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Don’t go to Abuja at
Fifty-Eight
A short story by Rikimaru Tenchu
The cold carpet refused to soak up the trickle
of blood from my hands as I tried desperately to
stop its flow from the hole in my stomach. My
grip was weak on the Colt in my hand, its warm
feel a poor reassurance to my waning life. I
knew I would die and I was afraid. Not of death
but of the many hounds I had sent ahead who now
awaited my arrival at the great beyond… who just
couldn’t wait to get their hands on me. Let me
try to explain.
My name is Yemi Jules-Rimet Atanda and I am 58
years old. I was born on the 6th day of May
1952, 4 years before the original Jules Rimet
passed away. My father loved football and named
me after the world cup. I am single, never been
in love, never known a woman and have been
employed for the same reason for the past 30
years. To kill. I was born in Oyo State Nigeria
and spent my childhood in Ibadan, the center of
western Nigeria. My early years witnessed the
dying of the colonial regime and the forging of
nationalization. During these years I learnt
right and wrong, justice and truth and I had an
unholy crush on the great leader Awolowo during
whose Premiership I was born.
Sunday morning was church and my mum always took
us. She believed in God’s son Jesus, his
ultimate and immutable design and worshipped Him
for it because it was good, acceptable and
perfect. These three words I never forgot. Daddy
was too busy joining the struggle. He believed
fortune favored the brave and the church wasn't
brave. He aligned with his mentor whom he fondly
called Karl in attesting that religion only lent
energy to the less privileged and was an escape
route from responsibility. I loved my parents
and ate their words. My mother fed me with the
scriptures and faith while I ate my meals. My
father filled my head with politics, economics,
philosophy, sociology, history and class
struggle as we inspected his cocoa fields. Jesus
and Karl should sit at a conference, I
concluded, as their followers would never agree.
Primary education consisted of three phases. I
would trudge along with my peers on the road to
school and sit as we learnt to write with ink
and read off badly painted chalk boards my mind
constantly darting between Jesus and Karl. I’d
never wait to play football like my peers as I
ran all the way home to eat my mother’s food and
her words. She would tell me stories and conjure
up images of the great walls of Jericho falling
down, the sun standing still, and Samson killing
a lion with his bare hands. My favourite was
‘David and Goliath’ and my mother would make me
finish my meal before telling me this story. I
would jump on my stool and swing my hands like I
imagined David would and aim at the imaginary
Goliath and shoot my sling. This story stuck
with me all my life because I never stopped
slinging at Goliath. After my afternoon rest I
would go to my father’s study and sit under his
table as he held Trade Union meetings with his
friends. Back and forth my young eyes would dart
from one corner the other as I tried hard to
keep pace with the discussions I always left
with the same set of words; ‘it’s not fair’,
‘that’s not right’, ‘we need to stand together’
and ‘life more abundant’ they chorused as they
dispersed.
If I did not mention it earlier then pardon me.
My father was a civil servant and worked for the
Western Region. He was also a farmer and had
large cocoa fields which he inherited from ‘our
fathers’ as he called them. On various weekends
I would accompany him to inspect his fields and
on such journeys he would fill the car with the
words of Karl and his Marxist cronies and I
could literally see Karl smoking his pipe, legs
crossed at the back seat of my father’s
Volkswagen Passat nodding his head in agreement.
Sometimes I wished Jesus would also appear to me
for the voices in my head were too much to
choose from.
Secondary Education took me to Igboora for the
first time. I had heard a lot about the land of
twins and I knew the legends of how every house
had a set of twins and sometimes more. Methodist
High School was right at its centre. The food
was another delight and there I met Paul. He was
a year older and had a striking resemblance with
me. He was extremely smart, funny, easy going,
honest and non-partisan. He helped me decide
between Jesus and Karl but I never listened to
him. Paul loved Jesus and Karl and believed they
could be friends if only Karl called Jesus
‘Lord’. It sounded ridiculous… Jesus and Karl?
Seriously? But I loved Paul and I never
disagreed with him. We competed for everything
even though we had different backgrounds. We
played football, studied together and wrestled
now and then. Paul always claimed I had the
advantage because I had more food to eat and was
bigger and stronger. He always claimed his feet
and brain were much faster than mine.
In 1974 we both earned Western Region
scholarships to study abroad and our paths went
different ways thereafter. Paul went to study
Medical Statistics and I went to study Law.
They approached me in my second term in the
prestigious Cambridge University. I met Peter
during one of my practice sessions at the
Shooters’ Club. You see, I never stopped
slinging and transferred my love to guns. During
my first shooting championship I earned a 18/20
bull’s eye. They never stopped calling me “Spikey”.
Peter could shoot too but not half as good. He
was Calabar and claimed to be a member Free
Nigeria Group who wanted to rid Nigeria of
corruption and ensure that equality reign. He
believed I had all the qualities to make
membership and that his employers would be
delighted to have a prestigious son of Nigeria
as a member.
