 
WHEN WE MADE MEN

T. T. Oyetimein

Copyright 2014 by T.T. Oyetimein

Smashwords Edition

This novel is a work of fiction and all characters are purely fictitious. Any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental. However, certain buildings, landmarks and names of organizations, traditional systems, offices and positions are simply used in a description of artistic imagination and may not necessarily be a realistic depiction of such institutions.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher

Paperback Edition printed in Lagos, Nigeria by

Premium Publishing Company (a division of Premium Management Training and Consultancy Services)

Tel: 07035005165, 08056138414

E-mail: eng.otoby@yahoo.com

About the Author

Tito Tobi Oyetimein is the author of When We Made Men, his debut novel, and three other books including the highly-reviewed script of the anthology, The Chess Diary and other Poems. He is an avid reader.

A humanitarian and member of the Nigerian Red Cross Society. He also holds a masters degree in Engineering Management.

About the book

A 13 year old boy of the Yoruba ethnic group gets caught in the intriguing world of changes sweeping the political landscape in his native Yoruba state, which in itself, is a fragment of the Nigerian state broken up by coups, corruption and ethnic disputes.

The raging storm of political antecedents forces the boy to take a philosophical yet seemingly childish entry into the world of his nation's cultural, social and political landscape. With historical information supplied by the few adults around him, scholarly storytellers who believe that history and past incidents are the best predictors of future incidents, he is forced to take the role of a rising younger generation whose heroic actions can clean the past mistakes of the men made by the nation's corrupt political class, he puts down his thoughts and experiences through a whirlwind of events. His story forms the trigger that eventually establishes a new system of government in a state where democracy is considered a failure. What will you see if you look at the political landscape through the eyes of a child?

Will these responsibilities become the initiation of a good man made by the politics played around him or be the birth of a new generation of men carrying the genes of the old class.

God give us men

A time like this, demands

Strong minds, Great Hearts, True Faith and Ready Hands

Men whom the lust of office does not kill

Men whom the spoils of office cannot buy

Men who possess opinions and a will

Men who have honour, Men who won't lie

Men who can stand before a demagogue

And down his treacherous flatteries without blinking

Tall Men, Sun Crowned, Who live above the Fog

In public duty and in private thinking.

Tribute to Olusegun Osiboye, Principal Mayflower Secondary School, 1991-1998.
PART 1

OUR HEROES PASSING

CHAPTER 1

The old papa's house

It's a misty early morning in the city of Ibadan I thought as I rose up from the chair I had been sitting on for a couple of minutes. And just at the instant, the clock struck seven with a loud tick.

"It's not an accident anyway" I thought as I reached for my towel which hung loosely from a nearby aluminium rack. It's not an accident that the clock struck at the exact time I stood up from my reading chair.

At age thirteen, and on holiday at my grandfathers' house in Ibadan, the largest city in Africa boasting ownership of the oldest television station in Africa and where the dawn still sneaked up on you quietly from behind seven hills unlike Lagos where my parents live and the dawn rushed up on you with loud horns blaring from both the sea and land scaring you out of bed with loud cussing from danfo drivers and other neighbours similarly woken rudely by the dawn.

One thing Lagos and Ibadan however have in common was a large population with Lagos slightly edging out Ibadan in the race to be the city with the largest population in Africa. Having been here in Ibadan a few days with my eccentric grandfather who's thought me the art of documenting the smallest details of my day in a diary and notebook I've suddenly developed the habit of writing my experiences of every previous day in a small diary between 6:30am and 7:00am the next day.

The day I wrote what you're about to read was a Monday but it happened so quickly I never had the chance to write on Sunday morning and here's Saturday and Sunday you're reading.

The family prayer time is between 5:30am and 6:00am. As a normal boy, it is natural to take another thirty minutes rest from these early risings and 7:10am is when mama instinctively remembers that I should start my chores. Somehow I don't get these benefits when I'm at home in Lagos but I've been here for a week and know the routine well. Grandpa is a professor at the university and that means he wakes up at 2:00am, starts prayers at 5:30am and remains hidden from sight until 8:10am, when breakfast is on the table.

I've really never been curious about what he does between 2:00am and 5:30am, until now. I'm an inquisitive person but this particular assignment may require that I'm awake by 2:00am. But in the last one week, I've discovered a whole lot of things, which I think must be beneficial in some ways I can't fathom. If not why would papa commit much time into it?

I called my grandfather papa and my father daddy.

As I went into the bathroom, I remembered papa's answer to my question.

Why was he committing much time to this stuff? Here's his answer.

This is 2025, and as things are going, some of you children will use your mobile phones to wake your parents up every day, if you've not started that already.

I wonder what he means but then I remember he added,

''That's probably the only thing I respect about your father, he ensures strict discipline in his children but discipline without proper understanding of its traditional roots and native essence will leave children with a heart of steel. If you keep instilling discipline in a child without making him understand the traditional roots and native essence of discipline, you'll just make him headstrong like those soldiers in the Nigerian army who didn't respect women or old age but will insist that they can stay three weeks in the battlefield without relieving themselves of shit because they're disciplined''. He laughed and I laughed. I knew what he was driving at, the teaching of customs and traditions to the younger generation. In fact, that's what he has always been driving at. It was his life's work, the reason he existed and the reason he was a lecturer at the University of Ibadan and many more. But still it's hard to know why papa did what he did, waking up at such time and virtually not taking a rest.

Papa and daddy have always been at variance over almost everything on the earth, yet they have a way of arguing these things with a lot of strong words and smiles. Papa would say, "a well-trained child never gets angry with elders, especially if you are Yoruba, and that's what we are, Yorubas".

And daddy will say, smiling, ''and fathers should not provoke their sons to wrath nor teach their grandchildren idolatry for God will visit the sins of the father to the children and children's children even to the fourth generation''.

Papa kept quiet for a few seconds, then they both burst into laughter like they had just been excited over a children's trivia puzzle or a little show by Charlie Chaplin. The exchanges never got heated but it was very obvious that there was a disagreement of ideas and concepts about life, tradition, culture and religion. And when daddy spoke to my mummy about the exchanges with Papa, he used papa's own words, "we can never fight, a well-trained child never gets angry with elders, especially if you are Yoruba". He also added some of his own words, "we are not like those barbarians up in the north who fight and kill themselves over a religion the Arabs sold to them for groundnuts, I don't mean to be biased but I think more people are accepting the fact that the Yoruba people of former South-Western Nigeria are the most tolerant people in the world, we build churches beside mosques and share our faith and culture freely with others and it is not uncommon to see the ease with which members of other ethnic groups in the country prefer to settle with us. Such tolerance, the world has not seen in any group since the days of convivenzia in 16th century Spain where Catholics, Muslims and Jews lived together and influenced each other's culture and learning positively. Yorubaland here in the southwest is the only place in the world where two imported religions are mixed in an almost equal ratio and still without friction and fighting".

I have my quick bath and dress up just in time to hear mama say "Akin, s'o ti setan".

Yes ma.

''Good morning ma'' I repeated the third time or so in the morning, Yoruba people are probably the politest people in the world, we have a plethora of greeting phrases that are suitable for every situation and time and we're generally known to repeat the same greetings over and over. Good morning in the language is e k'aaro and is a major reference point.

Easily repeatable and accompanied with one gesture or the other. Generally, males are expected to prostrate fully face down (the new generation bows instead, and that's what I just did, mostly to the elders' chagrin) and females kneel with both knees and we have always been teased at the overblown proportion of our greetings. It's not hard to imagine a situation where I have to greet several adults along my way to school. It's like public push-ups. Little wonder why the Yoruba people are called Omo k'aaro o ji ire, which literally means 'the children of those who greet each other with the phrase good morning and good health'. An English man would call that tautology but to a Yoruba man it's politeness and it's not too much to give or too little to ask for.

She smiled and pointed at my food, served and ready (that's another privilege I enjoy here and would never get at home in Lagos).

Thank you ma, I said knowing I could not touch the food until my chores were completed.

When you finish your food get your things ready quickly so your papa wouldn't be delayed she said as she left me in the kitchen. I hoped I could open the covered plates but we have a proverb among our people that says there's no point smelling what you won't eat, at least not in the next couple of minutes or maybe there's really no point eating your food before doing your chores, that's the only thing that makes mama angry. I remember what she once told my mum, who complained to her of my sisters' laziness in home keeping.

She just wakes up early in the morning without doing anything; she sits down with her laptop and starts typing all sorts of things. She says she's updating her blog or something like that. Ever since she came back from the USA, she's been obsessed with this social media thing, living everyday just to upload all their activities to friends and enemies all over the world.

I'm sick of it; Omolarami doesn't even brush her teeth and take her personal hygiene serious before opening her laptop early in the morning. All the values we thought her before she left the country for her secondary education is going down the drain. She's just fourteen. She's all this and all that.

Mama had been quietly listening to my mummy's description of my elder sister's deplorable attitude. Then at the end of it all, she simply said, 'It's your fault'.

Does she help you with the housework?

No.

Do you give her food when she's finished her laptop blogging?

Yes, of course mama she has to eat.

And who says that?

When she finishes the food, you then begin to ask her to do house work, abi?

Stupidity.

She hisses and rolls her eyes in a 'heaven-may-fall' fashion. It's wickedness to let a child who has just eaten to do tedious work; it will turn her stomach but it's honourable to work before eating and whoever does not work, will not eat. The tone with which mama had said it made it sound like it was a quote from the bible or the book of life itself and it subsequently became a major quote in our house. I even daresay mummy enforced it too far beyond what mama herself would have done. That was three years ago.

Nevertheless, it worked, for Lara dropped her useless American attitude and joined the rest of the house in carrying out the early morning chores. Now she steams the moinmoin every Saturday morning (she initially pretended to have forgotten how it's done) and pounds yam for daddy every Sunday afternoon when she's in Nigeria on break from her American school. Being the only daughter in the house, my daddy had given her the privilege of having her secondary education and obviously tertiary education in the USA. Everyone is naturally afraid of releasing their male children too early into the hands of a society where there is little control of guns and ammunitions, especially everyone with daddy's problem. Daddy's problem is that he only has two male children out of three children. If he had up to four boys, it'd have been less risky to allow any one or two be educated far from home, especially in a place like America. Anyone can just wake up and give a young boy a gun to shoot himself, and then we start hearing big big english like serial murder, mental imbalance, depression. Female children are safer there than males, he explained to us on our first holiday trip to the USA after Omolara was admitted into her secondary school. The white boys bully the black boys but consider the black girls beautiful so they never bully them thereby allowing them the good education they went there for. I imagined a white boy beating me up and pouring white paint on my head, then taking Omolara out on a date, telling her he wished he was black enough to be acceptable by her parents as an in-law. I guess that was what my elder brother too was thinking because later he would ask me after getting admitted into Yale University

How many black boys has America ever allowed to become billionaire icons?

None, but there's Oprah for the women.

There was huge potential in Michael Jackson being a 20th century American icon before they turned him white. No one even remembers who he was again.

Who's that? I asked, not really knowing.

Michael Jackson.

I really didn't know who Michael Jackson was until the day we had that conversation. Then I watched clips and videos and documentaries about him. Small phenomenal black boy with beautiful voice for singing ABC and 123, then he metamorphosed an hour later in the video into a beautiful white woman facing child molestation charges several times. Only the voice remained unchanged, which also is abnormal because it's normally supposed to get thicker. It wasn't the best picture of America to give a young Yoruba boy like me who has enjoyed a trip to Disneyland in Anaheim, California.

In all, it sounded like a shallow argument but I took it in at least I knew that Michael Jackson was black and later turned white.

An hour later, I was having my fill of beans and fried plantain, when papa came out. He's one person you could possibly see smiling every hour of the day. There really is much reason for him to smile. He is a father to an engineer, a world-renowned sportsman and two medical doctors. He sat beside me at the table, saying nothing for about half-a-minute but visibly studying my face as I ate. Papa is a man who easily takes interest in the tiniest things around him so I quite expected him to see the talcum on my cheek but he seemed not to notice and turned his attention to his food at the head of the table. I was quite taken aback when he suddenly turned to face me again with his hand raised in a sweeping gesture which transfixed the spoon midway between my mouth and the plate of food with my mouth quite ajar. Instead of what I expected, he calmly picked a fly off the spoon and showed it to me with a non-chalance that seemed to say, "son, you'd have eaten that extra protein, do you really not watch what you put in your mouth". Papa was observant at all times and ate with little time to spare. Get my papers in the car and let's go, he said a few minutes later.

And added "get a notebook for yourself".

He whispered a few words to mama and said smiling 'we are off to school' with a brief nod in my direction. Of course, papa's school is not an average school to me.
CHAPTER 2

The school

A school is where you learn to read and write.

I remembered the voice of my nursery one teacher ring out as I sat staring out the passenger seat of papa's car. I remembered learning later that a school is where you learn things that make you a better human being in the future but I guess that's not the case of papa's school, the university, because it is often mentioned among papa's colleagues and lecturers that only about a quarter of graduates from the University get good jobs that can really make them better people in the future and that was why my daddy had insisted that none of his children will school in a local university. The graduates were simply unemployable and the employable ones were still not employed because even after Nigeria had been split, the various nations still drew little investments and new jobs were not being created.

That was primary six and I was about nine years old then when they had all these discussions.

Then Mr.Vahashanya or something, an Indian, thought me mathematics two years ago in JSS two and said school is where you learn how to escape from poverty. I never knew before then that poverty was a petty policeman who went about arresting people who had low marks in mathematics while in school. I never can claim to ever know poverty but nevertheless, I had an unprecedented 89% in mathematics that term but never made it to the top five in mathematics. Some boy named Gbenro, who had the oldest and most patched uniform in the class, got the honour of being the best math student in the class all year. I think Gbenro knew more about poverty than me because he had almost dropped out of school on two occasions because his father had not been able to pay the school fees and once because the principal had in a fit of self-righteousness said his school uniform which he had worn constantly for two years, washing it in the night and wearing it in the day, was an embarrassment to the school because it had patched holes on it. I guess she later knew the effect of her words on the boy's father when Gbenro stopped attending school for a few weeks. The class teacher had visited the boy's home to find him having home lessons with his elder sister who had just finished from secondary school. She was his teacher in all subjects never minding she had studied arts-based subjects while Gbenro was more science-inclined. Gbenro's father had calmly told the teacher, he was a poor civil servant, a primary school headmaster who is trying his best to give all his children the best education they can get but when a child gets embarrassed because his father can't afford to buy a new uniform in two years, it's best to sit him at home and give him the finest tuition they can afford without any accompanying insults. It's not my son's fault that we can't buy uniforms every half-session like other parents. I'm a teacher like you, paid by the government and you know how much the government values us, pennies, because we are teachers and not university lecturers but obviously, your school head, doesn't understand that fact and he's more concerned about the boy's uniform than his education. Not only had the man hit a nerve in our class teacher's brain by using the term school head instead of the slightly respectful head of school, he had made it known to the principal that all teachers were poor, at least if you're being paid by the government, and it's just a matter of time before you become unable to afford some basic things. All said and put into perspective, Gbenro knew poverty and did his best to escape from it when he got the opportunity. He scored 96% twice in the session and 97% once and he was easily the best math student in the class that year.

