Once Upon a Time in Lagos: Episode 11

When I reached the top of one of the hills in the forest, I sat down and studied my position. Even the village hunters in Sagamu seldom come to this side of the countryside. Behind me was the road climbing through a long V-shaped space in the hills, which was the upper valley of what I believe to be a part of the Ibu river. In front of me was a flat space of maybe a mile, all covered with different kinds of grasses and shrubs, and then beyond it the road fell steeply down another narrow valley to a plain which was also covered with some kind of vegetation. To left and right were round-shouldered, grass-covered hills, one of which I remembered from the map as a good hiding place for me. I was in the central part of a huge Yoruba countryside, and could see everything moving for miles. In the thick vegetation below the road about half a mile back I could see smoke coming from a few huts and houses. These were the only sign of human life. Otherwise, there was only the calling of African fish eagles and black kites, and the splashing of little streams.

It was now about seven o’clock, and as I waited I heard again a faint but steady sound in the air. Then I suddenly realized that my current location might be in reality a trap. This is because there was no good cover for me in this location. I sat quietly, feeling hopeless, while steady sound in the air grew louder. Soon enough I saw the Supermarine Spitfire airplane coming up from the eastern part of my location. At first it was flying high, but, as I watched it approach near my location,  it dropped several hundred feet and began to circle round one of the hills in narrowing circles, just the same way an African hawk wheels before it pounces on its prey.  Now that it was flying very low, I could see some of its occupants. There were two of them and one of them caught sight of me. I also saw him examining me through a pair of binoculars.

As I continued to watch it,  it began to rise in swift whorls. Within a few seconds it was speeding eastwards again. I kept looking at it until it became a speck early morning sunlight.

That made me do some quick thinking. Obviously, my enemies had found me, and the next thing would be to make a cordon around me. I don’t know how many of them would surround me, but I was sure it would be sufficient to catch me. The Supermarine Spitfire airplane had seen my bicycle, and would conclude that I would try to escape by the road. In that case my only chance of beating them would be to go through the forest on my left or my right side. Hurriedly, I wheeled the bicycle about a few yards from the pathway and plunged it into a nearby pond where it sank with the water plants and decaying tree leaves. I climbed to a small hill nearby and from there I had a good view of the valleys. I did not notice any suspicious  movement down there.

Like I said earlier, this place don’t have enough cover to hide me from my enemies. And, as the day advanced it was flooded with sunlight just like any typical West African village countryside. If I wasn’t in a hot soup, I would have liked this place. But, because of my current predicament, the place seemed to suffocate me. The entire place – the valleys, hills and waterbody – were like prison walls to me.

I told myself that I must act fast, even though I don’t know exactly what my next move will be. Putting my hands into my trouser pocket, I brought out a coin and tossed it. I would head north if it landed on its head, and south if it lands on its tail, I thought. It fell on its head so I turned to the north of my location. Soon I reached the top of another hill and from there I saw a dirt road a few miles down the hill. And far down this dirt road I saw something that looked like a moving car. On the other side of this hill is a pathway that led away into the valley covered with short trees, shrubs and grasses.

Now my current lifestyle these past few days had sharpened my eyesight to the extent that I can see things for which most men need a binoculars or a telescope. Soon I noticed that several men were advancing from a couple of miles down the hill so I dropped out of site behind the skyline, convinced that that direction is not the right one for me. So, a better option for me would be to try the bigger hills to the south beyond the dirt road. The car I had noticed, which I could now see very clearly, was a light-blue Peugeot 504 L. It was getting nearer, but it was still a long way off with some very steep slope before it. I was even surprised how they were able to drive it through the pathway up the hills. I ran very fast, crouching low and, as I ran, I kept scanning the sides of the hill and surrounding valley. I could swear that I saw some figures – about two or more – moving in one of the valleys beyond the stream.

