Excerpts from In the Name of Our Father by Olukorede S. Yishau, longlisted for the Nigeria Prize for Literature
I switched on my radio set the next morning around eight. I didn’t have any programme in mind that I wanted to listen to. Fortunately, the early news was being read. I raised the volume so as to get updated. There was no untoward news item until the female newsreader began to do a recap of the major items. Obviously, I had missed some of the news.
The first thing she mentioned in her recap was: THE FEDERAL MILITARY GOVERNMENT HAS ANNOUNCED FOILING A COUP ATTEMPT BY SOME TOP MILITARY GENERALS AIMED AT TOPPLING THE REGIME.
‘Another coup!’ I exclaimed.
The lines of Tanure Ojaide’s poem THE OWL WAKES US which I had performed at a literary circle some months back came to my mind. Just as I finished recalling Ojaide’s poem, there was a deafening knock at the door. From the force with which it came, I had the impression that the intruder must have had a brain wave. I went to the door and peeped through the door-view, as usual. What I saw sent fear through my entire being: Gun-toting soldiers, dressed in camouflage. What could they be looking for? I wondered. But before I could figure out an answer, the knock came again with a warning: ‘We know you are there. If you fail to open it on time, na your life you dey play with so.’
‘God help me!’ I grunted.
I summoned the courage and let them in. And pronto they pounced on me, kicking me left, right and centre. And within a matter of minutes, my face was swollen, and I ached all over. I was too weak to ask them any question. They soon dragged me downstairs, where I saw another set of soldiers in a Black Maria. Another set had surrounded the building perhaps to prevent me from escaping. Over 30 soldiers came to arrest me for a sin I did not know. It baffled me, but my tongue was literally tied.
They drove me away at a breakneck speed. When we got to Obalende, I thought they were taking me to Dodan Barracks. But we soon passed Obalende and crossed the bridge linking Obalende to Victoria Island. I did not know where I was being taken. These were soldiers, and we should have gone to Dodan Barracks. What fate awaited me, I did not know.
When they parked in front of the SSS office, I knew that was where they were taking me. But what for? I had no idea, and I was too weak and downcast to ask any questions. I could only pray to God to save me. What else could I do in that situation? I was damn hopeless.
They took me to an office, where an officer with the name tag Biliaminu Thompson attended to me. The soldiers left, as I was writing the biodata of myself which the SSS officer demanded. The pain was excruciating, and I was not making any progress, with the biodata. Biliaminu soon noticed this and asked what the problem was. I managed to explain that I was in too much pain. He called one of his boys to buy me a sandwich and pain reliever.
After taking the pain reliever, he told me that I could have a rest on the couch in his office. I had the impression that he was a good man, but I had a change of mind when I woke up, and he started interrogating me.
‘Have you heard about the botched attempt by some fools to unseat the C-in-C?’ Biliaminu asked.
‘Yes. I heard it over the radio this morning,’ I told him.
He started laughing. I did not bother to ask why he was laughing.
‘Justus,’ he called my name, and I looked him in the face, ‘you don’t have to deceive me.’
At this stage, he left his swivel chair and came to sit beside me on the couch. As he was trying to make his way to the couch, his movement caused the pictures of people I suspected to be his family to fall. And he took pains to place them neatly back on his table. His action gave me the impression that he must cherish his family very much.
As if he had read my mind, he started telling me about his family: ‘Those in the three pictures are my wife and two children. My wife is Theresa. She is from Imo State. My two kids are Ugochukwu and Ehinnaya. These are Igbo names. I married an Igbo lady and gave my kids Igbo names.’
He paused, looking at me as if studying my countenance. I was beginning to loathe him. And what he said next made me loathe him the more.
‘With the level of my love for this country, I will not allow people like you to destroy it…’
‘I beg your pardon!’
‘There is no need to beg any pardon. You don’t have to pretend that you are not privy to the coup that has just been foiled…’
‘Me, a coup. How?’ I asked, rising.
‘Comport yourself, Justus. This is my office, and I will have no shouting here.’
Biliaminu went to his drawer and brought out an edition of the paper I worked for. He opened it to my column. The title of the piece was ‘The Coming Coup.’
‘And you said you are not aware of the coup?’ He said, dumping the paper on my lap. I was dumbfounded. At that instant, it dawned on me that somebody was trying to do me in. Who the person was, I had no idea. Just two years earlier some colleagues of mine were jailed on similar accounts.
