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.