If you are surrounded in all sides in a place like this there’s only once chance of escape. You must stay in your location, and let your enemies search it and not find you. That may be a good idea, but then how the hell was I to escape notice in this crazy place? I mean, I can hide inside one of the thick bushes and forests but remember: this is Africa and there could be dangerous animals lurking somewhere waiting to pounce on me. I mean, I could try and bury myself to the neck in mud or lay below one of the streams in the valleys, or even climb one of the tall trees. But I was afraid of snakes, wild animals and poisonous bugs.

Then as I approached a tiny pathway, besides a heap of stones, I found a construction worker who was working on a village dirt road. He had just arrived with his shovel , hammer and wheelbarrow to this section of the road to fix problems in the culvert of the dirt road. He looked at me with tired eyes and yawned.

“Sometimes I regret joining the local government’s Public Works Department,” he said, in Pidgin English.

“How’s that?” I asked.

“I used to be my own master – I used to have a store and a bar - and I was making money but for the fire that burnt down the building,” he replied, and then he cursed the whole world for their injustice. “Now I am a slave to this local government, tethered to the roadside, with a head and a back that hurt as hell.”

He took up the hammer, struck a stone and then dropped it with a big curse directed to a name that I believed to be the name of his local government. He put both hands to his ears and said, “Oturugbeke O! My head’s bursting!”

He looked rough in his work clothes, and he was about my size but much bent. He had about a week’s beard on his chin, and was wearing a pair of big horn eyeglasses.

“I just can’t do it today,” he cried again. “My supervisor should go ahead and report me to the director. I’m going back to bed.”

I asked him what the problem was, even though that was very clear enough.

“What my problem is?” he replied. “I’m just not up to it this morning. I’m still having a hangover from last night. My daughter Toyin got married last night. Me and my guests ate, drank and danced till midnight. And here I am this morning, with a head that’s about to split into two!”

I told him that he indeed needs some sleep.

“Easy for you to say,” he moaned.  “I saw the circular at the local government yesterday saying that the new road supervisor would be around this area today. You see why I’m concerned? I’m going back to bed and I’m going to tell him later that I was sick. I’m not sure if that would help my case, but I will do it anyway. You would do the same thing if it’s you, correct?”

“I guess,” I said, shrugging.

Then it hit me! Here’s my chance to escape my enemies! I told myself that I should either use it or I will lose it.

“Does the new road supervisor know who you are?” I asked.

“Not really,” he said. “He’s just been a week at the job. Why?”

“I may be able to help you,” I said.

He smiled, and said, “Common mister…”

“I mean it, seriously” I interrupted. “Where’s your house?”

He pointed a wavering finger to one house among a group of houses down the road.

“Well,” I said. “Go back to your bed and get a good sleep. I will take your job for now and cover your back. I will see your road supervisor too.”

He stared at me, looking very surprised.

“You don’t even know me,” he said.

“I know,” I replied. “But we still have good people in the world.”

“Are you sure about this?” he said.

“Of course,” I replied.

“Look, Mr…..,” he began to say, but I caught him off.

“What do you have to lose?” I said. “Just let me help you out.”

Again, he looked at me, this time very blankly. Then, as the idea dawned on his confused mind, his face broke into a smile.

“You are the main man!” he cried, shaking my hand. “I’m sure you can handle it. All you need to do is to use the hammer, shovel and wheelbarrow to get some soil and stones. You can get a mixture of fractured stone, sand and fine soil particles with a binding characteristics from a pond down there,” he said, pointing to a location down the street. “ Just use them to cover the this section of the road properly. It will become compacted as soon as people and cars walks over it.”

I told him he had nothing to worry about.

“My name is Emmanuel Obaseki,” he said. “My friends calls me ‘Googled Emma’, for I wear glasses. I’ve been doing this construction work for seven years now. I was a  store and a bar owner at Ewu-Oluwo for twenty years. Just be very polite to the road supervisor and don’t forget to call him ‘Sir’ when you talk to him. That will please him a lot. I will be back at evening.”

 

I borrowed his eye glasses and filthy old hat. I also borrowed his shirt and gave him mine to carry home. He showed me a few more things to do on that section of the road and then happily set off homeward. Though he was going home I was very sure he’s going to have more drinks as soon as he reaches home. I prayed that he might be in deep sleep before my enemies arrived on this scene.