I stuck my head to the glass of the vehicle looking outside at the fence of what papa called school. No uniforms, boys openly laughed with girls and there was no single cane in sight. Americans don't know what a cane is, I remembered my sister once told me. She read in one of her novels that an old man used a cane to walk. That's not a cane, that's a walking stick and these white people could not have shown more ignorance than this. Ask a five year old Yoruba boy what a cane is and he tells you without equivocation. It's a long thick or thin instrument of correction, very painful when applied and usually kept in the most unreachable parts of the house. Now, that's a cane and white folks need to learn that.

That's tower building; I heard papa's voice say and instinctively looked up at a tall building with a giant clock at the very top. I couldn't help envying the freedom with which he spoke of his school and the freedom with which the school was operated. It's not just a school; it's the great University of Ibadan, founded 1948 as proclaimed by the giant marble carving at the gate through which we entered this mammoth school. I had always known papa was a professor at the university, but I now knew he was a professor of African history at the University of Ibadan, the first and only university in the whole area around the Niger, he often proclaimed when he was in the company of Uncle Jimi, his colleague and friend at the university whom I've never met but I've heard a lot about like several other millions of Yoruba children.

I looked outside at the throng of passing students outside the faculty of arts where we were currently parked and I concluded it didn't look the least like any definition of a school that I could conjure in my mind. It looked more like a museum, there were sculptures, paintings and some of the students quite looked like rock stars with their colourful dressing and in the extreme cases, they were comparable to some of the masquerades that paraded the streets of Ibadan during the odun egungun, the city's masquerade festival where you could see the colourful masquerades in red, yellow, black, purple and any other colour thread available. I led the way into a wide passage way dotted with notice boards, graffiti and on one side was a large half-torn poster with a burly shape dressed in cheap suit and dark sunglasses proclaiming "Picasso for President 2025/26". Obviously it was an oversized campaign poster for "Picasso" who was running for the president of something, a group of students likely. I instinctively moved slowly, fixing side glances at the obvious frame of Picasso on the wall, before noticing similar bills and posters at various points along the wall and bearing various names and advertisements. There was Shakespeare running for the post of general secretary and a host of others with a couple of adverts for sales of cheap bed spaces. My steps instinctively followed these postings that littered the walls as did my eyes, trying to catch each name and the purpose of each pasted item until papa guided my arm down another corridor.

These posters were a good reminder of the political situation of the nation that was known just a few years ago as South-western Nigeria. Nigeria had been a bedevilled state I heard, with stories of greatness amidst a population plagued by gross poverty. A CNN report had called it a bleeding nation and a failed state and two years later, the military coup had taken place and the nation split along its major ethnic groups owing to the fact that the spearhead of the coup was a group of northern generals in the army, much to the anger of south-east and south-west leaders.

The southern leaders formed a joint secret coalition that silently planned the assassinations of the imposed military administrators and their family members in the southern states knowing how unstable the central government was. These actions forced the northern oligarchy to withdraw its administrators in southern states in order to avoid excessive bloodshed like it was happening in other countries in the North African region that had similar situations. Two years later, while the system seemed to have settled down, a group of south-easterners who were not convenient with self-government under a Lagos-based capital, declared secession from the young state of Southern Nigeria. It was a peculiarly bloodless affair, papa had told me, and each sovereign state has been relatively stable except for the minor skirmishes that happen at the border between Biafra and the northern states, somewhere around Benue. About seven years after the split of south-eastern and south-western Nigeria, there has never been a presidential election held in the southwest, which is now called Yorubaland. The new state has been headed by a sort of selected parliamentary group of respected indigenes called Elder statesmen. The selection was done by paramount rulers of the various major tribes that make up Yorubaland. There is no central seat of government like in many other organized nations and communities across the globe. Many of the older population of the Yoruba prefer this system but the younger generations and a few of the older still clamoured for a return to the democratic system that never worked for Nigeria. The argument of the elders was based on the fact that they witnessed the corruption brought by democracy to Nigeria and also that the sovereign rulership of Yoruba land was never in the hands of any single individual before the region became a British colony and life then, according to tales that were handed down, was much fairer for all. However, the numbers of elder statesmen have been increasing rapidly and there have been allegations of bribery of paramount rulers by specific interest groups and money bags. There are fears that the absolute lack of consolidated authority in a specific representation of a central government will soon lead to chaos and a total lack of accountability as regards utilization of public funds. Hence, there have been massive protests, mostly involving the younger crop of politicians calling for the establishment of a central and accountable government across the several cities that make up Yoruba land. There have been debates all over the print and electronic media on the type of government to be instituted, a parliamentary or presidential system of government. A couple of ambitious politicians have even rolled out campaigns under the platform of several existing and some other fictitious political parties. The nation is at a crucial point in its history, papa had said. We will either make men or make good out of our men.

At this point I was willing to ask him if UI made men from these elections and posters or made good out of men. He seemed to be reading my thoughts as we climbed a flight of stairs that led to the faculty offices.

Those are posters of people contesting for positions on the SUG, that's Students' Union Government, he said motioning at the walls.

They stand as representatives of the entire student body, the eyes, ears and mouth of the over forty thousand student body when crucial decisions that concern the university is to be made.

He turned the key to the door of his office and walked in briskly going in directly for the window blinds, then the electrical socket outlet that supplied the Air Conditioner and refrigerator. You would know it was a routine, almost religious, the way he did it. I have been with my grandparents for a week and I have been papas' guide to his office for about four days and the minimum time it has taken us to make the short trip about eighty metres between the car and the office is 40 minutes, often stopping to exchange greetings and pleasantries with every secretary, colleague and sometimes students who turns to exchange greetings but today was peculiar, there has been no familiar face on the way waiting to exchange greetings. That meant a lot to me in ways the foreigner would not understand.

If papa has to stop to greet ten people, then I had to stop to greet ten people, majority of whom expected "proper greetings" from me on hearing I was papa's grandchild. The situation gets complicated knowing papas' popularity and fondness for promotion of our proper cultural ethics and pride. In other words, I would do my best to lie prostrate and rise up ten times and always repeating the phrase e'kaaro sa or ma. I've recently decided to stick to the new age method of a simple bow, which may be quite unacceptable by the more eccentric of papas' colleagues, I guess that's why I'm from the new school, young bloods if you please but I decided against the push-ups. Today was different, I remembered, it's Saturday and there were no colleagues here just like you don't find students in my own school on Saturdays. Most of them were out partying or watching live sports on TV. Papa seemed to me now like a workaholic but I've always known him to be a jolly smiling ol' fellow who just enjoys life and what he does. He had no children to pay their school fees, so it definitely wasn't about money or surviving in some rat race. It was purely fun to him; at least that's what I think.

I didn't understand. Late night reading, early risings, going to school on Saturday, all by a 73 year old man who took little solid food.

Incomprehensible.

But I enjoyed it. It's my holiday and I'm meant to enjoy it. The pace was relatively slow for me despite papa's heavy workload.

I sat down at the small reading table where I had kept a couple of storybooks the previous day and picked out my best – "The Three Musketeers", never boring. Papa made his way to the door slowly glanced up and down the quiet narrow passage and closed the door slowly and pulled out a tall sheet of foam that looked thick. He seemed to have pulled it out from the part of the wall that was concealed by the back of the door when it was open. He slid it gently across the back of the door, covering all crevices and allowances left at the edge of the closed door. I heard a small click as I saw a small contraption on the wall snap and hold the foam in place firmly against the door at four different points on opposite vertical sides of the door. He turned and went to his seat at the mahogany table and brought out a massive file, pressed on a button by the wall which brought out his personal office desktop computer and its typing pad from their hiding places beneath the table. No noise, just motion. I was familiar with the office and papa obviously thinking I would be a bit nervous at the only new experience I just had - the foam covering, explained to me that he had some important work to do and wanted to use the foam to minimize the effect of external noises and also give observers from outside the impression that nobody was in since they couldn't peep through the key hole and the door edges. I simply said yes sir...ok sir, though I wasn't afraid, at least not of my grandfather. If there was a reason to be afraid of him, my dad, his son would have told me but I instinctively knew there was some other explanation for the foam, which was not mentioned. Papa settled down to his work and everything continued quietly for about half an hour with only short pauses when papa asked me what I wanted to be in the future and when the mobile phone on the table buzzed and papa promptly cut it short, and probably switched it off because I never heard it give off the sound again.

I buried my head in the novel in my hands, the three musketeers. I took interest in the novel and read on as the seconds ticked by in the large silent room until at exactly 11am, there was a large tick on the great wall clock and a correspondingly loud rasp on the door outside, to which papa asked me to unlatch the foam from the door and open it. I saw a hint of a coy smile on his face when he said so but I was not sure if I was just assuming it. I opened the door standing behind it, trying as much as possible to stay out of the important visitor's way and avoid the possible long greeting processes to follow. The man bounded in, so full of life and boisterously exclaiming alagba! Meaning 'elder', he seemed to be coming for me or so I thought

Yes, he was coming towards me....... And he was addressing me, 13 year old me, Akinkanju Aluko as alagba. I looked up quite alarmed and ready to prostrate but the firm old hands held my shoulder and I looked up into the dreamy face of Jimi Alalo, popular Uncle Jimi, and every Yoruba child's dream face.
CHAPTER 3

Uncle Jimi

I stood still as the old man peered into my face, not like papa did. Papa looked into my face in a lifeless stare that hid no hint of his intense powers of observation. Papa's stare was more like the way you would stare into the microscope in the laboratory while you tried to straighten out the alimentary canal of a housefly.

Quite fixed, little warmth but with plenty of concern.

This kind of papa's stare could fit into any category from love to scientific observation of an animal ready for decapitation. I do not doubt my grandfather's love for me, however, Uncle Jimi's stare made it look like papa had wanted to choke me all along and Uncle Jimi was the kind stranger who came along and delivered me from papa's grip with his enchanting smile and disarming grip.

A knight in smiling armour; brandishing with fearless abandon, the weapon that has endeared him to millions of Nigerian children.

His eyes were luminous, dark brown, almost watery and reflective like a cat. He had a short wisp of white hair, no facial hair, even and impeccably white set of teeth. He was dressed in native attire with diamond shaped red patterns on a white and yellow background. The dress was sown in a traditional native Yoruba style known as "buba ati sokoto" which consists of a quite large shirt and shorts that reached slightly beyond his knees completed by a matching traditional "fila abe eti aja" and black suede shoes. He immediately was the perfect model of a black Santa Claus. He was simply marvellous there, addressing me as alagba and I knew not how to respond to such magnificent greeting. I simply bowed, not saying a word all the while. The man's grip relaxed considerably, obviously now sure that I wouldn't be prostrating. That's my grandson, I told you about', I now heard papa's voice sounding with a bit of glee as he obviously seemed to be watching us two. He had set up this meeting, to be a special treat for me and I was very proud of him. You couldn't beat papa's thoughtfulness, even if you tried a whole month thinking how to do it. Uncle Jimi simply smiled turning once again to look at me where I now stood close by my reading table. He caught a glimpse of my Alexandre Dumas novel and picked it up, looking at the title and laughed again. Holding the novel in his hand, he then said in a deep, thoughtful and sweet manner.

It's easy to see the relationship. You both are physically twins. E da bi ibeji, the boy resembles you and obviously shares your ideologies and dreams of always saving the situation. He brandished the novel again at me saying, "this is probably your grandfathers biggest source of inspiration", so I see you both have a lot in common.

"He likes fighting to save every situation, especially political ones" he said winking. Grandfather pouted playfully.

If we don't save this country, our children will all die, either of hunger or poverty in the future.

"And also causes troubles while fighting his battles, hopefully you don't".

However, I wonder why I can't find you reading Ogboju Ode ninu Igbo Irunmale, Igbo Olodumare or Ireke Onibudo. I can tell the man is a jolly old fellow and suddenly discovering I hadn't said a word since his entrance despite the lovely banter and exchange going on. I simply screamed out loud "Uncle Jimi". Though I had meant that to come out as a small greeting either acknowledging the man's presence or registering my participation in the conversation but it did neither. It stopped the entire conversation and laughter altogether, chilling the room for a brief three seconds.

Noticing my error, I smiled sheepishly and Uncle Jimi got the cue and simply said, "Should I tell you a good story?"

Papa smiled at the man's thoughtfulness, obviously seeing the first fruits of his plan coming out quite earlier than he anticipated just as the mango fruit grew ripe with the first rains of the year when children were still covered in large blankets. "That'll be fine" papa said. Uncle Jimi simply walked to papa's table and gave him a sheet of paper and said, "When we return, I'll knock". Papa simply nodded and escorted us to the door. I ambled along with Uncle Jimi and soon came to a door which had a simple but queer label. As I escorted papa through these passages from the car I see several doors with names on it, it's either Dr. X or Prof. Y or something like that. In some extreme cases, we come across doors to a laboratory or studio or an unmarked door, like papas'. I know papa is a highly influential academic and would really not welcome the extra introductions that could draw more people to his office. But here we have a hole and it looked quite funny because the fonts didn't even look 'academic', it was more like something out of Harry Potter.

GRIOT'S HOLE

I marvelled, wondering what was inside. Uncle Jimi brought out a key, slipped it in and turned. The door opened slightly and we entered a large space that I could least describe as breathtaking.
CHAPTER FOUR

The Griot's Hole

The Griot's hole is a traditional marvel of the most updated technology. And that's just true. I've never seen any space and environment like it all over the world and I've been to a lot of marvellous places in my thirteen years due to Daddy's insistence that his children have the best of everything from education to holidays. I was in Disneyland Paris, when I was five, Disneyland California at eight, American Museum of Natural History at twelve. I think the griot's hole looks quite like the Hall of African Peoples and The Hall of Biodiversity at AMNH but definitely better depicted, though smaller. It also looked like a traditional Igbo village square like I read of in Chinua Achebe's Things Fall Apart. While I watched in awe, Uncle Jimi simply stepped aside and said this is my office. I looked at him and asked the first of my many questions in this room.

Uncle Jimi, what is a griot, is it an animal? He simply pointed at a small corner that I quickly recognized from TV as the place from where Uncle Jimi told his stories to me and several other children who listened. Written on the roughly carved bark of a tree were the words:

A griot is an oral historian that is born and endowed with Eleduwa's special powers to know and remember our people's history and directly share it with our generations through song and tales. It is not a profession; it is a calling that originated here and widely used all over West Africa.

I bent down and read the words aloud, stopped and thought for a few minutes and said my thoughts aloud;

A griot is a person that tells stories and sings about history and tradition.

Uncle Jimi nodded. Then I asked quite rhetorically,

Are you the griot?

