? And, what about the US Embassy? They are not going to let the prime minister of their ally country murdered and its government taken over by the military. Tip them off  and they’ll conduct investigation and warn him.”

“I will eventually do that,” he said. “But first, I need to gather more concrete evidence. What I have now is just not enough. These majors and their cahoots are very smart. If I inform the prime minister,  they will simply go into hiding. It will be as if they never existed. And, if in the end,  the prime minister and his government found that the information I gave them did not reveal anything, I might be tagged a ‘prophet of doom’, an enemy of the state, and will be probably deported. The same thing can happen with the US Embassy: if I inform the Ambassador and he lunches an investigation, it will be a big embarrassment for US government if it turns out to be mere rumors. This might hurt US-Nigeria relations.  The Ambassador may even lose his job for wasting the Embassy’s resources to investigate a rumor that is not backed by solid evidence and for creating an unnecessary climate of distrust between two friendly countries. My own punishment will even be the worst: If I get deported for spreading false rumors against a friendly nation, I will become blacklisted by all major newspapers in America. They will start to treat me like the ugly girl at the dance, which means that no newspaper or magazine in America will trust me enough to hire me or to even publish my work. That will be the end of me, Jideofor. It will be the end of my career, and I don’t want that to happen to me. So before warning the prime minister and tipping off the US Embassy or even the CIA about these majors, I must gather more concrete evidence,  like getting them on tape  having a meeting, or getting my hands on the minutes of some of their most recent meetings which will contain their signatures, you know, stuffs like that. That way, I can build a complete dossier on them that will be solid enough to convince the prime minister and the US Ambassador.”

“And, how are you gonna do that?” I asked him.

“I’m still working on it,” he said. “Like I said earlier, I already have some evidence to show the prime minister and the US ambassador. But they are not solid enough to convince them to act or to warrant an immediate  investigation yet. The problem is that I am in danger now. These majors and their group knows that their plans is not going to succeed if there’s a certain man who knows some details of their business and who is alive right here in Lagos  on the 15^th day of January. And that man is me, your friend, Michael Reddington.”

I was getting to like this guy even more, not just because he was my anchor person in Nigeria, but also for the simple reason that he was very smart. His jaw had shut like a rat-trap, and I can see what looked like the fire of battle in his brown eyes. If what he was telling me were lies, he could indeed act up to it.

“Now tell me,” I said. “Where did you find out this story?”

“I got the first hint in the Nigeria Army’s Officers’ Mess. I was invited there by a friend of mine who was one of the senior army officers at Dodan Barracks. And, no he wasn’t involved in the plot. Anyway, that set me inquiring, and I collected my other clues by attending two secret meetings the majors had in Cotonou, Benin Republic -  Nigeria’s neighboring country. I wasn’t in the meeting per say, but I was a guest at the hotel where they had the meeting. I collected a lot of evidence while in Cotonou, but I can’t go into the details now – no offense. I was able to cover my tracks very well and I left Cotonu for Lagos just five days ago. Till last night I thought I had covered my trail very well, and was feeling pretty happy about it. Then…”

The recollection seemed to frighten him, and he gulped down another glass of whisky.

“Then, I saw a strange man standing in the street outside this block. Unless there’s something important at my office,  I usually stay in my room all day writing my articles. I only slip out after dark sometimes just for an hour or two. I watched this guy for a while from my sitting room window, and I thought I recognized him. He came in and spoke to our landlord’s teenage son. When I came back from my walk last night, I found a business card that was glued to my door. In the card was the name of the last person I want to meet in my life.”

From the look in his eyes, and from the sheer naked scare on his face, I had no doubt in my mind that he was telling me the truth. I couldn’t help asking him, in a sharp voice, what he did next.

“I realized that I had opened a can of worms, and that there was only one way out for me: I had to die. I also realized then that my pursuers will stop  hunting for me if, and only if, they were convinced that I was dead.”

“How did you swing it?” I asked.