Then I set to work to roughen my appearance to look like a local construction worker. I got my boots and trousers all brown  from the dust of the road. I also worked on my face, rubbing a good deal of dirt on  my cheeks.

I was lucky Mr. Emmanuel left his lunch on a small plastic bag he left beside his wheelbarrow. I ate with great relish a loaf of bread and a bottle of coke he had on the pack. He also had a small bottle filled with water. I drank it too. Under the plastic bag was a local paper, the Daily Times, which was obviously meant to solace Mr. Emmanuel’s mid-day leisure. I just looked at it and then packed it together with the empty bottle of Coke into the plastic bag.

I wasn’t satisfied by the way my boots looks. It must look dirty like a construction worker’s boots. I worked on them, rubbing them hard on the ground to make them look rough and dirty. I’m sure that the men who were looking for me would miss no detail. I broke one of the boot laces and retired it in a clumsy knot. I also loosened the other boot lace so that my thick black socks bulged over the uppers – you know, I did just about anything to make it look rough.  While doing all these, I was expecting that somebody – perhaps my enemies – to show up anytime. But there was no sign of anything on the road. The light-blue Peugeot 504 L I had seen half an hour ago must have gone home.

Having finished the meal, I took up the wheelbarrow  and began my journeys to and from the pond about a hundred yards off,  to get the mixture of fractured stone, sand and fine soil particles with a binding characteristics.

 

 

  

END OF EPISODE 11

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 12, which  will be published here next Sunday.

 

Stem-and-Leaf Plot: How to Construct Them

Once Upon a Time in Lagos: Episode 10

 

As we left his house and drove through a little town two policemen signaled us to stop. We did, and they flashed their torches on us. 

“Sorry about this, Chief Tunde,” they said when they found who he was. “We’ve got instructions to look out for a Peugeot 404 car,  and the description’s like yours.”

“No problem, officers,” he replied, while I thanked God for the strange ways I had been brought to safety. After that he remained silent, for his mind began to think heavily about his coming speech. I could see his lips muttering and I began to prepare myself for second challenge, which may be catastrophic. I tried to think of something to say myself, but my mind was completely blank. Soon we pulled up outside the door of a hall whose name was written in bold as Odudua Hall, and we were welcomed my some noisy gentlemen, who I believe, were politicians.

The Odudua Hall had about six hundred people in it, women mostly, a lot of bald heads, and about two dozen young men. The chairman of the occasion, who they called Chief Dayo, lamented Chief Rotimi Williams’ absence, soliloquized on his illness, and introduced me as an ‘illustrious son of Nigeria who was born in America and  is a trusted advocate of free education.’ There were two policemen at the door, and I hoped they took note of Chief Dayo’s testimonial about me. Then Chief Tunde started.

To my greatest surprise, his speech was good. But he was really nervous. He had a pile of notes from which he read, and when he let go of them he fell into one prolonged stutter. Every now and then he remembered a slogan he had learned by heart, straightened his back, and gave it off like Martin Luther King Jr, and the next moment he was bent double and crooning over his papers. It was a very patriotic speech too. He talked about how Nigerian unity can be guaranteed through social reforms that will eradicate corruption and nepotism and provide free education, quality health care and other things that will enhance the citizen’s quality of life. He was all for civil service reforms, and was totally against the regionalization of Nigeria’s civil service – a practice that had created a lot of distrust among the various ethnic groups in Nigeria. He noted that every Nigerian – whether Hausa, Yoruba, Ibo, Tiv, Itsekiri, and others – should have the right to live, work or do business in any part of the country without fearing intimidation or molestation due to their ethnicity. He also noted that, but for corruption, nepotism, and regionalization of civil service, even the Ibos and the Hausas who had always distrusted each other so much would see themselves as brothers and sisters, - as Nigerians - and not as Hausas or Ibos.  He said that the current state of affairs had created lots of tensions in Nigeria, and that even the Nigerian armed forces, who should be more disciplined and patriotic, are equally becoming polluted with corruption  and cronyism in their domain. It’s only a matter of time before the country explodes. He will work to stop this from happening if he was elected as his local government area’s Chairman, by working with people at grassroots level.