He nodded again and said there are many other griots all over the world. There's Dan Maraya in Jos, Salifu Keita. I nodded and simply told him I never heard of any of them before. Then he said, 'Have you heard of Sanmi Onigangan of Ibadan. I almost swished my head to say No when I remembered the newspaper clipping I found in the room I stayed in papa's house when I first came in to Ibadan a week ago. I remembered clearly the paper had proclaimed the shocking announcement of the possible resignation of Sanmi Onigangan of Ibadan from the services of the royal palace of Ibadan and the great people of Ibadan. The problem with the news item was the fact that a griot of the status of Sanmi was never expected to resign till he died and his resignation was directly linked to the possibility of a great political crisis in yorubaland that may threaten the entire existence of the Ibadan royalty. Sanmi did not want to be caught in the expected crisis. The story was written by a columnist named Prof. Sanmi Aluko of the department of African History, University of Ibadan. That's Papa and his picture was on the newspaper clipping. Now Uncle Jimi is telling me that Papa is the popular Sanmi Onigangan of Ibadan and Sanmi Aluko who wrote the piece on Sanmi Onigangan of Ibadan. And he's a griot and a Professor of African History. I thought about it for a minute's fraction and asked, but the writing in the newspaper said Sanmi Onigangan is a skilled drummer and papa doesn't have a drum. Uncle Jimi looked at me the way I've often seen him do on TV and said in almost a whisper "yes, he does have a drum and he is very skilled in drumming". I stood listening to every word he said. The gangan and bata drum used to be in this room until he moved it a couple of weeks ago, two days before he wrote the piece you read. He obviously moved it in anticipation of the questions his resignation would raise. I nodded.

You know the gangan drum is a traditional item in our land and you can see that depicted on our currency. It's famous for its unique sound and people call it a talking drum.

That's an exaggeration, right? I asked.

Well, it does talk in some ways. For instance, it's a popular drum for masquerade dances and it is said to speak directly to your physical and inner ears. Most elders pick its hidden meanings while you can also pick its tone in the English language. It speaks all languages. There is the popular story of a masquerade dance that happened in Ibadan and while the huge colourful spirits came out dancing, a mischievous young man came out with them in a hand-sewn colourful costume. He danced so much the costume got torn at the brockus joint. The gangan drummers caught sight of the eegun's dancing brockus and the only way to alert the eegun before other onlookers could see it's dancing brockus was through the gangan drum but immediately the tune and rhythm of the drum changed, it ended up publicizing the eegun's dancing brockus because everybody could hear the words of the gangan drum in the language of their hearts and ears. We both laughed so much. It was a funny one and it was typical Uncle Jimi style.

Did the young man also hear the language of the drum?

He was so engrossed in the dance but later heard the gangan drum speaking. It was late though because everyone had seen what was between his legs.

I looked up at the vast room called the griot's hole. It was about 55meters tall, 80meters long and 35meters across and virtually every space of it was filled with some form of life, tall trees, artificial and natural ones scattered to form a thick and dense canopy under which every other thing grew. It was a museum intended to model the village and forest activities of the myth and legends of pre-colonial Yorubaland. There were statues that guarded a narrow winding footpath crossing this jungle of a room. The more popular and prominent of these statues were a life-size figure of Sango, the legendary Yoruba god of thunder, his eyes sparkling red and looming in the darkness while sparks flew off his raised axe at regular intervals, the sculpture was coloured in the dark African skin, toned softly and looked real. At his side was Oya, his wife, looking most beautiful and kneeling in a longing gesture and I didn't notice the softly flowing water from her wrapper until I stepped into the stream it formed. Another figure was pointed out to me as a character from D. O. Fagunwa's Igbo Olodumare. He had a long flowing white beard that glittered slightly in the dark forest and was in contrast to his dark brown skin and reeled out proverb after proverb, most ending with the words iba olodumare. Uncle Jimi also described him as a figure that Fagunwa probably constructed as Olodumare (God Almighty) from the biblical depiction of Jesus Christ as a dark-brown skinned man with flowing white hair like wool. Are you saying Jesus Christ was a Yoruba man? I asked.

Maybe he was, the bible says he has our kind of skin but remember Fagunwa wrote fiction.

Where in the bible is that found?

You should ask a preacher, I'm not one, he said smiling. Then he added, the twelfth to fifteenth verse of the first chapter of the book of revelation.

There was also an unmistakable statue of the mythological giant yoruba god-king Oranmiyan. Though at the far end of the footpath, it was still clearly visible from where we were because of its size.

I also looked at a small clearing at the end of the winding footpath which was bordered by massive trees and a couple of stuffed masquerades glided back and forth much like a scene from Chinua Achebe's Things Fall Apart. Uncle Jimi smiled and saluted a particular one which stopped and responded in a dramatic frenzy kneeling down on his left knee, a slight bow of his head, hands crossed over each other and voice booming in esoteric greeting.

There's no sculpture of Oduduwa here, Uncle Jimi said.

Why? I asked.

Oduduwa founded the earth from Ile-Ife but rather we decided the statue of Oduduwa will be at Ife. However, the akuko iseda aye is modelled and kept here. There were also birds flying around the thick jungle and small stuffed animals, apes, leopards, a few species of non-venomous live snakes were allowed to roam about freely, butterflies and fireflies were grown and introduced artificially. Uncle Jimi further explained that just a small percentage of the trees were not real but the artificial ones are randomly spaced across the room. There was a little village at the eastern end of the room deep behind the trees and you'd have to walk off the footpath to see it. Uncle Jimi said it was modelled after a drawing of the old Ife when Moremi was its princess. You could see the lights from burning firewood and smoke and singing through the dense jungle. Soldiers escorted you once you step within its boundaries after emerging from the jungle. There were no foot paths to the village as a defence strategy. Uncle Jimi also said you could see occupants of this village cross periodically to another village on the western end of the room. This western village was built more like a garrison, with fenced walls and weapons, fire arrows, swords and a small foundry and iron smith workshop that forged the weapons. The entire system was life-like and didn't run in contrast to each other. Uncle Jimi explained. It's all powered by electricity from a solar power station above the faculty roof. At 7 o'clock every morning, all electrical systems shutdown for about an hour while a watering system sprinkles water at several places all over the room for about forty five minutes to keep the foliage healthy and also create a mist which makes it eerie and natural to first time visitors that come in early in the morning. We could create thunder sounds at this time of the day and you'd think it's really raining. Uncle Jimi quite explained a lot of other figures and statues that littered several other places across the room. As we walked back to the entrance through which we came in, I noticed that the back of the door through which we came in was an artificial tree trunk that had no branches yet a chameleon gently rested on it with eyes swivelling and shutting in slow motion. The ground was soft earth in some places and soft brown earth-like rug in some places but there was obviously no cement and tiles, not even on the walls. The foot path branched off to the left towards where I had seen the meaning of the word griot on the tree bark and where Uncle Jimi usually sat and tells his stories on TV and we turned towards this area where he called his office. We passed the small open space called Uncle Jimi's village square and then at the end of it was a small glass enclosure about 3.66metres by 3.66metres by 4.88metres. Through the glass one could see a completely modern office with a mahogany table, a leather chair, a flat screen desktop computer and a large bookshelf. The modern convenience was a sharp contrast to the space we were in right now, the village square. This place was donated to UI by a group of Yoruba historians and funded by African Griot Arts Consortium after years of pressuring the authorities by your grandfather and me about the importance of passing down the legacies, history, tradition and customs of our people to our children. UI is indeed fortunate to be a beneficiary. It's the first of its kind in Africa and we rarely publicize its existence due to campus politics and mainstream politics. In the cool darkness of the forest one could notice the bright colours of several insects and animals but I was quite shocked when I heard the sudden shrill cry of a large bird that swooped down close to a branch near the village square. It was the biggest bird I'd ever seen. What's that?

It's the bird I told you of earlier which we know in our stories as akuko iseda aye, we constructed the frame. That's it he said pointing. Yoruba legends have it that olodumare owned the earth and created it but it was full of water and the seas covered the surface of the earth until he sent Oduduwa down to Ile-Ife by means of a chain that stretched from the heavens called Ibugbe Olodumare to the earth. Oduduwa was however sent down with only a seashell full of sand and a bird which is usually identified to be a cock.

That bird is way bigger than any cock I've seen and I told Uncle Jimi.

Well, we have good cause to believe Olodumare will not found the earth with an ordinary cock so we named this extraordinary cock, akuko iseda aye which literally means the creator's cock but more accurately called a Phoenix in english and other foreign literature.

What will Oduduwa do with a shell full of sand and a bird, though?

Legend has it that he got to the earth and poured out the shell of sand over the water and dropped the bird on it. The bird scattered the little sand in different directions and as it expanded, it formed solid ground in everywhere it got to.

By now I had enough surprises to last me an entire holiday. Many of these stuffed animals operate on voice recognition and voice control and respond to the sound of human voices imitating what most living animals do. The reason for this is to give the real experience to visitors when they come in here. This bird must have heard our voices and traced it to this place. Uncle Jimi said.

At this point we decided to get into the office and get some food. Uncle Jimi had a slice of bread and mug of milked tea ready for me. I ate quickly not wanting to miss anything. The time was exactly 2pm now and I looked at Uncle Jimi, he must be really privileged to be in charge of this place. More so, I never expected to see something like this in Yorubaland or Arewa or Biafra or Benin Republic. These were all nations around me and were all struggling for development. It made me think that if we had this in a faculty in UI, then why go to California or Paris or Washington to experience it. We sat down under the cool shade of the tree in Uncle Jimi's village square while he told me a story. The story was titled, once upon a Giant Country.
CHAPTER 5

Once upon a giant country

Alo O!

Alo, I responded. It's the traditional beginning to a very good story and an ancient greeting that was passed down before the colonialists came but some cynics will rather insist it is a derivative of the English greeting "Hello".

You know once upon a time, the people of a very big country came together and they decided to release themselves from the bondage and rule of a tyrant. This people decided to pick a person to lead them into battle against the tyrant. The tyrant was an old white man who looked to be very quiet but he had a lot of power all over the world. He had lands and property and soldiers were everywhere he could call to wipe out this big country. The people picked a lot of people that were influential among them to speak peacefully with the tyrant and try to convince him to change the way he ruled. But nobody wanted to take the job of the mediator. Uncle Jimi paused and with a slow drag he started. The search for a mediator continued for a whole day and then they decided to impose the job on a very wealthy cocoa farmer in the country. He refused but was persuaded to do it. He eventually obliged to do it on a condition. He promised to state his condition on the next meeting day. On the next day, he sat down before the whole country and promised to be a mediator for the whole country if another mediator was chosen to assist him and he wanted the other mediator to also be a business man like himself. A lot of people disagreed because the tyrant was known to have a lot of money and often influenced people through bribes. The businessman is not a good choice as a mediator in this matter, they said. We'd rather choose a cattle rearer because they have nothing to lose and not much interest in power and money since they are usually nomadic. The people decided to impose a cattle rearer as their mediator's assistant. The mediator cocoa farmer then said, "If you have so much confidence in this cattle rearer, then let him be the mediator and I will only be his assistant". The people agreed to the proposal. But after a while, the business man also came up with a proposal. He, being a man of fair speech and great oratory stood up amidst the crowd and said;

My countrymen, this is an issue of rescuing a great nation and if we consider all things, it is not the job of one man because we all will benefit from it. There was a loud chorus, applause and supportive murmurings. The noise subsided and he continued. If we all join these people and go to the tyrant's domain, it is not too much. Yes, the people chorused once again.

Quiet.

So I suggest that we don't choose anybody to do our job for us lest the person comes up later and take the credit for our freedom. The wise businessman ended his statements to no applause but to disputing and arguments. Then a young man stood up and said, "You have spoken well but we should appear before this tyrant not in a ruthless manner but in a coordinated way to demand what is ours and we can trust this men, they are our brothers and kinsmen". The young man sat down to much applause but the issue was disputed for another hour before the group finally decided to send the cattle rearer and two assistants, the cocoa farmer and the businessman to be a check on the cattle rearer. Bystanders who watched the meeting were not allowed to give counsel. There was an old wise man among the bystanders who told his grandson that this country may have followed the businessman's advice to work together since there is strength in numbers.

The three countrymen, a cattle rearer, a cocoa farmer and a businessman made their journey to the tyrant ruler's abode. They spoke with the man and......Uncle Jimi paused to take some water............after raving at them for a few minutes about all what he had done for their country without being appreciated, he decided to grant the country their request. He gave them freedom as they desired but as required in our tradition, the man didn't pray for them. He simply sent them away like Pharaoh sent Moses and the Israelites away and asking them to pray for him instead. Nevertheless, the three representatives were happy about what they had accomplished. The tyrant however, was not happy and being cunning in his own ways called back the three representatives and told them he will give them some money. They rejected the money because of their countrymen's admonition before they left home. However, the tyrant offered to grant them recognition as the only representatives ever to make a request on behalf of their countrymen. Whatever they asked for on behalf of their other countrymen will be granted. They became the only recognized representatives of their country and no other person was recognized. They had much power and when they returned home, they became proud. The tyrant didn't give them money but he gave just three of them every power they needed over their compatriots. He imposed the cattle rearer as the king over the country and subsequently, the kingship became the heirloom of these three people and no other person could make a major decision again. The country who once governed themselves by majority votes and through a consensus decision of the majority now bent to the will and decision of either of the three representatives. At this point, Uncle Jimi paused and drank a cup of water. He then continued in a thoughtful drawl, "Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely".

Very soon, out of the three representatives, the businessman became the wealthiest being the most enterprising of the three and according to the talebearers, the least friendly and also quite proud. He also began to acquire a lot of influence over the country more than that of the installed king. He gathered a bunch of people to himself and started a revolution against the throne. It was a forceful revolution and many people died. He became feared but the revolt was short lived and his followers and children were rounded up and starved to death. His businesses were torn apart and even when peace returned to the country, life was not the same again for everybody. The authority over the land remained with just two people and everyone viewed each other with suspicion. The ignorant townsmen now saw the danger they had put the country into by allowing the ruler ship be shared by three people, only it was now shared by two, while the third was allowed to contribute periodically. If only the ignorant countrymen had known and remembered the story of Sango, he said pointing at the not-too-distant figure of the demi-god growling in the slight darkness beyond, they would understand that they sold their share of the collective authority on the land to the men who represented them before the tyrant. The man who can spit fire from his mouth should first be feared for his ability to self-destruct and the most powerful man among any group of people is the most likely person to first get destroyed. It has always been like that all through history, Uncle Jimi said peering intently into my eyes and it suddenly seemed like he was crying but he wasn't, at least not physically. Then he said in a morose voice, this is what happened to the tyrant, the businessman and the giant country and fell silent for a couple of minutes while I pondered over the story. I couldn't tell if I found it interesting but it got me thinking for some time.

He took another cup of water and offered me some. It's diluted, so you can have some, he said.

I wondered what he meant by that until I took a big sip from the cup and found it was palm wine. My eyes opened wide. Alcohol. Dad must not hear this but it really felt harmless and so I drank up the whole cup. Anyway, who's going to tell him, I thought.