“I told my house-boy that I was sick, and I got myself up to look like someone who’s about to die that day. That wasn’t difficult for me because I’m pretty good at disguises. Then I got a corpse – that wasn’t difficult either. You can always get a body in Lagos if you know where to go for it. After enclosing the corpse inside a large carton which I  sealed completely with strong tapes, I put it in the trunk of my car and drove home. Of course I was stopped by the police but, as you know by now, Nigerian police are the most corrupt force it Africa. Give them a couple of Nigeria’s naira and they will just pass you through. So you can see why it was easy for me to hide the corpse and take it home. On reaching my house, I had to be assisted upstairs to my room. You see, I had to pile up some evidence just in case people start asking questions about what happened to me.”

He stopped to drink more whisky, and then continued, “I went to bed and told my house-boy to give me a valium, and then told him to clear out. He wanted to get a doctor for me but I convinced him that I will be okay. As soon as he left I started to fake up the corpse. The corpse was my size, and was basically a guy just like me, which was good. But it smelled like someone who died from drinking too much alcohol. Because of this, I put some vodka and other drinks handy about the place. The face of the corpse doesn’t look like mine, so I blew it away with a short gun. I believe there will be  somebody in the flat downstairs who will swear to having heard a shot, but I made sure that every tenants upstairs had left for work before I took the shot. In any case, nobody came upstairs to my flat to find out what was going on so I figured I should proceed with my plan. I left the body on my bed dressed up in my  pajamas, with the short gun lying on the bed clothes and a considerable mess around. In my wardrobe are some of the clothes I had kept waiting for emergencies. I got into a suit and checked out my appearance on a mirror. I wasn’t looking that bad. Of course  I dared not shave for fear of leaving tracks. Besides, I don’t feel like going out that day anyway. I had had you in my mind since the morning today. I had no choice but to ask for your help. I watched from my window all day until I saw you come home. I told myself that that was the right time to make a move. So I slipped down the stairs to meet you. There, Jideofor, I guess you now know about as much as me of this thing that is about to happen.”

He sat blinking like a wood pigeon, fluttering with nerves and yet desperately determined to stay alive and achieve his goal. But then, I was a little worried because what he just told me was  the strangest story I have ever heard in my life. The truth is that I had heard many strange tales in my lifetime and some of them had turned out to be true. Besides, he was my contact person in Nigeria, the man that helped me to get my lab opened and  settle down to work. In spite of that, however, with him I still have to cover my bets: I still  have to be careful when doing things like this irrespective  of my relationship with the person involved.

“Let me hold your key,” I said. “Before I can let you stay in my flat I will like to take a look at the corpse. Now you will have to excuse my caution. The truth is that I have to confirm that part of your story to make sure my ass is properly covered, you know.”

He shook his head sadly. “I reckoned you would ask for  my key. I really don’t have it with me here. I left it on my dressing table. To avoid leaving any clues that would bring suspicious, I left it behind. Look Jideofor, you have to understand that these men who are now after me are pretty smart soldiers. You will have to take me by my word tonight. Then tomorrow you will confirm the truth in the corpse version of my story.”

I thought for about a minute or two, and then said, “Sure, I will take a chance with you tonight – just for tonight.  But to do that, I will have to lock you into this room and keep the key. Just one word,  Mr. Reddington: I owe you large  for helping me settle down in Nigeria. And I believe you are telling me the truth. However, if you have a plan to harm me then I should warn you that I’m very good with the guns.”

“Not a problem” he said, getting to his feet. “I really appreciate your decision to help me out, the way I got your back when you needed someone to  help you plant your flag in Nigeria. I have one more favor to ask: could you lend me your razor or barbing kit? I will need to disguise myself more, to avoid detection completely.”

I took him into my bedroom and gave him what he asked for. He then proceeded to my bathroom. About thirty minutes later, a figure came out that I scarcely recognized. Only his brown, hungry eyes remained the same. He was shaved clean, and he had cut both his hair and his eyebrows. Also, he carried himself as if he had been trained , and was the very model of some American Army officer who had had a long spell in Africa. He had an eye glass too, which changed his appearance even more, making anything that will identify him as ‘Michael Reddington’ to disappear completely.

“My God! Mr. Reddington –“ I stammered.

“I’m not Michael Reddington anymore,” he corrected. “At least, as of now. I’m now Captain Dicle Wood of the US Army(retired), presently in Lagos on leave. And, it is important that you remember it sir.”

I made him up a bed in my visitor’s room. Then I sought my own couch, being more relaxed than I had been for the past month. Indeed things do happen occasionally, even in this corruption-ridden country.