I must say that I loved his speech. You could see his niceness shinning out behind the piles of paper he was carrying in front of him. Also, it took a load off my mind: I may not be an orator, but I was convinced I was more than a hundred percent better than Chief Tunde.

I was convinced I did well when it came to my turn. I simply told them all I knew about free education and how it could turn Nigeria into a great nation. I doubt if I remembered to mention how free education programs was implemented in America, but I said that with free education Nigeria could train professionals who would even out-compete the West in terms of technology, healthcare, and so on. That fetched a cheer, and I woke them up a bit when I started in to tell them a list of more things that they and their families, as well as their constituencies will gain if they really put their backs into free education.

Even though I was convinced that my speech was a success, I somehow noticed that Chief Dayo was not that impressed. When he proposed a vote of thanks, he spoke of Chief Tunde’s speech as “statesmanlike” and mine as “very rhetorical.”

When we were in the car again Chief Tunde was very excited about having got his assignment over. “A very good speech you made there, Jideofor,” he said. “Would you mind coming home with me? As you can see, I am single – well, actually I’m a widower. And if you’ll stay a day or two, I will show you around the town.”

We had a hot supper comprising of garri and egusi soup – a meal I had wanted pretty badly. After that we drank red wine while sitting  in his parlor. I told myself that this is my  moment to put my cards on the table. I saw by Chief Tunde’s eyes that he was the kind of man you can trust.

“Listen, Chief Tunde,” I said. “I want to tell you some important things about me. I’m going to be frank because you are really a good man. Where did you get information about the things you talked tonight?”

His face brightened. “So it was good, eh?” he said, smiling. “I got most of it from the opinion columns of various newspapers and some pamphlets that Gbenga keeps sending me. But you surely don’t think Nigeria’s corruption and cronyism can be eradicated?”

“Ask that question in eight weeks and you will have a disappointing answer,” I said. “I’m going to tell you a very scary story if you have about thirty-minutes to spare.”

“Sure, of course,” he replied.

I can see very clearly the bright room as well as the pictures on the wall, with Chief Tunde relaxing on one of the sofas, and myself lying back in an armchair, speaking. My voice sounded like that of another person, standing aside, listening to myself  and judging carefully how believable my tale of woes sounds. It was the first time I had ever told anyone, apart from Mr. Akin, the exact truth, so far as I understood it, and I was glad I did, for it cleared my mind. I left no detail behind. I told him all about Mr. Reddington, the newspaper vendor, Mr. Reddington’s diary and my doings in Sagamu area. He was both surprised and excited, and he walked back and fort the parlor.

“So you see, Chief Tunde,” I concluded, “you have got here in your house the man that is wanted for the Victoria Island murder. As a good citizen, you are obliged to surrender me to the police. But I don’t think I will get very far if you do that. There will either be some sort of accident in which I won’t survive from, or I would end up being stabbed in my chest an hour or so after my arrest. In spite of that, you still have the duty to turn me in. So, what are you going to do now?”

He was looking at me with surprised steady eyes. “What was your occupation here in Nigeria, Mr. Okorie?”

“I am a doctoral student majoring in public health,” I replied. “And I am conducting a malaria research in Nigeria, the outcome of which I will publish in scientific papers.”

“A very interesting job, right?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

He smiled, and then said, “I believe your story and I don’t want any proof of it. You don’t seem like a murderer to me. You are too smart for that. I’m going to back you up. Now, what do you want from me?”

I was so relieved.

“First, I want you to contact your uncle, Chief Adedibu. I need to get in touch with either the American Embassy or the Prime Minister’s office sometime before January 15.”