Thoughtfully again, Uncle Jimi said, looking at me. You're a brilliant chap so you'd have read about Hitler, Alexander the Great and such great conquerors that destroyed themselves. You can add Sango to the list alongside some characters from this story. This is what happened to Nigeria and those of us who are students of history expected it. The Igbo felt we betrayed them during the civil war but truth is we did not. History was against them but they made it worse by going the violent way. Nigeria resorted to democracy and made the same mistake as the ignorant townsmen but I'll leave you to ponder the rest. I think it's about time we returned to Prof's Office because we have some important business to talk about.
CHAPTER 6

Something up

We both took a cup of palm wine each and made for the door. As we left the griot's hole, the wristwatch I wore clicked three. Uncle Jimi stole a quick look at it and said off-handedly. Do remember that it's our responsibility to tell these stories to our children's children. Ise t'olorun ran awa niyen (meaning our own God-given assignment is to tell these stories). People and cultures never die except their stories die.

That's a nice wrist watch he quipped.

Thank you sir.

Can I get a closer look at it?

I gave him my left hand as we moved slowly along the corridors. He simply looked at it and smiled. It's a very good one he repeated. I was thankful for the compliments. The wristwatch was actually given to me by a friend. A pretty girl.

As we approached papa's door, I reached out to knock on the door but Uncle Jimi quickly held my hand and did the knocking himself. A simple knock on the door obviously meant a lot to him. I noticed he knocked specifically on the keyhole, not on the door. Almost instantly, the door swung open and papa was waiting to usher us in.

Immediately we got in, he snapped the foam back in its place behind the door covering every crevice as before. Uncle Jimi's paper was laid open on the table and I could clearly see its contents.

****

At the same moment, a giant clock in a room on Ademola Ogunsanya Street in Victoria Island Lagos struck three and Miss Avery, the alluring secretary of Alhaji Oyebode Kosoko placed the portable PC on the table in front of Alhaji. She placed her right hand firmly on the edge of the black mahogany conference table while her left manoeuvred the keys on the portable device expertly and with the tip of her little finger carefully hidden beneath the table she clicked on a small button and the lights in the room went out as a giant screen flickered on behind her while the other men in the room watched, seemingly oblivious of the faint darkness and several men armed with guns in the room. A lone light at the back of the conference hall at Kosoko Towers was on and the meeting started at exactly 3:15pm "African time" as Alhaji Kosoko had directed his secretary, who had used her intuition to set the giant clock in the room at three. So the royal chieftains in the room thought it was three o'clock, having been stripped of all metallic objects before coming in including wristwatches. This is the committee of men that elected elder statesmen; they were all paramount rulers of the various major tribes that make up Yorubaland. The private meeting setup by Alhaji Kosoko in his office however did not include some other members of the Yoruba royalty. Most of those absent were either firm proponents of the present system of government best described as a traditional parliamentary system. They favoured the continuation of the election of Elder statesmen under new rules that would ensure a transparent screening system for prospective Elder statesmen.

Alhaji Kosoko, fondly called Pemberton is openly a proponent of the traditional parliamentary system of government that elected elder statesmen of credible character but he is also an ambitious man. Popularly known as a socialite prince who enjoys the good life, he was never considered to be much interested in political power. His family had lost the throne of Lagos about two hundred years earlier while the British ruled Nigeria and having never regained it from the ruling family; they were more seen as Lagos socialites who simply had a finger in the power cake. No member of the Kosoko family had been on the throne of Lagos for two hundred years. Alhaji Kosoko himself had his early education in Lagos and went to the University in Leeds where he met Miss Avery, then a young and intelligent thirteen year old high school student of Central Leeds High School. He was twenty nine and already married to his first wife who was in Lagos with a baby girl but the age difference made little meaning. Miss Avery was a natural laugher with an immaculate set of teeth, light brown skin and of mixed origin. She was quite curious of her ancestry and relished the conversation of an older Nigerian student, since she was born of a dark-skinned nurse from Akwa Ibom and a white skinned technician from Southampton, who had lied to the nurse that he was an engineer from Britain working on an oil facility. At the end of his job in Nigeria, he simply took his new wife and baby to his home in Leeds and the baby Avery never knew what Nigeria looked like.

The years of absence from his Lagos wife and Avery's vivacious laughter when he called her Aferi, in his thick local Lagos boy accent soon steered them off the realm of friendship and at age fifteen, she was no longer innocent before her friend Bodey. He was welcomed in her home though her mother later got to know that he was married, she never bothered about it since he played well with her more than Tech Jones of Southampton had ever done in a few years but above all, he seemed to be trustworthy and had a promising future as he elaborated his plans to become Nigerian president before age forty five, not to mention the fact that he was of royal ancestry and arguably the most respected royal bloodline in the whole of West Africa. Nigeria had broken up now and he could only become Yorubaland president if he played his cards well.

I intend to forego my forefathers' throne which we have placed in the care of someone else in the palace of the Oba of Lagos for about two hundred years. I want to run for the presidency of this country under the flag of the largest political party in the land. That is PA, People's Alliance. He said, concluding his speech and presentation.

Grave silence in the room.

Then after a few minutes, a beaded hand rapped loudly on the table drawing everyone's attention. That's commendable seeing you want to end a 200 year old feud. It's a welcome idea that I believe everyone should consent to because we need all the unity we can get among ourselves as royal fathers and I think we can adopt your stance on this issue' said the man with the beads.

"Something is up here" said another man on the left side of the table at which everyone instinctively looked up at the ceiling.

"Not there", said the man calmly but obviously irritated.

I mean that we all know that Alhaji is a firm supporter of the traditional parliamentary style of leadership and here he is stating that he wants to be the president. Also, the PA already has a presidential candidate who is actively campaigning in obvious readiness of the day we will shift to the presidential system and he is a strong man and .....

At this, Alhaji Kosoko interrupted. "Things do change Baba Ondo, so let's just say my mindset changed after a careful thought over the matter and also the main reason why we're here is to garner your support. After that, we can deal with any opposition. Moreso, there has been no party primaries in PA", Kosoko concluded looking at the man.

Ondo people are known for being bookish in their approach to everything and could be very unprogressive because they spent too much time cleaning their plethora of certificates on the shelf and that's just what this Chief was just doing, displaying his analytical mind with modern English, something is up.......go and bring it down, Kosoko thought.

After a little more conversation, the alluring secretary came in with a big bag and handed out brown envelopes to the tables in front of the seated men. That's Nigerian style, imported to Yorubaland. You never give it to the people, you drop it on the table where anybody from Daffy Duck to the British PM could have picked it and you close your eyes to whichever of the two picked it. At this, the men all gave their support and after a couple of drinks and ayes and banters, the meeting closed and Alhaji was smiling. He wasn't going home tonight. He'd be right here in his office overlooking the Lagos beach front while working out political and business strategies with his secretary. He received pats and handshakes from a few well wishers. He also received several assurances of confidence from some others who had been in the meeting. All were leaving. The emissary of Olubadan waited for a brief discussion with the secretary of Alhaji Kosoko and dropped a note with her. After half an hour, the conference room was empty and Alhaji Kosoko sat down on his giant chair looking out the window across the remainder of the city and beyond the ocean. He could see his dearest secretary approaching from the midst of the swirling ocean in a reflection on the glass window. She seemed to be coming straight up from out of the blue ocean cloaked by darkness and yet lighting the wide space beyond with her beauty. She placed a hand on his shoulder and gave him a small white sheet of paper. It had the mobile phone number of the man who represented the Olubadan at the meeting. They both laughed slowly. Then she said.

Bodey, you can see now that I need a promotion and a more private office. They both laughed again. Then he said "Being my confidential secretary keeps you around me every time and you know that's important for proper functioning of my brain" and they both laughed again. Then she brought out a second white envelope that had obviously been sealed when delivered but was now torn. Alhaji Kosoko aka Pemberton scanned the contents of the envelope quickly while his secretary watched.

What is it? She asked.

Obviously someone is up against me and I guess I'm also up against someone he replied indifferently. PA's main presidential aspirant heard of today's meeting and had an insider listen in on us. Who dropped this? I really don't know I just found it on the floor while coming ....

"MA, you've been with me 13 years and you still won't stop saying I don't know" Alhaji lashed out at his secretary. She was shocked at the outburst and simply managed a timid "Baby". It also says there's a new development that won't make my plan succeed. Something scientific that will form the core of their campaign.

What can it be?

Oil couldn't have been discovered somewhere else without our knowledge, right? He asked his secretary quite hoping he was correct.

In the Nigerian regions whenever a mention was made of scientific discoveries, people immediately thought of discoveries of new oil wells because Nigeria had fed itself on oil and it had consumed the soul and conscience of even the most moral of men so discovery of new oil wells became the idea of worthy science, any other science made no sense especially to the political class who saw the oil wealth as a source of unlimited funds that can easily be diverted to private accounts and win elections with. She simply reacted with calm.

"You're getting worked up and whatever they've discovered you can know it without worrying". You have the means so don't spoil tonight now, Mr President. Then he smiled at her again and they began the business of the night while he thought in his mind, something's up, something new that we didn't know about.

In politics, that's a sign of disaster, it's beyond the speeches and winning elections. It's your ability to be up-to-date with the true affairs of the state and not be caught unawares by your opponents and detractors.

Alhaji Kosoko was a man who had seen both sides of the world. His nickname Pemberton was a permanent mark of one moment of political mis-information when his publicity adviser had proudly told the defunct Nigerian senate that Kosoko had his doctorate-level education at Pemberton University School of Management during a submission where Kosoko was being considered for a federal ministerial appointment. Obviously relishing the extra accomplishment, he had not made the needed correction, only for reviewers to later point out that Pemberton was a local town in British Columbia, Canada famous for its pubs and hospitality, not a University. Kosoko didn't lose the appointment due to his open-handedness and high-profile bribing but the name stuck like glue because he was already famous for his love for pubs so who knew if he really did a doctorate level education in a pub.

****

In thirteen years, the experiences recorded by a human brain would hardly fit into a one terabyte computer disk space. I had some such experiences that would virtually corrupt the disk altogether and Uncle Jimi had unwittingly brought up some of those memories by noticing and mentioning my wristwatch earlier. Some months back I had met this lovely beauty who spent the weekend with us at home, it was she who gave me the wristwatch that Uncle Jimi had taken so much interest in and she formed a major part of the infected part of my disk space.

Since we came back into papa's office, Uncle Jimi and papa had been at papa's table discussing about the possibility of analyzing some scientific data, picking out details of some geographic locations from Uncle Jimi's paper which was some kind of map. They seemed to be in no haste but were quite engulfed by the work and its importance. Occasionally, I was called upon to bring a red marker, blue marker or pencil close to me. They both sat on chairs facing the large 32" screen monitor of papa's desktop computer and seemed to sometimes speak to someone else in the room and on such occasions, I stopped to stare at them but could obviously not see anyone else in the room, neither were they on the phone. The only anomaly I noticed was a small red light from papa's computer which blinked periodically, some kind of recording or notification light. I continued reading my novel until I was called again to get an office pin. I got the pin and wheeled round the table to get a glimpse of what could be on the computer but still the old man's figure stood between me and the screen. Curiosity had quite gotten the better of me but I was now sure there was something papa was watching with Uncle Jimi on the computer. I supplied the pin and made my way back to my seat from where I noticed a little red button blinking in papa's right ear. I instinctively trained my eyes to Uncle Jimi's right ear, the only other ear visible to me in the room and I could see the same red light blinking. A small dot. Now I 'm convinced there was some communication going on in the room and it was really sophisticated so I courageously slipped to papa's side. It was a meeting going on in a large conference room and the attendees were almost all dressed in traditional Yoruba attire. Some looked like security aides and there was a man at the head of the table who seemed to be the one in charge. Obviously papa and Uncle Jimi were listening in on this conversation or were even a part of the meeting. It showed a date and time on the top right hand corner of the screen which somehow reminded me of the Canon camcorder I had used the previous year on a trip to Disneyland, it displayed the date and time of recordings in such great detail that you could almost miss the recording itself. I knew however that this meeting was going on at the moment. The time was 4:26pm and the meeting had been on for over an hour. I watched as the men listened intently, wondering what they were on to. The listening, marking and writing continued for an extra hour.

Then, at 6:00pm, papa suggested we went out and get some food before we came back to continue our work. At this, I was alarmed and I immediately asked when we'll be going home. At this question, Uncle Jimi and papa stopped and stared at me for about a quarter of a minute, after which papa carefully explained to me that we were not returning home for the night because he had some business to finish up in the office at night and he needed my help to be able to finish up this business of the night. As we walked into the cafeteria of the nearby Premier hotel for our dinner and some food to take back to the University for the night, I kept wondering what this business of the night could be. Papa treated me to a rich meal of hot amala and fish-endowed ewedu soup with a huge chunk of meat while Uncle Jimi preferred a plate of fish peppersoup and a bottle of maltina. Light food he said was good for a night that will be spent without sleep. In the middle of my meal, I noticed a waiter who walked by pushing a trolley load of kitchen utensils, he had on a shirt on which was written "1 Thessalonians 5:6-7; so be on your guard, not asleep like the others, night is the time when people sleep and drinkers get drunk".

Just at the end of our meal, papa stood up and strolled to the opposite end of the hotel lobby which housed the cafeteria and while we sat waiting for him, Uncle Jimi looked at me and said, "just think of yourself as a knight and do what's best to save this country, what we do is what I call a knight's job, protect the land and all good things about it with our actions and our stories. In later years, when you tell your story, it will be told as a hero. We griots are story tellers and we are the heroes whose stories keep the people, the land and its culture for generations. Our time may end tonight and yours will begin but just know that whatever happens, we will be amongst this land's heroes".

Papa seemed to be admiring a flower in a pot but I knew he was answering a telephone call on his mobile phone. After about six minutes, he came back and announced that we will be joined at the University by a friend and colleague, Dr Osho Agbabiaka.

I kept wondering at the waiter with the inscription and this sudden news about being joined by a doctor. It made no sense but I felt some sort of excitement.
PART TWO

A TALE OF KNIGHT'S

CHAPTER 7

The Boardroom

As we finished our meal and made our way back to the car, papa and Uncle Jimi talked about recent political events in the country. Papa even mentioned the resignation of Sanmi Onigangan in passing; I guess he probably was ignorant that I knew who he was talking about. The discussion went on till we got to the University gate before they changed the topic to academics and they talked about all things academic including genetics and human genome. It was as if there was an unwritten law that stated that academic discussions alone should be allowed on campus. That's Papa, he was so direct even when discussing with friends. There's a place to say something and another place to say another thing and he didn't mix it up.

****

At the same time, Alhaji Kosoko aka Pemberton had just finished what he called "gracious sex" with his secretary in the room where he had just conducted a secret council meeting for his supporters and friends among the traditional rulers of the country a couple of hours earlier and he was getting ready to appear as the guest on a late night talk show. He now felt some kind of relief and he now had a clearer view of the recent happenings. Did the scientists not say sex was a great reliever and a cure to mental stress and nervous breakdown? Obviously it is and he had just confirmed it. A new energy flooded him from within and he let it all loose on the work before him.