I woke up next morning to hear my house-boy Adeyemi moving back and forth at the kitchen, which is adjacent to the visitor’s room. I could hear the sound of a local music coming from the radio in the kitchen, which indicated that he was either preparing my breakfast or he was cleaning the kitchen. Adeyemi was a good boy, and he couldn’t be more than 16 years at the time. He had been my housekeeper since I arrived in Nigeria. Even though I paid him for doing the job, we had become very close friends. So I knew I could count on his loyalty.

“Stop the noise, Adeyemi,” I said. “There’s a friend of mine, Captain – Captain Dicle Wood sleeping down there. Get breakfast for two and then come to the sitting room. I want to talk to you.”

I told Adeyemi a fine story about how my friend was a very important government official at the American Embassy  – a retired captain of the US Army and a diplomat whose nerves are pretty bad from overwork. I also told him that he wanted absolute rest and stillness. Nobody had got to know he was here, or he would be besieged by the Nigerian press and by communications from the prime minister’s office. And both he and I do not want that to happen. Mr. Reddington played up splendidly when he came to breakfast. He fixed Adeyemi with his eyeglass, just like a US diplomat, and asked him about the tax riots in western town of Ogbomosho, that resulted to the execution of Oba Olajide Olayode – a local ruler in western Nigeria at the time – and five of his cabinet chiefs. He also slung out at me a lot of stuff about imaginary friends. Adeyemi hardly call me ‘Sir’, but he ‘sirred’ Mr. Reddington as if his life depended on it.

Later that morning, I left Mr. Reddington with a pack of Benson and Hedges cigarettes, and went down to my lab to work with my assistants on my malaria research. When I got back the landlord’s son had a sad face.

“A very bad thing happened here this morning,” he said. “The gentleman in flat number 4 upstairs shot himself. They just took him to the mortuary after contacting the American Embassy. The police are up there now examining his stuff.”

I quickly climbed the stairs and entered flat number 4, which was my friend Mr. Reddington’s flat. On getting there I  found a couple of officers busy making examination. I deliberately asked them a few stupid questions just to see if they identified any foul play. My questions seemed to annoy them, and soon they kicked me out of the flat. Then I saw Mr. Reddington’s house-boy and spoke to him briefly. But I could see he suspected nothing. He was feeling so sad that I gave him one Nigerian naira note and was glad that it went far to console him.

I attended the joint meeting between American Ambassador and the Nigerian Inspector General of Police at the Lagos Police headquarters office. At the meeting, they discussed the possible cause of death. Both party found it a case of suicide while of unsound mind. Remember, this was 1960s and there was nothing like DNA testing and other ways of making reliable identification of a cadaver. In the end, both the supposed Mr. Reddington’s  cadaver and  all of his stuff were handed over to the American Consul to deal with. Later that day I gave Mr. Reddington a full account of the affair, and it interested him greatly. He told me he could have attended this meeting because he reckoned it would be as  interesting as reading  one’s own obituary notice.

The first two days that he stayed with me, he was very peaceful and happy. He read and smoked a bit, and continued to write things down in his diary. I was happy though, that I have a companion that can play the game of chess with me every night, you know. I think he was nursing his nerves back to health since, from the things he told me earlier, he had indeed had a pretty trying time. But the third day was different as I noticed he was beginning to get restless. He showed me where he wrote down  a list of the days till January 15 in his diary and how he ticked each off with a blue pen. Each time he ticked a day off, he makes remarks in shorthand against them. In the evening of the third day, I found him sunk in the bed in my visitor’s room, with his eyes abstracted. When I asked him what was the matter with him, he grinned and replied that I shouldn’t worry about him, that he was just fine.

Then a few days later, I could see that he had begun to get worried again. He listened for little noises, and was always asking me if Adeyemi could be trusted. In one particular evening, he got so worked up that, noticing that I had began to feel the pressure, he apologized to me. I didn’t blame him, and I willingly gave him a pass for his strange behavior, for he had taken on a really dangerous job.

Surprisingly, what worried him was not his safety but the success of his plan. To say the truth, I have to give him some credit: he has a lot of balls. He was full of grit, without any soft spot in him.

One night he was very silent. Then, suddenly, he said to me, “Say, Jideofor, I believe I should let you a bit deeper into this business. I wouldn’t like to go out without leaving somebody I can trust to put up a fight.” And he began to tell me in detail other activities of the majors and their group.

