The Shadow of the Sun

The Anatomy of a Coup d’État

From a notebook I kept in Lagos in 1966:

On Saturday, January 15, the army staged a coup d’état in Nigeria. At one o’clock in the morning, an alarm sounded in all the military units across the country. The various divisions set about carrying out their designated tasks. The difficulty of the coup lay in its needing to be implemented in five cities at once: in Lagos, which is the capital of the federation, as well as in the capitals of Nigeria’s four regions — in Ibadan (Western Nigeria), Kaduna (Northern Nigeria), Benin (Central-Western Nigeria), and Enugu (Eastern Nigeria). In a country with a surface area three times that of Poland, inhabited by fifty-six million people, the coup was executed by an army numbering barely eight thousand soldiers.

Saturday, 2 a.m.

Lagos: Military patrols (soldiers in helmets, battle dress, and carrying automatic weapons) seize control of the airport, the radio station, the telephone exchange, and the post office. By orders of the military, the electrical plant cuts power to the African neighborhoods. The city sleeps, the streets are empty. Saturday night is very dark, hot, and airless. Several jeeps stop near King George V Street. It is a small street at one tip of the island of Lagos (for which the whole city is named). On one side is the stadium. On the other — two villas. One is the residence of the prime minister of the federation, Sir Abubakar Tafawa Balewa. In the other lives the minister of finance, Chief Festus Okotie-Eboh. The soldiers surround both villas. A group of officers enters the prime minister’s residence, wakes him, and leaves with him. A second group arrests the minister of finance. The cars drive off. Several hours later, an official government communiqué will state that the prime minister and his appointee “were taken to an unknown destination.” Balewa’s subsequent fate is unknown. Some say he is imprisoned in the military barracks; many believe he has been killed. People maintain that Okotie-Eboh was also killed. He was not shot, they say, but rather “bludgeoned to death.” This version may be less a reflection of reality than an expression of public opinion about the man. He was a deeply repugnant individual, brutal, greedy, large, even grotesquely fat. Through corruption, he managed to amass an indescribably large fortune. He behaved with the utmost contempt toward the people he ostensibly served. Balewa was his opposite — likable, modest, calm. A tall, thin, almost ascetic Muslim.

The army seizes the harbor and surrounds Parliament. Patrols circulate through the streets of the sleeping city.

It is 3 a.m.

Kaduna: On the outskirts of the capital of Northern Nigeria, surrounded by high walls, stands the one-story residence of the region’s prime minister, Ahmadu Bello. In Nigeria, the titular head of state is Dr. Nnamdi Azikiwe. The head of the government, Tafawa Balewa. But the actual ruler of the country is Ahmadu Bello. All Saturday long Bello receives guests. The last visit, at 7 p.m., is paid him by a group of Fulani. Six hours later, in the bushes across from the residence, a group of officers sets up two mortars. The group’s commander is Major Chukuma Nzeogwu. At three o’clock in the morning, a shot is fired from a mortar. The shell explodes on the roof of the residence. A fire erupts. It is the signal to attack. The officers first storm the palace’s guardhouse. Two of them die in the struggle with the prime minister’s security force, the rest make it into the flaming building. In the hallway they encounter Ahmadu Bello, who has run out of his bedroom. He is felled by a bullet, which hits him in the temple.

The city sleeps, the streets are empty.

It is 3 a.m.

Ibadan: The palace of the prime minister of Western Nigeria, Chief Samuel Akintola, stands on one of the gentle hills over which sprawls this single-storied city-village, “the largest village in the world,” with 1.5 million inhabitants. For three months now, bloody battles have been waged in the region, a police curfew is in effect in the city, and Akintola’s palace is heavily guarded. The troops begin their assault, a gun battle ensues, and then outright hand-to-hand combat. A group of officers finally forces its way into the palace. Akintola dies on the verandah, hit by thirteen bullets.

It is 3 a.m.

Benin: The army commandeers the radio station, the post office, and other important targets. It closes all exits from the city. Several officers disarm the policemen guarding the residence of the region’s prime minister, Chief Dennis Osadebay. Not a shot is fired. From time to time, a green jeep carrying soldiers passes down the street.

It is 3 a.m.

Enugu: The residence of the prime minister of Eastern Nigeria, Dr. Michael Okpara, is silently and discreetly surrounded. Inside, in addition to the prime minister, sleeps his guest, the president of Cyprus, Archbishop Makarios. The commander of the insurgents guarantees both dignitaries their freedom of movement. In Enugu, the revolution is polite. Other army units seize the radio station, the post office, and close off all roads exiting the city, which continues to sleep.

The coup was successfully carried out in five Nigerian cities simultaneously. In the space of several hours, the small army became the de facto ruler of this enormous country — Africa’s superpower. In the course of a single night, death, arrest, or flight into the bush ended hundreds of political careers.