'Dear, get me the list of all that were present at the meeting and ring up my driver, let him get the car ready.' Avery went out the door, pulling and adjusting her skirt as she went. She got the list, made the call and returned in a minute. Pemberton looked through the list, scrutinizing every name and circled some signatures. He drew out a similar list he had obtained from one of the meetings of elder statesmen and cross checked each name on the two lists obviously expecting to find the name of someone who had not been invited but showed up in his meeting earlier in the evening and there it was, Baba Ondo had not been invited but he showed up claiming he was in Lagos for the weekend and having got wind of the meeting, he saw a need to be loyal to Pemberton's cause since Pemberton had always been a true nationalist.

"How did he get the notice for a meeting that was supposed to be secret?" Pemberton asked his secretary rhetorically.

He moved further down the list and there was no other uninvited person who had shown up. Baba Ondo is the informant who told Gbolabo what we're up to.

'Get me that' he said pointing at the phone on the table in front of him. A typical Yoruba man, he was closer to the phone but it's somewhat dignifying to have your secretary hand you the receiver, more so she is the younger one.

Hello officer, joo wa s'oke now now (he repeated the word, to pass the message of urgency) with two of your cobrals, you have some job to do for me.

He shouted into the mouth piece while his eyes lingered absently on the list in his hand. He had just dropped the receiver when he saw some discrepancy in the Olubadan's signature. Olubadan never signed any document with a blue pen and that was common knowledge among council members. He always used a red pen. His representative today was obviously oblivious of that fact. He shifted his eyes to check the identity of the representative and it turned out to be Balogun. That's a serious issue. Balogun is traditionally the Olubadan's right hand man and some sort of chief security adviser and so it has been for centuries. How then will the Balogun claim not to know that Olubadan always used a red pen except the signature of Olubadan was ..........he paused..........may be...... signed by someone else.....someone who did not know. Could Balogun have simply just borrowed a pen from some other member of the meeting? But Olubadan's use of a red pen was said to have some traditional implications. Some even said that in ancient times, the Olubadan had used his blood to sign any document.

Then there was no red ink and there was no red cam wood liquid.

The use of his blood as a seal of all his correspondence showed the immutability and integrity of his decisions. It was his integrity as an Oba and leader. Its traditional implication was that the king was liable to die when he breaks his word which he signed in blood. Kosoko would love to know how true that was now but he had never considered it a serious story that could help him make a decision someday especially in this present time when leaders generally had no integrity, even traditional leaders appointed with despicable blood oaths, covenants and sacrifices of even human beings, as is being rumoured. Avery sat down now as she heard approaching footsteps. It would be demeaning to stand along with Kosoko's officers and henchmen. She is the lady and not just a staff. She is Kosoko's heart, mother and wife, the active first lady in his life. His wife was just a role-player.

"Dear, it'd be safer if you send men after the Ondo chief and the Ibadan chief" she managed to conclude just before the officers burst in the door.

"Ssah" shouted the officer stamping his foot as his two other 'cobrals' watched from behind him.

Kosoko simply said we'll go after the Ondo chief and not the Ibadan chief. If the Ibadan chief was impersonated, it was done by someone who reports to Gbolabo. We'll just have men watching Gbolabo, that's the PA presidential candidate.

The officer and his two cobrals watched in silence, listening to Kosoko, they apparently assumed he was addressing them. Just then Avery motioned to one of the cobrals to get the waste bin behind Chief Kosoko's seat. He did. She brought out the paper with a phone number on it. 'This could help then,' she said with a hint of a smile.

Yes, brilliant. Kosoko said as the cobral who had brought the waste bin twitched his forehead in a sign of disgust at 'the secretary who was sitting down with the Boss' but he returned the bin to its place.

"Here it is" Kosoko said finally. Officer will get two of your men and kidnap Baba Ondo. Don't hurt him, just keep him safe till I'm ready to see him.

He's staying at Eko Hotels, just get him out of there and take him to the outskirts, somewhere in Lekki village area. I'll contact you there. Get one of your cobrals to get two other men to monitor Gbolabo's movement and report all who visits him, all he visits and any other relevant information. He's too much in public glare to be kidnapped. You, he pointed at Cobral Ekpe, behind the officer you are to personally follow my secretary to wherever she wants to go tonight and receive orders from her tonight. She's from your village so she will treat you well.

All these officers and cobrals were men who had been dismissed from the Nigerian army after the coup. They were now re-absorbed into the Yoruba Peoples Police Force and were acting as Alhaji Kosoko's special security details. That's common place in the African setting. The people's security forces served the elite people. If you have money and enough material interests worth securing, you'll have the officers and corporals at your beck and call. Cobral Ekpe was glad and a bit puzzled to learn that the secretary was from Akwa Ibom, his home state, crudely called a village by Alhaji Kosoko. The secretary spoke English so well and with such perfect British accent that they had all thought she was from Britain, no wonder it was now hard to see people from Akwa Ibom in Lagos these days, many had emigrated after the breakup in the south and the few remaining now speak Queens English.

When the British came to southern Nigeria, the Calabar area up to Uyo was the first port of call so we people still dey hold queen mentality whenever they leave home. Ekpe thought in his head as the officer and his cobrals left the room.

As the security men left the room Alhaji Kosoko looked up from the paper in his hand and planted a quick kiss on his secretary's cheek. Please help me get the white kaftan in my wardrobe and the white shoes. I have to be on my way to the TV station for that talk show and whatever happens let me get the news quickly. Avery nodded as she got the white clothing. She sat down with her elbow nailed to the table and her chin rested on the back of her hand and watched Pemberton change clothes. He virtually has not changed all through the years she thought, always doing several things at the same time, now he was talking as he got into his clothes.

This is the kind of clothe that suits this occasion. I don't want to be in a suit when I announce that Gbolabo is a fraud. A suit gives the impression of a young politician who is still struggling to be known and if you make the kind of statements I'm making tonight putting on a suit, you'll be seen as a politician desperate to make a name by attacking the main presidential candidate.

Avery remained silent as he rattled on like an excited kid on his birthday. He was truly a young man but the new clothing really made him look older and it was quite hard to know that they had been friends for 13 years and intimate friends for 11 years. He was on the edge of achieving his life's ambition and he had not officially and legally married her.

'That's a trap I'm walking into' she thought.

Who'll be the first lady when it all happens and I may forever be relegated to the position of 'secretary whore' because there is no President that gets married while he is in office and his 'first lady' is alive.

When will you be a man Bodey and marry me like you promised? Is it when you become president and have a first lady so she can kill me?

At this he paused and said M.A. I love........

Don't love anything she screamed looking into his drifting gaze, you've loved for 13 years and now it's time to marry. She stopped abruptly and dropped her voice to a whisper 'Bodey, I'm not a fool, I lost my innocence to you, played the secretary for you and schemed for you to get to the topmost seat of power in your homeland while your wife stayed at home tending her kids. She hasn't even cooked for you in six months'.

Six months, she repeated with a gesture of her fingers crying and sobbing. I'm not a fool she repeated choking on her words. I'm leaving this country in two weeks if we don't get married before next week Sunday and by the time I return even if you're the President of the world, I'll make things really difficult for you and you'll prefer to commit suicide. I assure you that I'm a full Briton and these are not empty words and don't you dare call me a village girl again before your menial staff.

Alhaji Kosoko was stunned. He remained speechless until she told him to leave at once for his talk show at which the driver breezed in to get Alhaji and his effects. The cheery driver stopped to greet the Miss but she swiftly turned her face aside, pretending to read the numbers on the paper in her hands. Alhaji walked out with the driver and Avery broke down in tears sitting on the floor of the boardroom.
CHAPTER 8

Drugs, Doctors and Power, Politics

The PA presidential candidate, Chief Gbolabo, arrived in his home at Ikeja, he drove straight to the end of the parking lot and walked into the large mansion which he shared with nobody. He had relocated his entire family to the UK just 4 months earlier when the polity had showed signs of heating up with the initial debate gathering about which political system to adopt in the new nation. His 27 year old daughter, a vivacious, intelligent and optimistic medical doctor, a Harvard University graduate and active member of the international group, medecins sans frontieres who had insisted on setting up a practice in Lagos had defied his orders and he had promptly seized her international passport after making sure she returned to the US. He had even gotten his friends at the Nigerian Medical Society to close down her small clinic in Ajegunle for some flimsy reason. He had that authority and he used it at will and very well. He had also used this authority to get Balogun's driver to drug Balogun's tea and head off to Ife while the poor old man slept when he should have gone to Lagos as a representative of the Olubadan in an important meeting. He had also used his authority to get around brilliant academics. Gbolabo had always been a brilliant man in School and an academic at heart. He often told his children that if he ever came back to the world, he will never go into politics but rather spend his time in the laboratory and in the library. He often followed his words by quoting to them from the Bible. Proverbs 28:20 which states that, "A faithful man shall abound with blessings: but he that maketh haste to be rich shall not be innocent." He was the best student in chemistry and biology in secondary school. He had been a medical student for two years and out of youthful zest, overconfidence in his mastery of science and a sudden pathetic love for trouble, he delved into student politics and quickly rose to be the general secretary of the National Association of Nigerian Students at the cost of his grades and had to forego his medical ambitions when the school advised him to stick to a less demanding course. He had opted for anatomy, which he studied for a year and then biochemistry which he studied for another two and half years before graduating with a pass. It had seemed like his doom then. His colleagues who knew he would have been the best doctor among them jeered at him and he became the prime example of how potential and skill without discipline equalled doom. He had opened up a drug store from the remains of money looted while he was NANS general secretary and though business was good, there was no fulfilment and the profits could not cater for his lifestyle, only the old illiterate women called him doctor when he gave their grandchildren some tablets or an injection, even the children knew he was not a doctor. His injections made them uncomfortable for weeks.

Then the military rule of the 1990's came and drug proliferation came with it. People made tablets out of any powder especially white chalk. Being a natural scientist, he knew the process of caking calcium trioxocarbonate(V), CaCO3, and after a few tutorials in Onitsha; he perfected it adding colours and sweeteners to some, especially the ones often required by grannies for their little ones and it worked like magic. It was scientifically black magic, a sure money-making ritual that produced instant results. He became a millionaire and re-invested his money into importation of original drugs, still out of his love for chemistry and biology. He then became sole marketer of foreign drugs in West Africa for some of the better known drug manufacturers in the world but it never occurred to him to invest in medical research in Africa or even start his own drug manufacturing company. His drug marketing business expanded to other parts of the continent and he used the name G Pharmaceuticals Ltd. G meant anything from Gbolabo to Global, it all depended on the country he was penetrating and its leaders. The doctors who knew him in school got envious of his success and often complained that the government didn't pay them well though they were the highest paid professionals in Nigeria then. It was at this time Gbolabo got the 'bingo' idea, what if he renewed his political interest and becomes the government who paid these doctors and held the key to the demand and supply of drugs. The best ones and the worst ones though he hadn't dealt in bad drugs for a couple of years especially since the massive National Agency for Food and Drugs Administration and Control clamp down on fake drug manufacturers that sent many of his unwary co-dealers to prison or bankruptcy. He renewed his interest in politics and in no time, he became a commissioner for health in Nigeria, then he became the senior special adviser to the president on health matters and he became the minister of health in Nigeria and then a senator. After which, Nigeria had broken up and he became a prominent Yoruba statesman. All the while he had taken interest in medical research within the borders of his homeland but he still never invested his money in this research because he knew most of these doctors and they were really not intelligent enough to do something worth his money. It was around this time that he heard of a radical innovation by a young man called Dr Agbabiaka who was a lecturer at the University of Ibadan. The man had given a lecture at the annual conference of the Nigerian Medical Society when Gbolabo was the Minister of Health titled "The Human Genome System: Natural and Cheapest Cure in Medical Science". He had mentioned words and phrases like DNA sequencing, sequence analysis, sequence assembly, predictive genomics, sequence transcription, sequence translation. What had really struck the minister was that if truly the human DNA can be analysed and its sequence was coded and these codes could be predicted for all individuals and this Agbabiaka claims he is involved in a research that was translating the codes in a human DNA system into medically readable information. Then obviously, they'd have the person's natural life played out before them and with constant monitoring of changes in the genetic mix, they could predict when the individual was going to fall sick, die and probably even alter the gene system of an individual directly to remove specific undesirable traits. A man could simply decide he wanted a particular trait removed from his lineage and if he had the right amount of money, it'd be done. They could understand the genetic bases of drug response and diseases and he had even mentioned the possibility of separating a compound which is uniquely coded to every individual and could hold the key to the treatment of any disease such an individual was bound to suffer in his lifetime. In other words, every human came to earth with his own tablet to fight cancer or HIV and he keeps the information in his DNA.

If that information can be extracted from every human, then the end has come to the pharmaceutical company's profits since doctors would do it all in their labs. Gbolabo and Agbabiaka instantly became friends as Gbolabo had promised the young doctor that he was committing about 60% of the funds dedicated to medical research by the then federal government of Nigeria for the next three years into his research work if the results were going to profit G pharmaceuticals. Gbolabo had closely monitored Agbabiaka's work at the University of Ibadan. Then the coup had taken place and Gbolabo was no longer in control of any federal resource but he had privately followed the work progress when everyone else at the NMS conference had forgotten the young doctor and his 9-year old research work. Now Gbolabo was a presidential aspirant in Yorubaland and two weeks ago, Dr Agbabiaka had published the results of his work in a closely-guarded and unreleased document. He kept about 100 copies in an undisclosed location after the completion of the work and had confided in Gbolabo as per the implications of releasing those papers. Gbolabo was shown the draft and it stated that Agbabiaka had worked on a sample of 30 humans, extracting a certain complex protein-based compound which basically had the same chemical structure at its core and had administered it in varying doses and quantities to certain disease cells obtained from each individual and it was a 100% successful cure. Agbabiaka had however refused to hand over the full documents stating that the research also provided some startling information on the possibility of rebuilding a 'copy' of a human being and infusing him with several special features by altering several strings in his genetic mix. This was like suggesting the possibility of cloning a long dead human and infusing the clone with superhuman powers by altering some of the things that made him human. In traditional Yoruba mythology, there have been certain humans who acquired superhuman powers and became revered as gods and deities. Ogun was born of a woman but he acquired superhuman skills with forging, metal working and supernatural fighting abilities. Sango was also born of a woman, he was even epileptic as a human but was known to release fire from his mouth when he spoke and strike lightning bolts at people who opposed him and he became the god of thunder. Now, a scientist and medical practitioner said he found the key to making that possible while also cheating death.

It made no sense to Gbolabo until he could see it practiced and he wanted to see it done. There had been arguments and counter-arguments between the two men on the moral implications of this research and Gbolabo had even suggested the possibility of 'having leaders who would have control over their subjects' mind'. That was too much for Dr Agbabiaka to hear and bear but at the height of despondency, an option had presented itself to him through Gbolabo's aide and chief security personnel, a man called Badoo had been present at some of the discussions between the politician and the scientist. Badoo had been Gbolabo's chief security personnel for 3years but unknown to Gbolabo, Badoo was not just an ex-military man dismissed from the Nigerian Air force after the coup, he was also a distinguished academic and an engineer trained at the Air Force Institute of Technology, he had moved up the academia and obtained a doctorate degree in advanced remote sensing in aerodynamic applications, the reason why he never missed a target. His real name was Dr Akintola Badu and he was just fondly called Badoo among his colleagues in the Nigerian Military and the name stuck. He had secretly suggested to Dr Agbabiaka that the latter should abscond with his family because his life was in danger. He had also told him to meet with a lecturer called Prof Sanmi Aluko, Badu's mentor, friend and associate who had helped Badu make something out of his life when his parents got divorced when he was a teenager. It was Prof Aluko that assisted Badu with his admission into the Nigerian Military School where he obtained the full scholarship that got him to the institute of technology. Prof Sanmi Aluko was his elderly next door neighbour and seeing the potentials in the young Badu whose parents had gotten a divorce two years earlier and for a year, he didn't attend school because his mother had said she couldn't afford the fees while the estranged father simply refused to help, he offered him free private lessons for three months, feeding inclusive when his mother stayed out late, doing multiple jobs including cheap sex, when she needed its money.