I was less interested in the rest of his story. The fact is, I was more interested in his adventures as a journalist living in Nigeria, than in his story about the coup plot. What an exciting job he had! He knows so much about Nigerian politics in particular and in West African politics in general. I reckoned that Prime Minister Balewa and his affairs are not my business, leaving all that to him. As a result, I did not bother to remember everything he said, and most of his stories slipped clean out of my memory. But I do remember that the danger to Prime Minister Balewa would not begin until he emerges from the gate of his official residence on or before January 15, and would come from the very highest quarters in Dodan Barracks, where there would be no thought of suspicion. He mentioned the name of Prime Minister Balewa’s Chief of Security – Major Adewale Ademoyega – as having something to do with the danger. He would be a decoy, I gathered, to get Prime Minister Balewa out of the care of his guards. He talked, too, about Code 777, which is a signal code beings used by the five majors and their crews;  and about one Major Timothy Onwuatuegwu who was an Ibo man from eastern Nigeria, and about one solder that always speaks in pidgin English. He also described very particularly Major Kaduna Nzeogwu, who he never referred to without a shudder – a young soldier who always blinks his eyes each time he speaks.

He said a lot about death, too. He was mortally anxious about preventing these majors from taking over the government, but he didn’t care a bit about his own life.

“In my view, death is like going to a deep sleep when you are pretty well tired out and waking up to find a bright summer day with the scent of magnolia flower coming in at the window. I used to thank Providence for such mornings way back in America, and I guess I’ll thank Him when I wake up on the other side – the  Great Beyond, if you know what I mean.”

Next day he was much more cheerful, and read the life of Fela Kuti, a popular Nigerian musician at the time, much of the time. I went out to dinner with my lab assistants that evening, and came back about ten-thirty in time for our game of chess before going to bed.

I had a Benson and Hedges cigarette in my mouth, I remember, as I pushed open the visitor’s room door. The room was dark, which struck me as odd. I wondered if Mr. Reddington had gone to bed already. I turned on the switch and did not see him on the bed as I expected, given that the room was dark. Then I saw something in the far corner of the room – something that made me drop my Benson and Hedges cigarette and fall into cold sweat. I almost forgot to stub out(extinguish) the light on the cigarette.

 Mr. Reddington was lying sprawled on his back. There was a long knife through his heart.

Whoever stabbed him with this knife definitely used a very strong force because the knife basically pinned his body to the rugged floor.

END OF EPISODE 2

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 3, which  will be published here next Sunday.

 

 

Once Upon a Time in Lagos: Episode 1

When you have a passion for something, you have to go for it, there’s no other way.  You have to give everything you have to achieve your dream. Otherwise, what’s the point.  That’s the kind of love and passion I had for Africa, and is the reason that made me to accept an offer from  Dr. Sheldon Black, my dissertation chair,  to conduct a malaria research in Nigeria in the 1960s.

Prior to this offer, I was  a doctoral student majoring  in Public Health at the University of Maryland. Now, don’t get me wrong. This is a dissertation research that can help me to plant my flag in the academic community. The fact that I have never travelled outside United States since I was born made the offer to be more enticing too. Not only that, I was somehow convinced that this will be an opportunity for me to meet my long lost dad who, according to my late mum, is a Nigerian. In spite of that, I did not accept the offer  immediately. I had wanted to make sure that it is for real, you know.

If what I  have been reading in the newspapers are accurate, the 1960s was actually a bad  period  for Nigeria. The country  gained independence and said goodbye to Britain in 1960. A   year later, the country started going through a series of riots and political instability that destroyed the fragile trust existing among the Hausas, the Ibos, and the Yorubas, who were  the most prominent among the two hundred fifty  ethic groups in the country. This was followed by even more riots and violence in which many people lost their lives. It was total chaos. And it was at this time, when the country is embroiled in a charged political turmoil, that my dissertation committee decided to send me there to conduct a research.