He pulled his moustache, and then said, “That won’t help you. First of all, right now you are a man wanted by the police for murder and it will be very hard to make your story stick. Everyone will be thinking that you are only trying to get out of trouble by inventing all sorts of lies. For the same reason my uncle will never believe you and trying to convince him would be like selling meat pies at a vegetarians’ convention, you know. This is what I’m going to do. I will contact  the Secretary to the Western Region Government. He’s my godfather and he would listen to me. He is highly connected to the Nigeria’s Foreign Affairs Ministry, as well as with the U.S.  State Department guys. So, tell me what you want me to say to him.”

We sat down at the dinning room table and he wrote my dictation. The gist of it was that if a man called Patterson(I don’t know why I chose that name, but I  thought I had better stick to it) turned up before January 15 he was to welcome him with open arms. He said Mr. Patterson would prove his bona fides by passing the word ‘Code 777’ or by mumbling  ‘Power to the Action Group.’

“Very good,” he said. “I will tell him I will explain later. By the way, you’ll find my godfather – his name is Chief Aderemi – down at his white mansion in the village, which is not too far from here. Don’t worry, I will show you how to get there. He loves the village and he lives there but works in the city.  One of the good things about having a car, right? He even built  landline wires and poles from the city to his house so he could use a telephone while he’s in the village. I call that a waste of money, but no one can tell the rich how to live. Anyway, tell me the next thing to do for you.”

“You and I are almost the same height,” I said. “Would you mind lending me one of your clothes? Anything will do, so long as it’s something that is traditional Yoruba style, you know – since it will be very different from the clothes I destroyed this afternoon and hence will make it hard for my enemies to recognize me. Then show me the map of this area and explain to me the lie of the land and how I would locate your uncle’s house. Lastly, if the police come looking for me, just show them the Peugeot 404 saloon car in the narrow valley. I’m assuming that you already know what to tell my pursuers if they ever turn up?”

“Leave that to me,” he said.

After he showed me the map of the area and explained to me how and where to locate his uncle, I shaved, took a shower and got ready for bed. The map of Southwestern region that he gave me made me understand my whereabouts, and showed me the two things I wanted to know – where the main railway line back to Lagos can be joined and what were the widest towns and villages nearby. These towns and villages has names that I could not pronounce properly. Some of them include Offin, Itunshokun, Sabo, Ajaka and Isale-Oko, among others.  I also learned from the map that Shagamu is a major market center of the Ijebu-Remo kingdom – one of the kingdoms in Yoruba land. Shagamu later declined in importance in 1892 after the British (the area’s colonial masters) destroyed the Ijebu trade monopoly and after they built the railway from Lagos to Abeokuta – a neighboring town to Shagamu.  Despite the fact that it was mainly rural at the time, Shagamu later regained some of its old significance as a trade center in 1953 after the completion of the Lagos-Shagamu-Ibadan road in 1953 and the opening of a new road to another town known as Benin-City in 1964. What an interesting piece of history, I thought.

At two o’clock he woke me up and led me blinking into the moon-lit night. He brought out an old Phoenix bicycle  from his toolshed and handed it over to me.

“Try and avoid the main roads by all means,” he said. “Just follow the pathways that cut through the forests that I have already explained to you. Believe me, the only people you may encounter this early are the village’s palm-wine tappers going to get down their calabashes from the palm trees and a few late night hunters. Just say ‘E ku aaro’, which means ‘good morning’, to them and continue your journey. They won’t border you at all. By daybreak you’ll be well into the hills that I described to you. Don’t forget that my godfather’s village and house is nearby when you get there. Just dump the bicycle when you get there and continue on foot, for the terrain through the forests there will be difficult to ride on anyway. It will be a long distance walk, but you will recognize my godfather’s house when you see it. Be safe, my good friend.”

I pedaled diligently up the steep pathways of the hill and as the morning mist cleared before the sun, I found myself in a wide forest with valleys falling on every side and a far-away blue horizon. In my mind I was craving for any news of my enemies but, unfortunately, I would not get such news from my current location.

 

 

 

END OF EPISODE 10

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 11, which  will be published here next Sunday.