Saturday — morning, afternoon, and evening.

Lagos awakes, knowing nothing about anything. A normal city day begins — the shops open, people are on their way to work. There is no visible army presence downtown. But at the post office we are told that all lines of communication with the outside world have been severed. You cannot send a telegram. The first bits of gossip start to circulate around the city. That Balewa was arrested. That the army staged a coup d’état. I drive to the barracks in Ikoyi (a Lagos neighborhood). Jeep patrols are coming out of the gates, armed with automatic weapons, with machine guns. A crowd has gathered across from the gate, motionless, silent. Women who eke out a living cooking and selling simple dishes on the street are already spreading out in a smoky encampment.

At the other end of town, Parliament convenes. There are many soldiers in front of the building. They search us at the entrance. Out of the 312 members of Parliament, only 33 have arrived. Only one minister appears — R. Okafor. He proposes that the deliberations be postponed. The representatives who are present demand explanations: What has happened? What is happening? At this, a military patrol enters the chamber — eight soldiers, who disperse the assembled.

The radio broadcasts only music. There are no announcements. I go to see the AFP correspondent, David Laurell. We are both close to tears. These are frustrating moments for journalists: we have news of world import, and we cannot transmit it. We set off together for the airport. It is guarded by a division of the navy and appears deserted — no passengers, no airplanes. On the way back we are stopped at a military checkpoint: they will not let us back into town. A long discussion ensues. The soldiers are polite, courteous, calm; an officer arrives and eventually waves us through. We return through dark neighborhoods: there is still no electrical power. The sidewalk vendors are burning candles or oil lamps near their stalls, as a result of which the streets look from a distance like cemetery alleyways on the Day of the Dead. Even at night it is humid, and so airless that it is difficult to breathe.

Sunday — new rulers.

Helicopters buzz over the city, but otherwise the day is peaceful. Such a revolt (and they are more and more frequent) is usually orchestrated by a small group of officers living in barracks inaccessible to civilians. They act with the utmost secrecy. The country learns of everything after the fact, and then most often has to rely on gossip and conjecture.

This time, however, the situation is quickly clarified. Just before midnight, the new head of state — Major General Johnson Aguiyi-Ironsi, the forty-one-year-old army commander — goes on the radio. He says that the military “consented to take power,” that the constitution and the government are being suspended. Power will now lie with the Supreme Military Council. Law and order will be restored in the country.

…

Monday — the reasons for the coup.

Rejoicing in the streets. My Nigerian friends, meeting me, slap me on the back, laugh; they are in excellent spirits. I walk through the square — the crowds are dancing, a boy beats out a rhythm on an aluminum barrel. A month ago, I witnessed a similar coup d’état in Dahomey — there, too, the street was cheering the army. The latest wave of military revolts is very popular in Africa; reaction is enthusiastic.

The first expressions of support and of allegiance to the new government arrive in Lagos: “The day of January 15,” says the resolution of one of the local parties, the UPGA (United Progressive Grand Alliance), “will pass into the history of our great republic as the day when we first achieved true liberty, although Nigeria has been independent for five years now. The mad rush of our politicians toward self-enrichment disgraced Nigeria’s name abroad…. A ruling caste had arisen in our country, which based its power on the sowing of hatred, on pitting brother against brother, on liquidating everyone who held a view different from theirs…. We salute the new regime as if it had been sent down by God to liberate the nation from black imperialists, from tyranny and intolerance, from the deceptions and destructive ambitions of those who claimed to represent Nigeria…. Our Motherland cannot be a stomping ground for political wolves, who plunder the country.”

“The widespread anarchy and the disillusion of the masses,” states the resolution of the youth organization, Zikist Movement, “made this revolution necessary. In the years since independence, fundamental human rights were brutally violated by the government. People were denied the right to live in freedom and with mutual respect. They were not allowed to have their own opinions. Organized political gangsterism and the politics of falsehood turned all elections into a farce. Instead of serving the nation, politicians were busy stealing. Unemployment and exploitation were on the rise, and in their sadism toward the population, the small clique of feudal fascists in power knew no bounds.”

…

Thus many African nations are already living through a second phase of their short postwar history. The first phase was a rapid decolonization, the gaining of independence. It was characterized by a universal optimism, enthusiasm, euphoria. People were convinced that freedom meant a better roof over their heads, a larger bowl of rice, a first pair of shoes. A miracle would take place — the multiplying of loaves, fishes, and wine. Nothing of the sort occurred. On the contrary. There was a sudden increase in the population, for which there was not enough food, schools, or jobs. Optimism quickly turned to disenchantment and pessimism. The people’s bitterness, fury, hatred was now directed against their own elites, who were rapidly and greedily stuffing their pockets. In a country without a well-developed private sector, where plantations belonged to foreigners and the banks to foreign capital, the political career was the only road to riches.