‘Say something, defend yourself,’ Biliaminu charged.
I kept silent. I did not want anything else I said to be twisted out of context.
‘Anyone who wants to unseat the C-in-C is an arch enemy of this nation. The C-in-C is the God-sent leader of this country, and God has anointed him to rule forever. No matter what people like you do. You are bound to fail…’
‘I think somebody is getting something wrong…’ I had found my voice.
‘That’s interesting. Tell me about it…’
‘The Coming Coup is a metaphorical piece, a satire if you like it, calling the attention of the government of the day to the plight of the people, and that if they are pushed to the wall, they will have no choice but to turn and fight.’
Biliaminu chuckled. I knew he was going to be mischievous once more.
‘Who heads the government of the day?’ he asked.
I did not say anything.
‘Answer me, boy,’ he said, touching my swollen face.
‘The Head of State,’ I replied.
‘The C-in-C.’
I didn’t respond
Twerp! A slap. ‘Answer me!’ He shouted.
I held my swollen face. I nodded.
‘Speak!’
‘Yes. The …’
He cut me off by a wave of the hand. He paused for some minutes.
‘The masses you are talking about, are you by any chance a part of them?’
I did not say anything. He screamed and slapped my swollen face. It hurt.
‘Yes!’
‘So, the masses, of which you are a member, have now tried to revolt with the assistance of some power-drunk Generals.’
I kept mute.
‘The law must take its course,’ he said and stood up. Just then, the phone in his office rang, and he picked it up. The person on the other end must have been superior because Biliaminu deferred to him. ‘Yes. Yes, sir… everything is under control sir. Your wish is my command sir. Okay sir…, Yes sir…, I’ll do as you’ve said sir… Thank you sir.’
He turned to me.
‘You are wanted…’
‘By who?’
‘For further interrogation…’
‘By who and where?’
‘I’m the one who asks the questions around here,’ he said and walked out.
I was beginning to feel pain again. But my mouth was not tired to ask God for assistance: ‘Fight those who want to fight me; destroy those who seek my destruction; unsettle those who want to unsettle me, and tear apart those who want to….’ Before I could finish this statement, Biliaminu came in with two of his boys. One of them was holding a pair of handcuffs.
‘Cuff him,’ Billiaminu ordered.
And pronto I was honoured with the handcuffs.
‘Take him away.’
I jumped up.
‘Where are you taking me?’ I asked.
I got a dirty slap for a reply, and I became extra silent.
They bundled me to the car, a 504 salon car. We passed Obalende; we joined the Third Mainland Bridge. I kept wondering where these people were taking me to. I was sure danger was very close. Not with the kind of trash Biliaminu had earlier discussed with me.
Soon we were on the way to the airport. Could they be taking me to the airport? I asked myself. The only way to be sure was to ask them. But I was not ready to risk another slap.
Time soon clarified the misty circumstance, as the car glided to a halt at the domestic wing of the Murtala Muhammed International Airport. Some soldiers were waiting. The SSS boys handed me over to them and vamoosed.
Thirty minutes later I was on board a presidential jet; it was a very small jet. I guessed it must be the smallest of all the jets in the presidential fleet. But I did not know where they were taking me. After about ten minutes of being in the air, the soldier who was sitting close to me started chatting me up.
‘What is your name?’ he asked me in a low tone. And I could sense he did not want his colleagues to hear him.
I told him my name.
‘Where are you from?’
‘My father is Yoruba; my mother is Igbo…’
He surveyed his colleagues and continued.
‘Do you speak both languages?’
‘I speak more of Igbo than Yoruba, because I spent my growing up days with my mother in Onitsha, having lost my father shortly after birth,’ I lied hoping the claim of losing my father early in life would get me some sympathy.
I could feel the pity he exuded. Seeing that he appeared friendly, I asked him where they were taking me to. He chose to reply in Yoruba.
‘We are taking you to Abuja…’
‘Why? ‘ I asked, puzzled.
‘They asked us to bring you…’
‘Awon wo? Who?’
‘They said you know about the coup…’
‘Mo gbe!’
‘Ma pa ari wo,’ he cautioned me.
I asked his name.
‘Lukman Sadiq…’
The name suggested he might be Hausa. How come he could speak Yoruba fluently? I asked him. And he explained that his father was Hausa, while his mother was Yoruba. He had lived most of his life with his mother. So, his mentality was basically that of an average Yoruba man. We seemed to have a lot in common.