 

 

Once Upon a Time in Lagos: Episode 9

 

I saw that the main roads in Ijebu-Ode were no place for me. Looking for a way to the rural part of the town, I turned into a nearby dirt road. It wasn’t an easy attempt, for I did not know where I was going. I began to see that stealing the car was a stupid mistake. The damn thing will be the easiest way to identify, locate and capture me especially in this area. Not only that, if I left it and took to my feet, the police or my enemies will discover it in an hour or two and that won’t give me enough time to disappear from their sight.

        I figured that the best thing to do at this point was to get to the loneliest roads. These I soon found when I struck up a tributary of River Ibu, and got into a narrow valley with steep hills all about me, and a winding dirt road at the end which climbed over a pass. Here I met nobody, but it was taking me to a scary place, so I turned right into another dirt road and finally struck a railway line. Away below me I saw another valley, and it occurred to me that if I crossed it I might find some remote village and probably a guest house like the Village Breeze Guest House to pass the night. By now it is getting dark and I was starving, for I had eaten nothing since breakfast except the meal I ate at the Village Breeze Guest House. Just then I heard a noise in the sky, and when I looked up I saw the same Supermarine Spitfire airplane that I had seen before, flying low, about a dozen miles away from where I was and rapidly coming towards me.

        I told myself that on an open space like this I would be at the mercy of the airplane, and that my only chance was to get to the thick rainforest cover of the valley. Moving with lightening speed I drove down the hill, turning my head round whenever I can, to watch the damn airplane. Soon I reached a dirt road between hedges, that went down the narrow valley toward a stream. As I approached the cover of the thick rainforest I slackened speed.

        I suddenly heard the sound of another car on my left, and realized to my greatest surprise that I was almost up a couple of yards away from a compound through which a private dirt road joined the one I was travelling on. I pressed hard on the car’s horn and it gave a high-pitched roar, but it was too late. I pressed my foot hard on my brakes, and  my front tires screeched but the car is not stopping quick enough.  I could see the other car moving towards me. In a second there would have been a very fatal accident. I did the only thing that came to my mind, and turned my car into the hedge, hoping to have a soft landing beyond. That was a bad mistake on my part. My car cut through the hedge the way a hot knife slides through butter, and then gave a scary plunge forward. Seeing what was coming, I leapt on the seat and would have jumped down but for a branch of a tree which lifted me up and held me. I watched with amazement as the car slipped below me, bucked and pitched, and then dropped with a loud splash about sixty feet to the bed of a stream.

        Slowly, I climbed down from the branch of the tree and gently dropped on the dirt road just beside the hedge. As I scrambled to my feet, a hand took me by the arm and my heart skipped a beat. I thought my enemies had finally caught me. But I was wrong, for I heard a gentle voice ask me if I were hurt. On looking up I saw a tall man wearing eye-glasses, who kept apologizing and thanking God that I wasn’t dead. I was glad to be alive too and, once I got my wind back I told myself that this can be one way of getting rid of the car.

“No worries, sir,” I  answered him. “It’s not entirely your fault. I’m guilty too. That’s the end of my Sagamu motor tour though, but it’s better than being dead.”

He looked at me again and said, “You are not from this place, correct? I can see that from your accent.”

“Yes,” I replied. “I am an American but my father is an Ibo man. And I live in Lagos.”

“I like your positive attitude and courage, given that you almost lost your life a few minutes ago,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Look, I can spare about half an hour, and my house is just around the corner. Come on, let me take you there so you can eat, bath and take a nap?”

“That will be a good idea,” I said.

“I guess your stuffs are in the car that just fell?” he said.

“Yes, but I have a few things in my pocket,” I replied. “I’m a writer and I normally travel light.”

“A writer?” he said. “My God! I’ve been praying to meet someone like you for a long time now.”

I  smiled, and then said, “See how lucky you are.”

“Do you believe in free education?” he asked. “In my view, free education is the best policy for Nigeria, especially now a lot of Nigerians were illiterates.”