Gbolabo had gotten no news or trace of Dr Agbabiaka's whereabouts for 4 days now and he sent men to search his house and family. He had however learnt of the plan by Alhaji Kosoko to hold a meeting where he would state his political ambitions for the seat of the president under the flagship of PA, it sounded incredible but Gbolabo wanted to know the facts and he wanted to get it firsthand. He had been successful in doing that and had just returned from Alhaji Kosoko's meeting without Kosoko's knowledge. At this point, he entered into his sitting room and poured himself a half glass of Guinness and mixed it with a half glass of punch and downed the mixture in one huge gulp while looking at the 2-page draft Agbabiaka had left with him before absconding. He had been reading it before he went out and had left it on the settee. His mind now swirled from the effects of the drink. He remembered a lot of things at the same time but he focused on the sweet secretary of Kosoko and hoped she would call him on her way home.
CHAPTER 9

Doctor's despondency

It was already a concluded issue for Dr Agbabiaka and he knew he would not be turning in his research results especially since it was now clear it would serve more political purposes than medical ones. Two days after refusing to visit the former minister of health, the stupid man had in an attempt to win some political weight and support mentioned in a campaign fundraiser that his pharmaceutical company developed a secret chemical that fought all manner of diseases known to man and could even heal sickle cells in the blood stream. Sickle cell anaemia had no cure and it was hopeless trying to cure it because it was predominantly a 'blacks only' disease and it didn't have the publicity and funding that HIV/AIDS has. He had hinted that if voted into power, he would supply the much needed funds to help the production of this powerful compound into drugs that would possibly be used to combat any disease that affected the populace. The fundraiser had been a secret affair but who said he wouldn't be saying this same statements to the press in a couple of weeks if given the results of the research. Agbabiaka however needed not wait for a couple of weeks because immediately after the event, Gbolabo had hinted the press that there was a major scientific trump card that will swing the votes and hearts of people to him. Agbabiaka knew instinctively that he was in trouble and he had packed his publications and absconded. An hour later, he got the news that his study in his Ibadan home had been broken into though his wife and children were safe and unharmed. He had secretly lodged in to a cheap motel in molete from where he listened to the news and contacted his wife via e-mail. He never told her his location. After another two days, he heard that his office at the University of Ibadan had been burgled and no item was stolen except a couple of books he had written and published four years back. He then knew that Gbolabo was after him and just this afternoon, he had decided to meet with the Professor whom the bodyguard had directed him to but he had to secretly check him out and be sure that the man was not just bait for him to swallow. He tailed the man all day and watched his movements and he seemed like an old gentleman enjoying the company of his grandson except that he had appeared this evening at dinner in Premier Hotel with another old gentleman who was quite popular on TV. A children's story teller called Jimi Alalo. That proved he was a harmless gentleman who could offer him refuge and maybe a large audience on TV whenever his life gets threatened. The time was now 9:15pm and he had just placed a call through to the old gentleman professor to let him know that he would be joining him on campus later that night but he just decided to communicate with his wife through his e-mail. He brought out his mobile phone and activated the e-mail service but the first mail he received sent cold shivers down his spine. It was from Gbolabo and it read:

Dear Scientist,

I wonder how it was hard for you to figure it out that I will have no choice than to kidnap your family and have them silently killed one by one till I get those papers. My political opponents are all after me and very soon some snoopy journalist will want my company to substantiate my claims. I now also have the addresses of all who worked for you on that research. Just keep hiding.

The man had carefully chosen his words in the letter and he had not used his publicly recognized e-mail address. He knew his family would be kidnapped but he didn't know when. He was lost in his thoughts and didn't know how to tell his wife to leave with the kids immediately; they were probably being watched now. His thoughts tormented him and told him he was a bad father and he shouldn't have left home in the first place. He wondered at the callousness of the former minister of health and presidential candidate whom everybody was giving their trust to and to consider that he had not even told Gbolabo of the possibility of a genetic breakdown for users of this compound in his research thereby making it rather unsafe for indiscriminate administration on patients and also making it a possible weapon that could be used to alter an enemy's genetic mix thereby sending generations into a living hell on earth before they were born. He still became surer that he wouldn't be handing over the results of his research and wouldn't publicize it until there was a specific way of knowing the right dosage to be administered to each patient. He looked up absently at the time on the digital wall clock. It read 9:45 pm and now he knew he had to get going if he was to reach the University campus before 10:30pm when all vehicles will be barred from entering the University gates except they were registered in the name of a staff member, student or a known organization working within the campus. He made his way to the motel's receptionist desk and said he'll be back in a short while. This was to exempt him from the rule which said that all residents should submit keys to their rooms before walking out of the premises. The receptionist, a young fair-skinned girl obviously in her early twenties and with two tribal marks on either cheek quickly understood him and simply accepted a tip instead of the room key. As he made his way from the receptionist's table, he glanced briefly at the TV where the news anchor for the evening was just reporting the apparent kidnap of an Ondo monarch by unarmed men who simply abducted the old man from his hotel room somewhere in Lagos where he was on holiday. They had simply marched him out of the hotel premises like a friend. The news made Dr Agbabiaka think about how easy it was to kidnap a monarch from a 5-star hotel in Lagos and how much more it'd be easier to kidnap his family from a simple 3-bedroom bungalow in the streets of Ibadan but he kept moving.

It was 9:55pm and officer had just called Alhaji Kosoko to give him the details of their location with the kidnapped Ondo king. Alhaji was relieved especially since the duo that monitored Gbolabo had given no details about any visits or phone calls to Gbolabo. Obviously, Gbolabo was a tricky person to deal with and the Ondo man was less conversant with the depth of dirtiness in politics and how quickly news can spread. He wasn't a politician anyway, just a traditional ruler. However, there's been no news from Avery, she was really mad at him but this wasn't the time to allow judgement becloud her reasoning. He wished he could make her happy immediately because she truly deserved it but is it not true that sometimes a reward could be a curse just like the man who had carried the golden casket that was supposed to be his reward for enduring the journey into the forest of a thousand daemons. Avery had endured this journey but the reward she now demanded may be too much for her to bear. At this point, the hostess of the night talk show simply showed up beside Alhaji and asked for the umpteenth time we're getting on air, sir, are you ready sir? Yes. The clock in the studio chimed 10:00 pm and the show started.
CHAPTER 10

The Show

The saturday nights talk show called "Yoruba Ro'nu" had barely started when the tall brown skinned secretary of Alhaji Oyebode Kosoko aka Pemberton arrived in an average chauffeur driven Rolls Royce Limousine in front of the large steel gates that guarded Chief Gbolabo's private residence in Ikeja.. The name of the chauffeur was Ekpe, her escort for the night. It isn't normal to find secretaries riding in limousines much less a Rolls Royce Limousine, which is reserved for the extremely classy but Avery had insisted to Ekpe that she was taking Alhaji's Rolls Royce and Alhaji had told him to simply obey the secretary no matter what she demanded. The car wasn't the latest, it was made 2013 but it was surely a classy choice. The security aide of Chief Gbolabo had insisted on letting chief know who had come to see him but the lady in the car declined to give her name. She had simply wound up and called Chief Gbolabo who simply stormed out of his mansion to address his aides' arrant foolishness. The large gates swung wide open as the chauffeur drove the vehicle to the end of the driveway. The tall lady simply stepped out into the cool night with the dew dropping gently almost as rain droplets and slow wind blowing the cloud over the round and full moon and adding a heightened mystery to all the blackness and dark sensuality of her attire and looks. She was dressed in a long black tweed overcoat and hat which gave her the sophisticated look of a been-to, not that it mattered much to Gbolabo, he had simply given her his number and she had called, that showed she was still a woman. The extra look was probably to make her get extra money for the show. She even showed up in a limousine.

An expensive whore.

It reminded Gbolabo of his 'Abuja days' and he smiled shyly as he showed the lady into his living room. The TV was on as Gbolabo had been watching Yoruba Ro'nu before storming out of the house. He sat down to finish the show with his guest, listening attentively to every detail on the late night show as he poured himself and his guest a glass of wine.

Obviously, you're not a political animal like Pemberton and I, he said smiling. It's not normal that you chose not to be with him at this hour.

I am simply his employee and I deserve to live my own life outside his office. It's past ten on a Saturday.

At this, Gbolabo simply smiled, so you don't know about or involve yourself in his politics.

Of course, I know some of his plans, being his secretary but his ultimate ambitions remain with him. I'm more aware of his businesses and family than his politics.

Anyway, I hear he will be running for the presidency under the flagship of my party.

Yes, I thought he already told you that in the meeting today.

Yes, Gbolabo said suddenly realizing his errors. He had gone to the meeting disguised and given his number to his enemy's secretary just for a few minutes pleasure.

It was clear to him now that the lady had recognized him even while the meeting was on and had still accepted his number without showing a hint of the recognition. He however, kept his composure and simply said "I never thought you'd come but I guessed you weren't interested in our politics being a pretty lady".

I guess Pemberton will take some time before making his intentions public. At this point he heard his name mentioned on the TV and shifted his attention quickly enough to hear Alhaji Kosoko say "I think it's clear enough that I'm interested in the progress of our new and fledgling nation, we must not end up with the plagues Nigeria suffered from and this presidency issue is so......".

The host interrupts, excuse my impatience but we have known you to be a liberal person as regards the presidency of yorubaland, you've not been interested in a presidential system. Gbolabo adjusts his white flowing agbada and says the truth is that I am interested in it; I'm as interested in the presidency as much as Gbolabo is interested in it and....... The host interrupts again, are you saying you will contest for the presidency? That's exactly what I'm saying now. We can't sit back and watch this country to be governed by uneducated liars like Nigeria allowed it then, a university dropout stumbles into politics and tells us lies about having the scientific cure to all the diseases of the world, even American doctors can't make such a claim and our ignorant people have followed him because he owns a chemist, so enlightened people like us have to step in and save the situation before it gets out of hand.

In other words, you are saying the PA's candidate, Chief Gbolabo's main claims are all lies and ..... Yes, that is what I'm saying, if he had these things, as a scientist, knowledge is a resource you don't hoard, rather there are patents given to you that tells the world you are the custodian of that particular secret so I challenge everybody to ask Gbolabo to substantiate this claims that won him a seat in the Nigerian senate but died as soon as he became senator. At this point, the audience on TV shouts and gives Alhaji Kosoko a wild round of applause. The host tries to calm the cheering crowd with no success. Alhaji Kosoko steps in by simply raising his hands to restore order. As the cheering subsides, Alhaji Kosoko shouts again, Yoruba se kini? The cheering crowd responds, ''Yoruba Ro'nu''.

Avery sits calmly on the edge of her chair watching Chief Gbolabo turn pale with the half-filled glass still in his hand. He was obviously stunned at the wild support Kosoko seemed to have gotten in just a few minutes after announcing his intention to run for the presidency. He turned to look at the lady and asked for the first time. What's your name, please?

Kate. She lied.

Yes, Kate. I bet you knew he'd be making this announcement today. I'll really require your friendship beyond tonight. In this world of politics, it's important to be informed on all sides if you know what I mean. I'll reward you well, cash, kind or both.

I have a bond of loyalty to my boss which is not easy to break so you must really have the muscle to break it. Gbolabo stood up and walked towards the alluring lady and snapped off the first button on her overcoat with his index finger and thumb. ''I have the strength and muscle to break off this button and every other bond that stands in my way'' he said smiling at the lady who sat partially exposed before him.

She smiled back and without warning, she stood up to look straight in the face of Chief Gbolabo, they were exactly the same height 5ft 7in. and she allowed him to give her a full kiss on her lips. Then she slipped off his hands which were already straying and looked straight in his eyes. I'll help you but you know what they say about an angry lady and a rattlesnake. Don't double cross me, it's what you politicians do but I won't stand it, not once.

What's your price?

Just 20 million in cash weekly.

And as you please in kind.

That's fair. You're really a good lady but the cash part is too........

Avery interrupted, "I don't haggle, it's deal or no deal, my employer pays me enough to be able to afford that car".

Deal. Gbolabo was holding her again and giving another round of kisses. You're amazing but there'll be no shows tonight because I've got to quickly respond to Pemberton's tirade and dis media people will come calling very soon, dem no dey ever sleep.

As Avery readjusted her overcoat on the way out, she congratulated herself on how well her plans had worked out. The man didn't even have time to ask her name not to talk of demanding she took her clothes off and she was also fifty thousand dollars richer in just two empty hours of dry kisses and liquor.

Quite generous.

She also had a piece of paper she found on the table in the sitting room. It discussed some scientific theories about a genetic research and Chief Gbolabo had probably been studying it before she came in. It could be what Alhaji Kosoko was looking for and she had slipped it inside her overcoat while Gbolabo was engrossed in the television programme. It was a win-win situation and she couldn't help feeling sorry for men. They were such half-wits.

Gbolabo, on the other hand was much satisfied at how fortune had simply turned his small error into a great political advantage. He need not sneak around Pemberton again. There was an informant right in his opponents' inner circle. It was a matter of time before he got access to the man's most secret shady deals and indiscretions. Meanwhile, he needed to get his men to comb out the whole city of Ibadan and bring out Agbabiaka's research associates, family and Agbabiaka himself.
CHAPTER 11

The rest of nation builders

Let's have a round of applause for our guest today on the show as he exits, Alhaji (Dr.) Oyebode Kosoko, prince of Lagos, honourable elder statesman and presidential aspirant of Yorubaland. Alhaji Kosoko leaves the studio with a wild round of applause following him and his aide brings his phone. It was his secretary; she had called to congratulate him on the obvious success of the announcement of his presidential ambitions. She read off the other programs on his agenda in the next seven hours. He was having a meeting with the National Secretary and National President of the PA in forty-five minutes at Lagos Mainland Hotel. He was meeting the Olubadan of Ibadan in two hours to receive his blessing. It was a critical aspect which will show possible detractors and opponents that he had strong traditional support, especially Gbolabo who had tried to destroy his relationship with the Ibadan royalty by impersonating the Olubadan's representative with an informant who didn't even know that the Olubadan always signed his name in blood letters. After this public show of support, he had another interview with Alaroye and BCOS reporters.

I also have a document I retrieved from Chief Gbolabo's house, you may like to see it. It has details of Gbolabo's claims of some medical breakthrough.