I wanted to talk some more with Lukman. But as if his colleagues were getting suspicious of us, so they called him, and he never returned to me.
In the absence of nothing else to do, I turned reflective, thinking about my life in the past three weeks: First, somebody started threatening my life. Next, my fiancée left me over a flimsy excuse. Now, I am in the middle of nowhere for an offence I know nothing about.
I was sure the future was bleak. But I could not tell how bleak. All I could see was a huge dark hole, which I could not fathom its end. Presently, I realised that my white shirt was stained with blood. No thanks to the soldiers who beat the living daylight out of me. I was wearing a pair of boxers. Not even a pair of slippers graced my legs. My hair was rough, and I could smell my breath. I had neither brushed my teeth nor had a bath when those kill-and-go soldiers invaded my privacy. I wondered if those guys knew anything about the declarations of the UN and the African Charter on Human and Peoples Rights. Those guys were animals. Bloody animals. Zombies!
Abuja soon spread out beneath us. The last time I was here was to cover the conference of World Mayors. Then, it never occurred to me that I was coming to visit this city the next time as a captive. But here I was, a captive surrounded by a horde of soldiers armed to the teeth. Never had it occurred to me that the things I wrote in my column could turn me into a security risk.
A bus was already waiting at the Nnamdi Azikiwe Airport. There were other soldiers in the luxury bus. The ones who brought me from Lagos handed me over to the new ones and disappeared, but not without Lukman thrusting a note in my palm, with the message: BE STRONG!
Unlike the soldiers who brought me from Lagos, my Abuja soldier-escorts were not dressed in camouflage. They were wearing the traditional green khaki. Of course, all of them were carrying guns of varying sizes, and they were not less than ten. Their eyes were fiery. It was as if they had just taken hard drugs before coming to the airport. They looked deadlier than the ones who had just vanished.
At the moment, the NITEL mobile phone belonging to the one, who obviously led the team, buzzed. He answered the call.
‘We have him here sir… Okay sir… to the letter sir… trust me sir,’ He looked at me and smiled – a kind of smile that had beneath it the possibility of great cruelty.
This was all I could hear. I had no idea who was on the other side.
We were now on the bus. The team leader, whose name tag revealed his name as Lieutenant J. Emokpae, did not allow me to sit. He instead asked me to kneel and raise my cuffed hands in the space between the row of chairs. If that was all, I could have had little cause for concern, but he kept raining abuses on me.
‘By the time we are through with you, you’ll not remember the day your foolish mother gave birth to you. You this fool, son of a bitch. Who is the fool that gave birth to you sef? Or did you, bloody fool, fall from heaven? No, you must have come up from hell? Because something like you could not have come up from heaven. Heaven is for only holy people. Bastard! Idiot! Big fool! Ignoramus!
‘I don’t know what you journalists take yourselves for? You think no one can touch you abi? You must be a fool. You will learn that the gun is stronger than the pen.’
By now, the driver, also a soldier, drove into the barracks. A high profile sort of barracks. I was dragged down and taken to the guard room. The guard room was very dark and without a ray of light: Pitch black, and silent.
I had not spent two minutes in that dark hole when a soldier came to lead me to another place. A bigger place, with light, a bed, but no cooling system. The place was too big for just one bed. I guessed it must have measured no less than thirty metres, with about the same breadth.
‘For how long am I going to be here?’ I found myself asking the soldier.
‘I no know,’ he said, not betraying any emotion.
‘Then can I have books and writing materials?’
He did not say anything. He just walked out.
I sat on the bed, switched on the light and tried to think only to find out that my mental screen was not prepared for anything of such. Tears rolled down my cheeks. I was not given to shedding tears, but this was too much for me. I was a captive with no clear idea of why I was being held. I was sorry for myself. Perhaps I felt more pity for my country. A country where its best brains were not accorded their due respect.
At this point, I could not but remember my trip to the United States a year earlier. I had travelled there as part of the International Visitors’ Leadership Programme. My friends who eked out their livelihood in the United States had tried so much to convince me to stay back. But I stood my ground, insisting that home was it for me. Even my editor did not believe I would return. He was sceptical when I gave him my word.
I wiped my eyes with the back of my palm. Then, I realised that I was feeling hot. I pulled off my shirt, yet the situation did not improve. Since I had no choice, I had to bear my cross all alone. God, I thought, should just show up and set me free.