“I love free education too,” I said.

He shook my hand and then hurried me into his car. A few minutes later we pulled up before a nice-looking bungalow  surrounded by Gmelina trees and other flowers, and he ushered me indoors. He took me first to a bedroom and showed me a wardrobe filled with suits, for my own clothes have been pretty well reduced to rags. I selected a grey suit and borrowed a black tie. Then he took me to his dinning room, where the remnants of a meal that consisted of yam porridge cooked with vegetables and mackerel stood on the table. He told me that he will give me twenty minutes to eat. “I also have some bread and orange juice in the refrigerator. You can take some of it and we’ll have supper when we get back. I’ve got to be at the town’s Civic Center at eight o’clock, or my campaign manager will go ballistic.”

I ate the yam porridge and drank some orange juice, while he yawned away on a nearby sofa.

“I’m in a mess right now, Mr. – , by the way you haven’t told me your name,” he said.

“My name is Jideofor Okorie,” I replied. “How about yours?”

“I am Tunde,” he said. “So, you are Ibo, then? Oh, never mind. I forgot you just told me a few minutes ago”

“Yeah,” I replied. “My father is an Ibo, but my mother is a black American, and I was born in America.”

“That’s even better,” he said. “No alliance to any region. Anyway, we will talk about you latter. Well, you see, I’m one of the  candidates for local government Chairman, and I had a meeting tonight at the Civic Center. The towns in my local government area are strongholds for the Action Group – one of the three most popular  political parties in Nigeria. I had got my journalist friend, Gbenga, who is also my speech writer coming to speak for me tonight and had all the programs planned to go very smooth and easy. This afternoon, I received a telegram from the punk saying he had got malaria at Lagos, and here I am left to do the whole thing myself. My plan was to speak for only ten minutes but now I must go on for about an hour. I have been brainstorming for three hours but couldn’t think of the good things to talk about for an hour. You must rescue me from this problem. You believe in free education and you are a writer. So my people will be convinced when a writer like you tells them how free education can benefit them and help them politically. Even my potential voters will definitely like your speech if you explain how I will make sure that their children gets free education at primary and secondary school level. All you writers have the gift of eloquence  – I wish I had it. Anyway, if you can bail me out of this, I will owe you forever.”

“But I’m not that fluent in Yoruba language,” I said.

“It doesn’t matter,” he replied. “You can speak in English. The people coming there are mostly educated politicians and professionals anyway. So, you have nothing to worry about.”

I was surprised that, unlike America, public education was not free in Nigeria at the time. In any case, I saw his request as my chance to get what I wanted. Meanwhile, Mr. Tunde was far too absorbed in his own problems to think how odd it was to ask a stranger who had missed death by an inch and had lost an expensive car to address a meeting for him on the spur of the moment. But I’m in a jam and I need a way out so I will go with the flow.

“I must warn you though,” I said. “I’m not that good at public speaking. But I will try my best.”

When I said this, he became very excited and he started to tell me the story of his life. He was an orphan, he says, and his uncle who he called Chief Adedibu, had brought him up. His uncle, who  was also a politician, has many of his speeches published in the Daily Times. His uncle made sure that he was well educated. He had gone round the world after graduating from the University of Ibadan, and then, being short of a job, his uncle had advised him to join politics. And, as a Yoruba, it’s very natural that he joined the Action Group, since it was a very popular political party in Western Nigeria which is the ancestral home of the Yoruba tribe. “Good people in all the country’s parties,” he said cheerfully, “and plenty of bad eggs too. I’m a nationalist, because my family have always been nationalists.” But if he was a liberal and is lukewarm politically, he had strong views on other things. He found out that I know a lot about the malaria crisis in Nigeria at the time, and jawed away about the mistakes the politicians are making by not being serious with dealing with the crisis; and he was full of plans for eradicating malaria in the Western region. Altogether, Tunde was a very clean, decent, and ambitious young man.

END OF EPISODE 9

P.S. Stay tuned for Episode 10, which  will be published here next Sunday.