Random Musings (3)
‘Don’t Get Killed’
“I am thinking it makes more sense to play some sort of genteel journalism. Don’t play the hero, don’t get killed, and don’t mess around with stuff like precision journalism … remember my column on committing seppuku Well, I ain’t ready yet to be anybody’s martyr.”
I am sitting here wondering in all seriousness whether I am sane. If I am, for is more than a little difficult for a thinking Nigerian to determine this, then I don’t want to go mad. You may even ask whether a man should not know the state of his sanity. And I say that a mad amn doesn’t know that he is mad. In fact, he thinks that he is okay and that everybody else has gone bunkers. And if perchance I am sane, I don’t want to go mad. A serious contemplation of the state of Nigeria can drive a man mad. In all seriousness, I just don’t understand how to perceive this country. Nigerians are perhaps the most self-critical people on earth. We beat anybody in analyzing what is wrong with this country, form the very primordial matter of the crazy traffic to the very complex questions of politics. We know everything that is wrong. We also have ideas on what can be done to make things right. But we characteristically refuse to heed our own wisdom. I had been wondering about the 65.3 million Nigerians that the Federal Electoral Commission (FEDECO) said rushed to register as electors, and I had come to the conclusion that someone was bent on playing some weird jokes on the people of the country. But when certain states in the country actually recorded more than 70 percent turnout at the polls, then me fear about the state of my sanity became too real. If you see what others cannot see you must have a problem with your mental state. I want to see what everyone sees; that we should be more than 150 million people in this country; that we love democracy more than other people in the universe; and that we all like to vote.
In 1987, if Chief Awolowo runs for office in Oyo State opposite President Shagari, I make bold to say that Awo would lose to the president in a landslide. And if you think that I am wrong, then you may need a visits to Aro. I am thinking that it makes more sense to play some sort of genteel journalism. Don’t play the hero, don’t get killed, and don’t mess around with stuff like precision journalism. For those who don’t know, precision journalism is an aspect of the New Journalism in which statistics play the high hand. You look at the prevailing conditions, look at the numbers, make calculations and then say with an intellectual self-assuredness that A and B would happen in the future. If you get carried away with such high-sounding stuff in this country, you will deserve the accusation of a man indulging in sophistry. The Nigerian elections are going to put paid to such foolishness as precision journalism. We have no room for that type of silliness. And one thing we are telling the Japanese is to go get lost with their calculators. We have no use for those tiny things that prevent arithmetical acrobats from getting from putting together numbers like two-and-two. If you miss the point, cast back to the face of Idowu Sobowale, the guru of Nigerian precision journalism, and see how anguished and hopeless he looked on the Lagos television.
(Ray Ekpu has come into my office. He is standing behind me as I am writing. He says, “Dele, are you crazy?” I say, “That is the question that I am pondering.” He say serious. How can you be writing all this nonsense when your readers expect you to make some serious analysis.” I say, “You must be the one who is crazy if you think my trying to see whether I am sane is crazy and not serious.” He bungs out of my office.)
I was saying before the interruption that genteel journalism is called for in this atmosphere. Umaru Dikko, the presient’s major-domo, has said that he would deal with all the enemies of Nigeria. The highly respected Guardian reporter that the powerful Dikko had in mind errant Nigerian journalists. I have a general idea of what it means to be an “enemy” of Nigeria, and I have a general idea of what it means to be dealt with. I have been dealt with, as you know. As Tex Alabi said the other day in the Herald of Ilorin, if I continue to play the hero, I would suffer a fate worse than the Alagbon treatment. Now that would be really bad. Have you stopped to imagine what would happen to a man who fails to heed these warnings, others have come from friends and relatives begging for caution, and he gets locked up in a hell worse than Alagbon? What if the courts say that the man should be released and Sunday Adewusi ignore such orders? What do such men do? Don’t say that I am schizophrenic. Mr. Adewusi has made two addresses to the nation in as many weeks in which he warned Nigerians to be law-abiding or face the wrath of the police. He said that he had issued orders to the riot field forces to shoot rioters on sight. Now getting too philosophical on the Nigerian condition could be construed by certain elements to mean rioting. I don’t want to get shot on sight.
(Ray Ekpu might have gone to Yakubu Mohammed who has just come in. He is in an ebullient mood. He says, “Is it true that you are scared?” I say, “who says?” He says, “Ray.” I say, “Don’t mind the guy. He is losing his sense of homour. I am only contemplating my state of sanity, and he thinks that is not a serious matter.” And he says, “Dele, don’t get too satirical. Are you afraid of Dikko?” And I say, Won’t know, Yakubu, I am praying that these guys will get you and deal with you, and you will see.”)
No, I am not afraid of Dikko. I am only listening to the voice of Robert Ludlum who writes these clever words: “When push comes to shove, people opt for living.” It suits my mood. Don’t play a hero,play smart. I know who was mad. Her name is Vera Ifudu. She fell in love with her microphone while at the NTA and ent at the job with gusto. She was booted out. She had powerful friends when she went to them during her ordeal, they looked at her as though she was mad. Of course, she was mad. She was reporting things that others wouldn’t see. She persisted, and when her employers thought that she would let the country hear what she was saying, they dealt with her. In dealing with her, they used a guy called Olu Adebanjo.
Adebanjo allowed himself to get carried away. He tried the same trick on Radio Kaduna. And they dealt with him. When finally Vera won her long battle, Adebanjo went home to Ijebu sulking. The lesson of that being dealt with that way. Adebanjo, as it has turned out, is a boy scout. Vera’s fate is the sort that befalls genteel journalists. Vera’s Nigeria of 1980 is not the Nigeria of 1983. The place has turned into a jungle. Nobody was called an enemy of the nation in 1980. Dikko may be a boy, but he is definitely not a scout. Adewusi has stopped wearing ceremonial uniforms. He now wears battle fatigues. If you leave your eyes open and run into guys, you may just become a footnote to the Nigerian history of 1983. Remember James Clavell’s “Shogun”? If you don’t, can you remember my column on committing seppuku? Well, I ain’t ready yet to be anybody’s martyr. Do you understand now?
©Sunday Concord, August 14, 1983
(Pp.230-233)