I had no idea of time. But instinctively, I knew I had spent close to two hours in that room. One minute I felt I had a migraine. The next moment it looked as if I had a fever. I was just not sure of anything.
The door suddenly opened, and two soldiers walked in. From the tribal marks on their cheeks, I was certain they were from The North. As they moved close to me, I noticed that one of them was carrying handcuffs and a leg chain. I wondered what they wanted to use them for.
‘Stand up,’ one of them barked at me much like a dog afflicted by a strange disease.
I jumped up for fear that any sign of sluggishness might earn me another round of beatings.
‘Commot your trouser,’ the same officer shouted, this time around like an infuriated gorilla ready to pounce on a smart prey.
I dared not complain. Pronto, I did as instructed.
‘Remove ya boxer’
At this stage, I knew doomsday had come.
‘Follow me,’ he said turning away.
And like a zombie, I followed him. Our destination was an extreme part of the room, where there were two hooks on the ground: one for the hands and the other for the legs. And something told me I was not going to leave that place alive. I was sure I had got to my life’s end. I considered that moment the beginning of the end. I was chained down like a beast.
On the hospital bed
When I came to, I found myself in the hospital. I had bled and after that passed out. Being chained face-down was alien to my body.
I could feel pains all over me. A bag of blood was suspended above my bed. I rarely ever took drips, now I was being transfused.
I had lost track of time. I did not know what day it was, neither was I sure what time of the day it was. It was as if these people were determined to kill me with loneliness. Even in the hospital, there was no one around I could talk to. No doctor or nurse was around when I came back to life — not even a cleaner.
The room I was in looked like a private ward in a hospital. There was only one bed, two two-seater chairs, a waste bin, a table fridge, a standing fan and other bric-a-brac. Although my gaze was not what it used to be, I could make out on the wall the picture of the man I was accused of plotting to overthrow. He was there looking every inch a sadist, neither smiling nor laughing. He was simply stone-faced as if it were a sin to look cheerful.
In his looks resided a metaphor; a metaphor conceived in a season of anomy, borne in the period of callousness and delivered in the heat of territorial warfare. The reality, for me, was still grim. Was I ever going to get out of this place alive? I kept asking myself this question. And the answer, having in mind the metaphor in General Idoti’s face, was a stark no.
I felt like crying. But the pain, the excruciating pain all over me, gave no room for that. I only promised myself that I’d be strong.
About an hour after I regained consciousness, the door was flung open. And at the door was a military guard, seated. It never crossed my mind that someone was there. So, if I had tried to escape, he would have caught me with little or no effort. These people must really be ready for me, I told myself.
He walked in.
‘You’re back,’ he said with visible mockery.
He took a good look at me, and said something that sounded like ‘welcome back’. Where could he be welcoming me back from except the land of the dead where they wanted me to go?
He had closed the door behind him before I realised he was gone. The door soon opened again. I closed my eyes. I did not want to look at that sadist masquerading as a soldier.
The ‘Hi,’ from a voice I was sure did not belong to that sadist was what made me open my eyes. And standing before me was a man, obviously middle-aged. The tall, dark and handsome young man was wearing a lab coat. I could not see his shoes. He had on a wrist-watch, too. But I could not tell what make it was. He was spotting a low cut, and he looked as if he had just emerged from the barber’s.
I just fell in love with him and promised myself I was going to be nice to him, even if he chose not to be.
‘I’m Dr. Shagaya,’ he told me.
I simply nodded.
‘I’m a Colonel…’
I thought as much. I nodded again.
‘Can you talk?’ he asked me.
‘Yes,’ I managed to reply
‘That is good. How do you feel?’
‘Pains all over,’ I replied.
‘That is expected.’
He paused for a while, surveyed me from head to toe.
‘I’m not sure you are ready for this,’ he said, making no sense to me. But before he could say anything further, I chose to ask him a few questions.
‘How long have I been here?’
‘Four days…’
‘Four days?’ I said and made to get up. Pain shot through me, forcing me back to the bed.
‘Who brought me here?’
‘The officers guarding you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you fainted, having lost so much blood and they feared you would die…’
‘They shouldn’t have rushed me here. They should have allowed me to die. Was that not what they wanted?’
‘Don’t talk like that. I don’t think these officers particularly hate you. They only act on instructions, from above.’
He paused and took off from where he was before I started questioning him.
‘I understand you’re due for the special tribunal in two days…’
‘Special what?’ I cried, with the pains shooting up.