That's alright. Please bring it to my suite at Lagos Mainland Hotel.

As she ended the conversation, the secretary turned to the driver who had been sneaking looks at her all evening. Mr Ekpeyong, please we are going to Lagos Mainland Hotel, it's not far, twenty minutes.

Yes madam. He still wondered why she couldn't speak with him in Efik if they were from the same village. Lagos na wa O, he muttered under his breath still peeping through the rear view to watch her reaction. There was none. He wheeled the vehicle into the light traffic on Awolowo way. Time on the dashboard's digital clock dazzled a green 10:30pm.

Avery still had thirty minutes before the scheduled meeting with the party chieftains started, if they didn't work with the 'African time' menace.

****

It was exactly 10:26 pm when Dr Agbabiaka drove into the UI premises and he drove straight to the faculty of arts where he expected to meet the colleagues he was directed to. He didn't expect to encounter anybody else within the building at such a late hour on a Saturday night, not to talk of someone he knew could easily recognize and identify him. He stayed in his car and watched the faculty entrance carefully before stepping out of his car. A couple of students giggled somewhere nearby but he couldn't see them. He placed a quick call across to his wife and told her he was still in Ibadan. She sounded apprehensive as he told her he was safe. Thankfully, the children were asleep and then he broke the news to her.

Darling, Chief Gbolabo will send men to kidnap you and the children tonight. They should come in a few minutes but don't worry I'm monitoring everything closely and I assure you that you'll not be maltreated in any way. He just wants to get at me so I still can't tell anybody my exact location. He'll also get some of my co-workers too. I'll find a way to see you and the kids tomorrow. The woman broke down in tears as the phone went dead. She could hear shuffling feet outside the door already.

Agbabiaka, the young doctor, just about 35 years of age buried his head in his hands for a couple of minutes before making straight for the faculty entrance. He was dazed and could barely see beyond the droplet that formed a pool in his eyes. As he entered the faculty door, there was a university security detail who requested his identification. Obviously, he was not recognized so he simply told the man he wasn't with his ID but he was a lecturer and he had some work to attend to. The detail believed him and allowed him through but not before the giggling students he had heard earlier managed to pass by and they obviously recognized him since they greeted him on their knees. Two of the ladies were medical students whom he had taught in the last semester and he still recognized them very well.

He knocked on Prof. Sanmi Aluko's door. He had never been here to see the man before but the door was easily recognizable in the building. It had been described for him as the only door without a name tag on it because the occupant was popular enough to detest the extra publicity. As the door opened, he saw the three individuals inside including the little boy who had just been awoken by his entrance. He looked more like a teenager now, probably twelve or thirteen.

After the brief introductions, the elderly man called Prof had said things are moving fast and there's no time to delay. I think we already have recordings that tell us what Chief Gbolabo is up to with your research and we also believe you did well not to turn in the full details of your work. These politicians are just the wrong set of people for us to put our trust in.

Government is better when trusted to a group of people who can put checks on each other's activities, not on one single individual.

At least it doesn't work that way in our society. We also have some other videos we didn't actually plan to have. The new entrant into the presidential race, Alhaji Kosoko obviously has some dirty underwear too which his secretary has seen; the old man said winking and nodding slightly at the dozing child beside them. The other two men nodded understandingly, so he continued, it is Kosoko who ordered the kidnap of the Ondo chief who was kidnapped earlier this evening. Kosoko will be having a meeting with his new party leaders in a few minutes but there's no way we can get details of their discussions. We also know that Gbolabo has ordered your arrest and kidnap of two of your research partners, your wife and kids. It's all on our computer here he gestured at the computer system on the table. There's enough evidence of bribery involving major traditional Chiefs across the land and elder statesmen. However, there's one more video we require and that is the one which covers your work and research program. By the time we release these to the press in the morning, we believe everybody in this room will be hunted and possibly killed but our works, our stories and our bravery should live beyond us. We're not publicizing your work. Is there a way you can get to all the documents surrounding your work and the research videos? I removed it from the faculty. It's in a bag in my car. I carry it about now.

"Let's get it then" Uncle Jimi said moving towards the door.

As he opened the door of the office, Papa said, I'll advise you find another way out of the faculty because Jimi is easy to recognize and you two will be seen together. Also, carrying a bag past security at this hour will arouse some interest. 'Then we'll take the hole, it has a door that leads outside', Uncle Jimi replied, leaving young Dr Agbabiaka in confusion. It was understandable because there were truly some lecturers within the University of Ibadan who never knew the griots' hole existed.

I will make extra copies of our recordings before you're back; Prof Sanmi called after the men as they departed.

The two men departed and Prof. Sanmi Aluko started the process of copying the audio and video recordings.

Meanwhile, Chief Gbolabo had just received a phone call from his aide, Major Badoo, stating that the people he needed had been kidnapped and transferred to a safe location and were being interrogated. None of the kidnapped lecturers seemed to have any real important details or information about the final chemical details. They were simply younger doctors who carried out procedures they were asked. However, there were hints that Gbolabo had travelled out of Yorubaland. His wife also had no clue of his work or whereabouts.

Gbolabo had broken down as it seemed everything was falling apart in this short time. Sleep evaded him. His secretary and media representative had called him to ask for his comments on the issues at hand. That meant only one thing, the news people had called. He was caring less now for the research and more for Agbabiaka's life.

At the same time, Alhaji Kosoko had seen the paper from Gbolabo'shouse. It truly contained valuable information about a real research work by one Dr Agbabiaka of UI. However the paper was just a summary, not the real thing. Agbabiaka could have the master key after all as he claimed but the best thing to do now was to play his cards as he had planned it, get men to find Dr Agbabiaka and possibly search Gbolabo's office. However, Alhaji Kosoko was getting apprehensive because the fight was getting dirtier and he had already kidnapped the wrong person once. He had to call Cobral to release Baba Ondo before the police get them but that would be after this meeting with the party chairman of the PA. Avery picked up the piece of paper and kept it. As she did, the party members filed in.
CHAPTER 12

Knight's knowing

Uncle Jimi moved quickly through the narrow footpath that passed through the griot's hole with Dr Agbabiaka following quickly and trying to catch up with the wonders that filled the room. It was particularly bright and shiny this night coupled with the starry sky beyond the transparent ceiling of the room, it was an amazing sight for the doctor. He had heard something like a lion's roar when they came into the room but Uncle Jimi had quickly made him know it was all artificial, all of it including the moving masquerades and humans. A drum was beating somewhere within the thick forest on the left side of the footpath. As they neared the exit door, the doctor noticed that the walls that enclosed the building was partly made of a thin film material called ETFE, ethylene tetrafluoroethylene, he had once used ETFE in the lab while working on a patient whose brain had to be examined under bright lights. He could not expose the bright light to the brain directly because the lighting produced so much heat that could be injurious to the patient. His colleague, a biomedical engineer working at the teaching hospital had provided the medical team with films of ETFE which was translucent but reflected a large quantity of the heat produced by the light. It was easy to see why this controlled environment also felt extra cool. The door was however made of thick glass only and Uncle Jimi opened it as they strolled into the deserted path that led to the car park. It was nights like this that made destinies Uncle Jimi thought as he looked up into the star-filled sky above him. It was one of the stories he had heard as a kid that you could read events happening around you from the stars in the sky.

On this particular night, there were three stars aligned in a close and perfectly straight line at the centre of the night sky and there was another group of three aligned in a wider and perfectly straight line. The two groups were aligned at an acute angle and shared a particular star at the right end, they were on a collision course and one person was at the point of collision. As the old man gazed on, a tiny shooting star moved right across the symmetry breaking the meaning it initially made. At this point, Dr Agbabiaka shifted the weight on his right hand to indicate his presence. He had actually returned from the car a few minutes earlier wondering what the old man could read in the dark sky above.

As they made their way silently back to the entrance of the griot's hole, Uncle Jimi wondered if this was a sure sign that the trio of Papa, Dr Agbabiaka and himself were on a dangerous collision with two other people, obviously the two politicians and what of the shooting star. It really made a bit of sense except the fact that these three stars had always been there since he was a kid. The old man smiled at the slyness of ancient wisdom.

By the time they arrived at Prof. Sanmi Aluko's office, the old professor had finished making four copies of each recording they needed. He however looked grim and pale. He looked directly at the bag Dr Agbabiaka had just brought in.

I just received news that we have more people looking for us. Alhaji Kosoko has gotten concrete information about the existence of your research and has tried to get across to you. My informant says Alhaji Kosoko just called your wife's mobile number asking her for information regarding your whereabouts. That makes two politicians looking for you now. It's a direct collision course with the powers that be and you're at the centre of all this. Personally, doctor I'll advise that we get moving within the next hour. I'm privileged to have served as a royal griot in the palace of the Olubadan and I know how easy it is for a politically-motivated person to get power-drunk and I also know that information never eludes them. By now, it's very sure somebody knows you're still in Ibadan.

Dr Agbabiaka crumbled down in defeat. He sits on the floor with his head in his palms. When he looked up, he had tears in his eyes and sobs, 'Prof, I only did my job. Research is what I'm paid to do. I have no interest in politics but.........look where I've found myself......he kidnapped my family.......my colleagues........he wants to kill me'.

Papa cuts in, young man; it's not a time to cry. We've just got to leave this place, that's all I'm saying. I have news that Alhaji Kosoko has finished his meeting with some chieftains of the PA and the party is ready to agree to his terms and nominate him as their flag-bearer in the elections instead of Gbolabo, who really had no prospects except his purported health agenda which appears to be based on the result of your work. He will obviously be looking for you everywhere including on this campus and same goes for Alhaji Kosoko who will want to ensure that Gbolabo does not find you. He'll also get interested in your work, for negative motives of course.

Another disturbing news I received is that Kosoko is coming to Ibadan in an hour to have a meeting with the Olubadan. That obviously concerns me and I saw it coming a long time ago. It's why I resigned from my job as the royal adviser to Olubadan on cultural and historical matters. I clearly won't support the sale of our culture and conscience to a greedy politician. Alhaji Kosoko had demanded about six months ago that there should be commercialization of some artefacts and statuettes in Ile-oba and Oja-oba. It's not a bad idea to bring in tourists to come and pay to see these things but what I consider wrong is the idea of having our things to be carried off to ilu oyinbo for remaking, remoulding and recreation by a German company. He also suggested that his arts-dealership company that is not more than three years old will be in charge of the concessioning process and agreements between the Ibadan royalty and the German arts refurbishment company. What do Germans know about African arts that they want to recreate our own sculptures the way they should be?

The British could claim they were in our country for over two hundred years but Germans?

The Olubadan also requested for a permanent seat in the new governments' cabinet. It's like we're finally politicking with our traditional establishments. Politicking is not a bad thing if the process was clean and befitting of the respect accorded to our traditional rulers. I stood firmly against the Olubadan and Alhaji Kosoko's plans and I knew it will not be long before they come after me considering the fact that they had counted on my support and influence as the royal custodian of things related to our history and culture to win the hearts of the citizens.

It's like selling our customs to the white man for personal gains and I can imagine what future generations of Ibadan will write about this regime in their stories. I guess Kosoko tried selling this same idea to the Ooni and it was outrightly rejected and that's why he won't go back there to ask for political support and traditional endorsement. I also wonder why he won't try to sell the belongings of the Lagos monarchy for money and political endorsement. I guess because it's his home. Even the bible condemns unwarranted sales of traditional and customary items. Two kings of ancient Israel were cursed by God for trading with their traditional and customary artefacts.

Anyway, we have to pack our needed belongings and get out of here.

In the meantime, Chief Gbolabo had just received news from his trusted aide, Major Badoo that Dr Agbabiaka is suspected to be hiding somewhere within the University of Ibadan. A couple of young ladies at a party outside the school gate had mentioned meeting their young lecturer from the department of medicine and surgery while coming for the party. The description looked quite like Agbabiaka. Gbolabo had immediately directed his men to try and get the lecturer alive and if better, dead.
CHAPTER 13

While men slept

AlhajiKosoko had finished his meeting with the PA party chairman and other party executives. The meeting had taken longer than he had anticipated for two reasons; firstly, he still had a difficult time convincing some members of the group that he could be a better option for the presidential candidacy and secondly, the larger percentage of the group could not take their eyes off his tall and ravishing secretary and concentrate fully on the matter at hand. Her presence had been so distracting for many of the men that he'd had to excuse her and ask her to take the rest of the night off her schedule even though he'd really wanted to keep her around while he sorted out the Gbolabo and Agbabiaka issue. And thinking about Avery, he knew he was now watched by everybody and marrying her now was going to be an illogical decision if more people came to know her as his secretary yet that was what she wanted and the way she had spoken to him was definite. She spoke with a serious finality he could not ignore.

If that girl was going to cause him many problems, will it not be the best option to eliminate her? he thought.

He shuddered at the thought of the inherent possibility of wasting such beauty that he'd appreciated and loved for thirteen years but deep down he knew he was destined for this presidency and Avery was threatening to blackmail him. She had loved him for thirteen years and shared his bed and his dreams, even the seemingly impractical ones. His religion permitted him to marry her but he felt the time and circumstance was against him. The voice of the pilot cut through the still air of the private jet and interrupted his thoughts as he announced that the time was seventeen minutes past two a.m. on Sunday the seventeenth day of August two thousand and twenty five and the plane was now landing at the Ibadan airport.

Please fasten your seatbelts. He concluded.

Alhaji Kosoko didn't want this meeting to last more than thirty minutes and the interview was going to be another thirty minutes and then he will finally have some time to sleep in the room he had booked at the newly completed Monte d'Ibadan Imperial Suites. An ambitious group of French businessmen had figured Ibadan could be made the capital of Yorubaland and had secured the prime spot at the top of Oke Ibadan, literally meaning Ibadan mountain, and built a fine string of hotels there calling it Monte Carlo in Ibadan, hence the name Monte d'Ibadan Imperial suites.

As Alhaji Kosoko made his way from the runway to the SUV waiting to convey him to the palace of the Olubadan, his mobile phone beeped and it was a message from the corbral. Baba Ondo had slumped in confinement and they needed orders to convey him out of the hideout immediately.

Do what you consider is best Alhaji shouted angrily into the device.

In a couple of minutes, the corbral called back saying he had disposed of the man's body in a stream at Epe waterside lagoon. He also said he had received a tip from his boys monitoring Chief Gbolabo that the Chief had ordered his men to look for someone within the University of Ibadan.Alhaji Kosoko had simply ordered corbral and his men to get into Ibadan in the shortest time possible except one or two people to keep an eye on Chief Gbolabo while he was at his meeting with the Olubadan of Ibadan.