In short — the poverty and disillusion of those on the bottom rungs, coupled with the cupidity and gluttony of those on the top, create a poisoned, unstable atmosphere, which the army senses; presenting itself as the champion of the injured and the humiliated, it emerges from the barracks and reaches for power.

Tuesday — the tom-toms call to war.

A report from Eastern Nigeria that appeared in today’s edition of the Lagos newspaper, the Daily Telegraph:

Enugu. — When news of the arrest of the prime minister of Eastern Nigeria, Dr. Michael Okpara, reached his native region of Bende, in all the local villages — in Ohuku, Ibeke, Igbere, Akyi, Ohafia, Abiriba, Abam, and Nkporo — the war drums began to beat, convening the tribal warriors. They were told that their compatriot, Dr. Okpara, had been kidnapped. At first, the warriors believed this was the work of the agents of the ruling coalition, and decided to go to war. Anyone who owned a wagon put it at their disposal. In the course of a few hours, Enugu, the capital of Eastern Nigeria, was overrun by fighters armed to the teeth with swords, spears, bows, and shields. The warriors chanted war songs. Tom-toms pounded throughout the town. As this was going on, it was explained to the tribal commanders that it was the army that had seized power, and that Dr. Okpara was alive, although under house arrest. When the warriors heard this, they expressed joy and began returning to their villages.

Thursday, January 20—the journey to Ibadan.

I went to Western Nigeria to find out what people were saying about the revolution. At the Lagos tollgates, soldiers and policemen inspect cars and baggage. It is 150 kilometers from Lagos to Ibadan, along a green-lined road running between gentle hills. In recent months, during the civil war, many people died here. You still never know whom you will meet around the next curve. In the ditches lie burned-out cars, most often large limousines with governmental license plates. I stopped near one of them — there were still charred bones inside. All the towns along the road bear the signs of battle: the skeletons of houses incinerated, or leveled; furniture broken, trucks turned upside down, smoldering ruins. Every place is deserted, the people have run away, scattered who knows where.

I reach Akintola’s villa. It is on the outskirts of Ibadan, in a residential, wooded ministerial neighborhood, now completely abandoned. The palaces of the ministers, imposing, luxurious, and kitschy, stand ruined and empty. Even the servants are gone. Some of the ministers have died, others fled to Dahomey. There are several policemen in front of Akintola’s place. One of them grabs a gun before giving me a tour. The villa is large, new. A puddle of blood has congealed on the marble floor at the entrance. A bloodied djellabah is still lying next to it. There is a pile of scattered, torn letters, and two plastic machine guns, smashed to pieces, perhaps belonging to Akintola’s grandsons. The walls are pockmarked by bullet holes, the courtyard full of shattered glass, the window screens ripped out by soldiers during the assault on the villa.

Akintola was fifty years old, a heavyset man with a wide, baroquely tattooed face. In the past several months he had not left his residence, which was under heavy police guard — he was afraid. Five years ago he had been a middle-class lawyer. After a year of premiership, he already had millions. He simply poured money from the government accounts into his private ones. Wherever you go in Nigeria, you come across his houses — in Lagos, in Ibadan, in Abeokuta. He had twelve limousines, largely unused, but he liked to look at them from his balcony. His ministers also grew rich quickly. We are here in a realm of absolutely fantastical fortunes, all made in politics, or, more precisely, through political gangsterism — by breaking up parties, falsifying election results, killing opponents, firing into hungry crowds. One must see this wealth against the background of desperate poverty, in the context of the country over which Akintola ruled — burned, desolate, awash in blood.

I returned to Lagos in the afternoon.

Saturday, January 22—Balewa’s funeral.

The announcement by the Federal Military Government about the death of the former prime minister of Nigeria, Sir Abubakar Tafawa Balewa:

“On Friday morning peasants from the region of Otta, near Lagos, said that they had found in the bush a corpse resembling Tafawa Balewa. It was in a sitting position, its shoulders leaning against a tree. The body was covered by an ample white djellabah, and a round cap was lying at its feet. That same day the body was transported by special plane to Balewa’s native town of Bauchi (in Central Nigeria). Besides the pilot and the radio operator, there were only soldiers on board. The body of Tafawa Balewa was buried in the Muslim cemetery in the presence of a large number of people.”

The daily New Nigerian states that the inhabitants of Northern Nigeria do not believe in the death of their leader, Ahmadu Bello. They are convinced that he escaped under Allah’s coat to Mecca.

Today a friend, a Nigerian student named Nizi Onyebuchi, told me: “Our new leader, General Ironsi, is a supernatural man. Someone was shooting at him and the bullet changed course, not so much as grazing the general.”