‘Tribunal,’ he repeated.
I simply drew a blank!
‘Over the coup matter,’ he added, ‘I’ve tried to convince them to leave and allow you fully recover but again on instructions from above they want you before the tribunal dead or alive. It is something no one can help. Really, it is a helpless situation. I pray God sees you through.’
My tongue was tied. What was even there to say? My life was in their hands, and they were swinging it the way they wanted. All I could see was a cul-de-sac, a huge dark hole with no end in sight, how one changes in time of difficulty! And there I was, Justus the scion of the religion of the heart, reciting inwardly the Lord’s Prayer. How time changes! Indeed.
‘I’ll take my leave now,’ announced Dr. Shagaya, ‘I hope you’ll be better tomorrow.’
I nodded as he walked out. To my disadvantage, the monstrous question, which everyone kept asking himself when in situations similar to mine, would not stop popping up in my mind. Why? Why would anyone seize my freedom and give me incarceration in return? Not even the fact that I fell ill could make them leave me alone. Instead, they were even intent on taking me before their tribunal.
The door soon opened again. And it was the officer who was guarding me who I had seen sitting at the door. He leaned, looked around, and came into the room.
‘My friend,’ I heard him call.
Still, my eyes were closed.
‘I know you do not think highly of me,’ he continued.
This statement touched me. But I still closed my eyes.
‘You see I pity you and I am convinced within me that you are paying for something you know nothing about…’
I could not but look this brotherly soldier in the face.
And before he continued, he held my hand.
‘Be strong. Prepare your mind for the worst. You see, those of us who are well-educated are mere recruits in the army because of administrative incompetence and those who have had reason to run to the media for succour appreciate journalists and journalism a lot. I appreciate you a lot and I must confess you are a great writer. I have read a couple of your articles and they did thrill me. Just be prepared for anything. God will see you through.’
For the first time, I saw in this soldier a friend and a brother whom I could rely on. Tears occupied my eyes. He wiped them off for me and assured me that all would be well.
I did not quite know the import of his advice until the next phase of my life unfolded before me like a new chapter in a thriller.
Special military tribunal
Jos, the capital of Plateau State, was where the special tribunal gave its judgment. I was not taken to the chilly city until the morning of the judgment. The night before our first appearance before the tribunal, other suspects in the coup plot like General Iya Odogbolu and General Saidu Ilorin were transferred to the same place where I was being detained. And that was the first time I had met these people with whom I was facing charges of coup plotting and treason.
All of us were clean-shaven, but we looked gaunt like the cows Joseph saw in his dream. Practically, we were men from the back of the beyond. And we looked no less. Yet we were eerily calm. Leg chains decorated our legs as we were shuffled into the hall where the tribunal gave its verdict.
No one smiled; everyone maintained a straight face. The men on the tribunal knew that a herculean task was before them. Looking at their mien, it seemed that they were not unaware of the fact that they were there to do the devil’s job.
Under half an hour their task had been performed. The chairman of the panel, whom I shall forever pray falls victim of an angry mob, read out his verdict. Most of us were sentenced to prison – no one for less than twenty years.
I almost fainted when it came to my turn. I was sentenced to life imprisonment. There are moments when sorrow overshoots tears. Such moments, sorrow burns itself into our psyche and becomes a tangible thing to be mulled over in times of solitude. Such sorrow knocks one into clarity seeing the truth of the road ahead; it comes with the regrets of things done, things left undone; things never to be done. Such sorrow does not live in the moment; it reaches to past to pull some weight into a bleak future. When the chairman read my sentence, I did not cry, I simply looked forward, not knowing what my future held, or if I had any future at all.
The last person, the chairman, read his sentence for was a special adviser to the suspected arrow-head of the coup plot. He was discharged and acquitted. But later events proved that some more powerful forces were not satisfied with this. The six Generals implicated in the plot were sentenced to death by stoning. What a way to die!
On our first appearance before the tribunal, we were given the rare opportunity to speak. I chose not to speak. Even if I had wanted to, I would most probably have been prevented after the first speaker, a General who made it point blank that the tribunal was not out to conduct any thorough investigation.
The chairman of the tribunal had been visibly angry. His moustache was moving up and down in anger. And he had virtually barked out an order that the microphone should be taken away from the General, who happened to be his senior colleague.