Now, the Department of Public Health at the University of Maryland received a big grant from the National Institute of Health(NIH)  for their research on tropical diseases. Convinced that Nigeria had a large population and better health facilities when compared to its African neighbors, my department chose to fund research on malaria in that country. Not only that, the malaria parasite seemed to be endemic in Nigeria, which made their choice look logical. Since none of the professors are willing to risk going there due to the state of the country at the time, they called a meeting to look for a sacrificial lamb. At the time, I was an ABD(all but dissertation) graduate student. ‘ABD’ is a term used to describe a doctoral student who has completed all the course work and comprehensive exams and is about to start his research. So when the department needed somebody they could trust  to carry out this research, who’s better than me?  I have been in that department for only three years  and I had the whole professors amazed because of my stellar grades. And who was the best person to send to me if not Dr Black, my committee chair?

Dr Black was a powerful man in Maryland  at the time. He even plays gulf with Millard Tawes,  the state governor at the time. But Dr Black also took orders. So when he was told to reach out to me, he did what he was told. Deep inside me I knew this was a good opportunity for me. I mean, who could resist? Without the offer, I will be just a regular graduate student, always broke, hassled by professors who will be supervising my doctoral research. But with this offer, I will be researcher Jideofor Okorie, a well-paid foreign scientist in Nigeria. I will not only be independent but will be running a full lab with workers under me, and in the academic community that is a big deal.

But, like I said before, I wanted to make sure they were not bluffing when they sent Dr. Black to me. So I pretended to resist the offer.

“No disrespect Dr. Black,” I said. “I don’t know how I could do this. I am an inexperienced researcher anyway, for Christ’s sake!  Nigeria’s Health Ministry would never give me the necessary co-operation I need for this study. ”

“Of course they will,” he replied. “Malaria is endemic in that country, accounting for more than 60 percent hospital visits. There are more deaths due to malaria in that country  than any other African country and they really need help in keeping the disease in check.”

“What happens if they refuse to work with me?”  I asked.

“Why would they refuse?” He replied, looking surprised. “We are putting in almost $40 million in that country to help them deal with a deadly disease. So why would they lock us out?”

I kept quiet for a while, then said: “This is really a tough proposition Dr Black. I want to graduate quick because I have student loans to pay. This study will take a long time to complete and the more I stay in school, the more I will have to borrow and pay for my tuition.”

“If you accept this proposition, you will plant your flag in the academic community; and, when  you do that, believe me,  you won’t have to worry about your student loan because the university will take care of it,” he said, smiling.

To me, that was really a great news. My student loans erased? It was music to my ears. I mean, that’s really good.

“ If I did it, I’d have to run the whole research  my way, sir,” I said. “And, I’m serious. Not interference from the department or the Research Board.”

“Nobody gonna interfere with you conducting this research Mr. Jideofor Okorie.  I guarantee that,” he promised. Then he added, “How did you got that name ‘Jideofor’ anyway?”

“My dad was a foreign student from Nigeria,” I explained.  “My mum met him when he was studying Chemistry at John Hopkins University. They later broke up and he went back to Nigeria after his studies. Soon my mum found out that she was pregnant with me, but she couldn’t locate my dad. So she gave me his name.”

“So, that makes you a Nigerian?” he asked.

“I suppose so” I said.

“Very interesting story!,” he said. “You see, your Nigerian heritage actually means you are the right person to conduct this research. Who knows – you may end up locating your father.”

That statement lit a candle inside my mind. I had thought about it before, and now he had said it. That is indeed true!  I became even more excited that they chose me for this research. Visiting my father’s land in Africa can be a big score. My mum told me that my father is from the Ibo tribe, and that he told her that Nigerians can trace their kindred using their last names.  I decided that as soon as I’m done with the research, I will look for my father. What a happy reunion it will be!

So with my paper work ready within two weeks, I was shipped down to Nigeria in the harmattan season of 1965. On reaching Nigeria, I was introduced to my contact person, a man named Michael Reddington. An investigative journalist from United States, Mr. Eddington was a slim man, with a short brown beard and small, brown eyes. He was a black American like myself, and he was  the person who introduced me to the big shorts in Nigeria’s Federal Ministry of Health in Lagos. He was also very smart – he was able to cut through all the red tapes and, within two months, I have my lab and two lab assistants, and my research took off without any hitch. Another good thing is that he lives in the same building that I was staying – basically, he lives in a flat on the top floor of the same building. This means that I can easily contact him if I needed more help, you know.

END OF EPISODE 1

P.S. Episode 2  will be published here next Sunday.