As the minutes ticked on, Chief Gbolabo waited for news on capture of Dr Agbabiaka but none was forth coming. As the minutes ran into hours, he got weary of the long night and slept off in the parlour of his Ikeja mansion. He trusted Major Badoo's ability to carry through with this operation without leaving a lead. Meanwhile, Alhaji Kosoko had gone on to his meeting with the Olubadan and subsequently granted a brief interview to press officials from the pan-yoruba news group Alaroye. In his interview, he had once again declared his intention to run for the presidency of the Yoruba nation and the intention of the leading political party in the land, the PA to adopt him as their candidate. The chairman of the PA had lent his voice to the fact that the party had finally considered adopting Alhaji Kosoko as the party's presidential flag bearer and Chief Gbolabo had twenty four hours to appear before the party executives and make a strong case for himself and prove he was still worthy of being chosen at the party's primary election. All these news had fallen on Chief Gbolabo's head when he woke up later at 6:45am to receive the early mails from his media assistants and campaign publicity secretary. It was now clear that the stars were lining up against him and within one night the table had turned completely against him. However, he still had more news to hear from Major Badoo and the early morning TV news crew. Something had happened in Ibadan while he slept.
CHAPTER 14

The capture

As the minutes went by, Major Badoo had found the ladies who described the doctor they saw earlier in the evening; they had described the door to the faculty of arts and the young doctor's car. It was all easy to find and Major Badoo could only hope the lecturers made it out of the campus alive before the rest of the Chief's boys caught up with them. All he had for Dr Agbabiaka was sympathy, having been a lecturer before at the Air force Institute of Technology and at the Federal University of Technology, Akure in Ondo state. He considered the young man a colleague and a comrade and one of the first lessons you learn in the military is never to abandon a comrade in the face of fire. He had deeper feelings and respect for Professor Sanmi Aluko, the man who had given him the chance to make something out of his existence. Prof didn't deserve to die in the hands of a wanton politician in the quest for power so he knew deep down within him that even if these men were captured alive, at least one would escape. The only way he could warn them now of the presence of Chief Gbolabo's boys were to set Dr's car ablaze. Little did he know that Alhaji Kosoko's boys too were already on the University campus and would instantly get interested in the burning car?

So, at exactly 4:00 am on Sunday the seventeenth day of August 2025, the car belonging to Dr Agbabiaka of the department of medicine and surgery of the University of Ibadan exploded in what is believed to be a car bomb, sparking gun fights within the school by individuals who are believed not to even be students of the university. One of the hoodlums who died during the fifteen minute shootout had been identified by some individuals as an aide of foremost politician and PA presidential candidate, Chief Gbolabo. That's how Chief Gbolabo heard it on the 7:00 am news. Five minutes later, the chairman of the PA had countered the news station in a publicly released memo that said the party had no presidential candidate since the party's primaries had not been held and Alhaji Kosoko was the more favoured of all the interested party members, having satisfied all conditions and receiving traditional endorsements from prominent leaders of the Yoruba people.

Papa, Uncle Jimi and Dr Agbabiaka had packed their recordings and valuable materials and along with the thirteen year old boy who carried the bags, of course, they made their way to the Griot's hole. As they moved through the artificial jungle, there was a loud explosion and the forest ground was terribly shaken. The men hurried to the back exit and opened the door slightly to see what had happened. From a long way off, Uncle Jimi could see that the explosion had come from Dr Agbabiaka's parked car. They had simply returned into the thick artificial forest from where they could hear faint sounds of gunshots and men running along the corridors of the faculty building. Policemen had flooded into the school premises but nobody had been apprehended. Students ran helter-skelter in all directions and the whole campus was in a pandemonium before any of the culprits could be apprehended. It was about forty minutes later that the large door of the griot's hole had been opened by Major Badoo and three of his men. The space was just too large for three men to search and it was dark, a huge forest of tall trees ceiled by large transparent sheets. There were lights that came on intermittently and sign of life. The former officer kept his gun at his side and ordered his men to stand down. Then out of the dark forest, there was a bright spark of lightning proceeding from a large image of .......a tall man covered in beads, charms, amulets and a raised blood-stained iron axe........ It looked like......

"Sango", the ex-military man stammered in obvious fear as the statue seemed to turn and look at him with blazing eyes.

It is often said that a human being is never more alert than when confronted with unexpected danger and in the brief instant the lightning flashed, Badoo could make out a stream flowing down a narrow long footpath and ......... moving men. His hand whipped out his gun in a flash. He moved forward and led his men slowly down the narrow path amidst the activities and statues that littered the forest floor but the space was too wide to search. He knew he had to end the whole mission right here.

It was the perfect spot to kill and bury.

He intended to kill the mission and bury it right here so he told his boys to hand in their guns since they wouldn't need it to capture three old men and to avoid any foolishness that could give away their positions. With all four guns safely in his hand, he ordered the men to disperse themselves around the forest floor and search for the men. They were only to be captured and not injured in any way. Little did he know that one of the boys, a little ruffian in his early twenties called Jide had come along with his own small shotgun that he kept in his boot.

As the men combed the terrifying forest for an hour without success, they were ready to quit the search when a shrill sound from a telephone cut through the heavy dew-laden forest air. It came from the right side of the footpath and about fifteen metres from Jide's location but all had heard it. All the men inched closer to that section of the forest enclosing it. In the midst of the thick forest under brush, a small beep sounded as Dr Agbabiaka made to switch of his mobile phone which had rang out loudly a few minutes earlier. The group of men inched closer round a large rock that rose about thirteen metres from the forest ground, forming roughly ten metres diameter round the base of the rock which was about ten metres wide at the base and with the figure of the statue of an old man with long flowing white beards which extended down almost half the height of the rock. The man ceaselessly read out adulations of Olodumare in long proverbs, each verse ending in Iba Olodumare. It read something like:

Baba iba

T'o ni igba ati gbogbo nnkanti a ba

Nigba igba le ni igba igba l'oti fi agba

Han awon agbagba idi ti agba se je nipa

Agba'ale awon omo oba lowo oba kan

Ki a ma so t'awon eru lowo ika oba

Ti o so gba ti a fuun-un di gba-gba-gba.

A nikan gba eru kale so o d'oba ti n bi oba

Ti n f'iba fun Oba agba awon oba

Ti a n pe ni

Kabiyo o si Olodumare

Iba Olodumare.

From Jide's angle, he could see a small opening that entered into a small cave. There's an opening here shouted Jide to the other men.

Come out, shouted Major Badoo to the men in the cave as his men surrounded the cave mouth. There was no movement.

We're moving in, he further announced to the men. Nothing happened but nothing prepared him for the shock he was to receive. As he inched closer with two of his men, past a wooden sign post at the entrance of the cave that read, Ibugbe Olodumare, he heard a small ruffling sound as a bright light shone in the distance, about thirty metres ahead; it was a deep underground cave. Jide instinctively kept a hand on the gun at his heel as the rustling sound increased and came closer. Then he felt beating dampness all over his face and screeching sounds. He fired three rounds into the rustling darkness amidst cries and groans from his fellows and somewhere in the distance, another scream. As the bats frittered out of the cave and everything grew silent again except the surprise scream of the man outside the cave. He could feel the heaviness of his right leg and a sharp pain coming from his foot where he had shot himself. The Major came near him and landed him a big slap that sent him into a coma.

Hand me the gun and carry this fool out of here, he told the remaining man.

I'll get the men, he said hurrying into the thick darkness of the cave beyond. He found the young doctor Agbabiaka attending to Papa who was bleeding profusely from two gunshot wounds on his left shoulder. They carried the old man out of the cave and as they came out, Jide was just waking from his coma and the major glared at him angrily. He landed him another blow that sent him back to coma.

Doctor, Can we treat the two men here before going out, the campus is surrounded by the police. I can only give first aid but they're surely losing a lot of blood and that's bad. We also need to dislodge the metals, I mean the bullets.

Then suddenly remembering, the Major asks Uncle Jimi, where is the little boy.

He's been long gone out of here, about an hour now, with copies of the recordings. We sent him to the TV station, BCOS, not the police. We still have the originals safely hidden somewhere along with Dr Agbabiaka's work.

That's okay, the major said as his boys looked on in confusion.

Let's go then, he said.

He asked the boys and the young doctor to help carry the two injured men.
CHAPTER 15

The News House

At 6am, they came out of the Griot's hole disguised as safety officials helping to evacuate the wounded from the scene of the explosion. Uncle Jimi being a Red Cross ambassador had Red Cross uniforms in his office and had the men put them on. They had been able to transport the two wounded men to the University health centre by avoiding the scene of the explosion. Uncle Jimi stayed with the doctor and his friend. While Major Badoo went on with his men to the BCOS. He had stopped briefly to warn the men that they were no longer working for Chief Gbolabo except they wish to be handed over to the police. Still putting on the Red Cross vests, the three men entered their vehicle and drove out of the university premises without interference by the police officers who knew that humanitarian laws required that safety personnel be granted safe access in a crisis situation but were negligent enough not to demand some form of identification.

At BCOS, the early morning breakfast show had flashed images from the explosions at the University of Ibadan and released pictures of a dead man dragged from a river in Epe in Lagos State by a fisherman who claimed he saw men dumping the body into the river from the top of a bridge. He had paddled his canoe towards the man and tried to save him since he was convulsing terribly and almost drowned but it was too late. He had carried the body to the nearest shore and called the villagers who had alerted news men. The remains resembled that of an Ondo chief who had reportedly been kidnapped the previous night. The news flash had stated that the exploded vehicle in UI was identified to have been a rented vehicle used by a medical doctor of the University in the last couple of days.

Thirty minutes later, they had released footage of a meeting between the said medical doctor and presidential aspirant, Chief Gbolabo. Alhaji Kosoko had woken up from his sleep at 7:30 am to hear the newsmen had linked the bomb explosion to two presidential aspirants, Chief Gbolabo, who had a meeting with the owner of the exploded vehicle some days back. There were released pictures of the meeting and security operatives had arrested a former corporal of the defunct Nigerian army now working as aide of Alhaji Kosoko close to the scene of the explosion. He had been found running away from the scene along with students in the pandemonium that ensued when some of the students sighted a gun strapped to his waist and before he could make a getaway, the students had descended on him heavily and disarmed him. Two other unidentified men supposed to be with him had escaped unhurt, one of them carrying a small gun strapped to his waist. Security operatives believed they were still within the University premises, hedged in by the presence of the police. The police had also claimed to receive a video sent by an anonymous person showing footage of the new presidential aspirant ordering the kidnap of the Ondo chief.

Alhaji Kosoko hurriedly drove to the TV station which was just fifteen minutes from his hotel in blind fury, demanding to know which of his detractors decided to use the media house to discredit him.

You TV people should know better, what people are capable of doing in this world of video-editing he shouted at the manager.

Sir, it's not an edited video, we checked it on our computers when the police granted our press-men access to a copy of the video.

Are you saying there are copies of it?

Who brought it?

We don't know sir, it was anonymous, he said, his head turning slightly to indicate to the the boy seated in his office to go out. Alhaji turned squarely on the manager as thirteen year old Akin walked out of the office. I know you have a camera in this office, turn it off now. The manager promptly pressed a red switch. As he did, seven of Alhaji's men trooped into the office, three of them putting on starched blue police uniforms and carrying assault rifles. Who brought in that tape? I demand an answer now, one of the police men snarled in a manner that would have reminded World War II veterans of Gestapo commanders of the Nazi. He jerked at the manager's tie pinning the man's head to the table with his gun. After a few minutes of battering with the butt of the gun, the manager said, it was the police commander who had granted his men the interview and released the information to the pressmen.

Alhaji Kosoko laughed; the police commander is a loyal man. Very loyal.

If you had mentioned someone else you'd have been safe. Kill him. The man in police uniform simply raised his gun and released a loud bang into the manager's left side. The noise triggered a flurry of activity outside the door. Unknown to the men, the manager had earlier switched on the camera in his office for emergency live broadcast to the media room when told to switch it off, so all members of staff had been watching the man interrogated and tortured on screen and transmitted the images on air. This was what caused the activity outside the door. Female staff members were crying as men of the police force surrounded the building. The young Akin was with Dr Badu who gave the remaining video and audio recordings to the men in the press room.

In the next four hours, the seven men that invaded the media house were arrested in a shoot-out with the police; the presidential candidate was shot by Dr Badu who saw him try to escape through a back window. Afterwards, the police captured him. Also, released were videos of Chief Gbolabo ordering the killing of Dr Agbabiaka and kidnap of two other lecturers from the University of Ibadan and Mrs Agbabiaka and her children. The evidence against the men was incontrovertible and the videos were too much to be covered up. The Olubadan was also arrested for aiding a culprit in the attempted murder of the royal griot of Ibadan, Professor Sanmi Aluko, popularly known as Sanmi Onigangan. Chief Gbolabo, Alhaji Kosoko and their accomplices were arrested and charged to face the law.

Police also identified the young lady in Alhaji Kosoko's sex videos as his secretary, she was an accomplice to kidnap of a royal personality of Yorubaland but before they could hone in on her, she had disappeared and later appeared in a publicly released questioning session at the British council, from where she pleaded not guilty to any of the charges laid against her. She claimed to have only ignorantly supplied her employer the identity of a man who had attended a meeting and tried to coerce her into an illicit affair that was detrimental to her job and her relationship to her boss. She also claimed to have been in a well-known relationship with her boss for thirteen years and they were getting married in a week. She had just decided to take off the week shopping at Harrods Clothing in the UK for her coming wedding when she heard the news while processing her travel documents at the consulate very early on Sunday morning. The consular had granted her protection then since she is a British citizen. She was free from trial within the country and as long as Britain is concerned, the Yoruba authorities had all the information they needed. They should try their politicians first. The young lady got her visa and left the country with all the money she made in cash and intact.

A month later, she filed a lawsuit against Alhaji Kosoko demanding a million dollars in damages for unethical use of her services as a confidential secretary to obtain information for criminal intents. She only made a $1000 donation to the young unknown thirteen year old boy who helped uncover the truth. She said the donation was because she remembered she was thirteen years old when she met Alhaji Kosoko and fell in love with him. The amount of money she left the country with is not known but Alhaji Kosoko accused her of tapping into his accounts and making away with almost 5million dollars while Chief Gbolabo claimed to have given her fifty thousand dollars in cash when she visited him.

Over the next few weeks, it became obvious the country was not moving into a one-man presidency again like Nigeria did but at a very great cost, nobody could be trusted with power again and the people knew it so they'd rather serve as a check to each other. The politicians mentioned a man called Major Badoo as the implementer of their evil schemes but the man in question turned out to be a former officer of the defunct Nigerian Airforce, not an army major and now a respected lecturer of Electrical and Electronics Engineering at the Federal University of Technology, Akure. He is known as Dr Akintola Badu and there was no record of him found in any of the videos, neither was he recognized by any of the credible witnesses at the crime scene, not even the girls at the night party who claimed to have been questioned by a man.

To Uncle Jimi Alalo, his colleagues and friends, it was all just another story of intriguing politics, power and the heinous crimes it committed, the men it made and the beasts in them.

They all had the power to destroy themselves.

Actually, we all have the power to destroy ourselves and the man that should be feared most is the one who has the power to destroy himself.

Albeit, a new star had been shown in the young but brave grandson of the great historian of Ibadan, Sanmi Alubata.

Papa's old body never fully recovered from the injuries of the gunshot wounds so he died two years later but not before relinquishing the title of Royal Griot and Historian of Ibadan to his grandson, Akinkanju Aluko, much to his father's displeasure.