There were so many bizarre angles to the verdicts. The chairman offered no insight into the involvement of each officer; neither did he explain why none of those sentenced to death was in control of any operational command in the army. I observed that a civilian, said to be close to one of the generals, was found not guilty of conspiracy to commit treason, yet he was found guilty of treason.
Another observation of mine bordered on a 10-year sentence passed on an army Colonel for receiving gratification. It left me at sea as to what that had to do with the purpose of setting up the tribunal. Equally bizarre was the 14-year imprisonment forced on an army medical doctor for conspiracy to commit theft.
And as if to confirm our fears that the tribunal was a mere camouflage, we were not allowed to make any comments after our sentences had been passed.
Of those of us sentenced by the tribunal, Uche Koba, a human rights activist from the Niger Delta, was the only one I had had the opportunity of hearing the story of his arrest and eventual arraignment before the tribunal.
Uche’s traumatic experience started at the Murtala Mohammed International Airport. He was on his way from a seminar on environmental pollution in Berlin, Germany. From what he told me, he had a premonition of the arrest. But he had made up his mind that he was not going on exile. So, he walked up to the security agents.
First, he was taken to 15, Awolowo Road. On getting there, he was dumped in a cell. His shoes, belts and clothes were seized. He was virtually naked. He was given a N20 meal a day in the morning and the evening.
Being someone who was not used to eating oil, Uche told me he turned down the food he was given because it would have led to his untimely death. And for seven days, he took virtually nothing. He sustained himself only with tea.
After about two weeks in Awolowo Road, he was woken up around 5:30a.m. He had thought it was just to brush his teeth but he was whisked away.
Uche recalled: ‘After I brushed my teeth, I came downstairs and saw a big bus. Three officers were there, including the driver. One of them was carrying a gun. I joined them on the bus. Before I could ask any question, my hands were cuffed. They refused to tell me where they were taking me to. Eventually, they took me to Enugu prisons, where I was kept in solitary confinement.’
Perhaps the most pathetic aspect of Uche’s story was the fact that this was a young man who had the experience and the qualification to turn around the technological advancement of the country. Until he decided to return home to help champion the cause of the Niger Delta people, Uche was one of the driving forces in the computer revolution in China. He had his first, second and third degrees at Harvard, all with Distinction.
Uche told me with tears rolling down his cheeks. ‘My aged father threatened to disown me if I did not return home to use my knowledge and my exposure to fight for the emancipation of the Niger Delta people. He even threatened to commit suicide. I was stuck between the devil and the deep blue sea. I was earning the best available salary, with the world practically at my feet, being asked to come home to uncertainty.’
I read from Uche’s countenance that he was worried about what would have become of his aged father, but I deliberately refrained from directly asking him about this in order not to cause him more pain.
*****************
As we made our way out of Jos, the Black Maria that took us was filled with gloom. No one cried. Tongues did not wag. Silence – a swollen silence that took up space and put all of us within itself. Men, who days back were full of life, now saw nothing but dark holes, with no end in sight. Laughter was a rare commodity in that circumstance.
The soldiers, in camouflage, wore expressions that made me feel they were inwardly weeping for the nation.
Shortly before we boarded the Black Maria, an army Colonel came to us and reeled out the prisons where those who had been sentenced to jail terms and those who were to die by stoning were to be taken to. But for a reason, even the army officer could not explain, my name was nowhere to be found.
I quickly raised my hand to register this observation.
‘What is your name?’ the confused colonel asked me.
I told him my name.
‘It is truly not here,’ he said after scanning through the list.
I wished they would just release me since they had no provision for me. But this was merely wishful thinking.
‘I will be back,’ the colonel said and disappeared.
He did not come back before we were railroaded into the Black Maria.
So, as the Black Maria left Jos, I did not know my fate. But when we got to Abuja and we were handed over to another colonel, who was harsh on the generals but dared not look them in the face, I raised the issue again.
He laughed and said,’ Oh, don’t worry. All of you will sleep in Abuja today. By tomorrow we will start posting you to your respective new homes in Nguru, Enugu and so on. As for you, in particular, I can assure you I will find you a home you will love. Don’t worry.’
I could feel the scorn and contempt in his voice. I felt like spitting on him. But I knew the implication of doing such a thing. So, I kept my cool. I went to bed that night. Actually, I watched over the night not knowing where I was going to serve my term.
The next day, the colonel lived up to his words of finding me ‘a home you will love’. Some rare kind of love, if you ask me.