My Father died in 1978. He was 58 years old. He
died during a rally of Civil servants at Abuja
over the proposed moving of Federal Ministries
to Abuja. The soldiers had opened fire randomly
in the heat of the protest. I returned to
Nigeria for the burial. Paul was there. It was
good to see him again. He had returned to
Nigeria to join the Nigeria Air Force. He was
married and had a beautiful daughter, Tokunbo. I
was happy for him. We laughed over old rivalries
and he told me he had a head start on me because
he knew I would give birth to twins at my first
try.
During the burial, I was approached by the
Nigeria Army. They had heard of my exploits in
the shooting championship and had been
recommended by “a friend” for Special Forces. I
knew I had to stay at home now so I agreed. I
met Peter during training and he told me we were
part of “Operation Karl” a secret Socialist plan
to protect Nigeria from the hands of Capitalism.
I laughed my heart out. Karl was still alive? It
was impossible. Even my father would not have
seen any reason to follow Marxism any longer. I
was wrong. They came again after my training
with the Special Forces. Two years later I had
learnt almost every trick in military espionage,
shooting, unarmed combat, martial arts, deep sea
diving, demolitions, heavy vehicle driving and
my specialty, high Caliber Rifle training. I was
a captain and I was happy. I met Brigadier Shehu
for the first time. He was smart and very
likeable. He took me into his wings and we
talked a lot. He loved talking about Marxism and
I listened out of courtesy. He reminded me of my
father and before long I was seeing Karl again
only this time there was no complain from Jesus.
Brigadier Shehu wanted me to “take care of
things” for them and I was confused. I went to
look for Paul. I needed someone to talk to. Paul
was being transferred to Makurdi. He had three
kids now; two girls and a son. I met him at the
Officer’s Mess of the Nigeria Air Force, Ikeja,
Lagos with his friend Garba. I told Paul I
didn’t know Jesus and Karl was as scary as ever
but all Paul said was “Jesus is close to you.
Just talk to him and he would answer”. I left
with his words still ringing in my head “only
Jesus can save you from Marxism, Jules”.
A job is a job they told me and I believed. It
was for the good of all and I believed too.
Thirty years later and I regret all those whose
lives I have taken; politicians, soldiers,
activists and party leaders, all for what? So
that I can fulfil someone else’s greed and
desire to remain in control. I was protecting
the real enemy… the cabal who was buying up
Nigeria while taking out all their competition.
It had to stop.
March 27 2010 I received the package and I knew
it was trouble. I knew it was my last. I
desperately needed someone to talk to. Paul had
left for beyond on 13th February 2009. He was
58. He was hit by a car in Abuja. I cried like a
child but I couldn’t attend the burial. I was in
China trailing a particular Minister who was
negotiating with the Chinese for Electric Train
Contracts. I wasn’t supposed to kill him. Not
yet, “…only if he made too much progress”. My
employers couldn’t afford letting electric train
reduce their oil income. Bastards! My Mum had
followed my father almost immediately. I looked
at the Package again and shook my head. The
target was huge and I was given a partner for
the first time in thirty years. A left-handed
partner... I don’t trust south paws. I didn’t
trust him either. My employers never explained
why and I never asked but I really wanted to
know this time. My partner would only shrug
every time I voiced my concern and I grew
worried. Karl still showed up and he sometimes
had a smile like he knew he had me in his
grasps. I’d close my eyes each time I saw him.
16th April 2010. We laid in ambush at the Abuja
Airport, waiting, watching; our attack had been
spun like a web and the butterfly was going to
walk right into it. The Prey had just returned
from his trip to the USA on a courtesy visit to
Barack Obama among other things. His ever
present hat was an easy target. If only he knew.
I was shaking, my adrenaline pumping. I looked
through the high powered scope. Not yet. All the
while I wondered why. My partner sat beside me
looking through the glass expressionless. He
couldn’t see the entourage below. He had two
passports and a duffel bag ready for our escape.
My employers had handled the security and we
were right in one of the rooms of the control
tower. Something wasn’t right and I knew it.
Karl was smiling at me but I wasn’t assured.
Why? What is so wrong about this man succeeding
his predecessor who had not been seen or heard
from since that suspicious radio transmission?
Business interest was the only answer I could
think of. I steadied my scope again and looked.
His hat was right in the middle. I checked the
wind and adjusted the distance, controlled my
breadth and started my silent countdown. Squeeze
the trigger, Karl urged me. It is for the common
good, he cajoled. I looked closer at the hat, my
index finger caressing the trigger, but at that
moment he looked up and smiled at me, shook his
head and continued talking. I turned my hand
violently as I scuffed my shot wide of my
target. I couldn’t shoot this man. Instinctively
I rolled to my side as the muffled sounds of two
shots came from behind me. My partner was the
clean-up man. My time was up. I kept rolling
until I hit the desk and jumped to my feet. My
colt was still holstered and the room was small.
I was helpless. I charged at the clean-up man as
he tried to angle his hand towards me and I felt
pain as I hit the gun out of his hands. I
grabbed his right hand with my right hand did a
quick twist backed into him and smashed my elbow
into his stomach. My head connected with his
nose as I took a small step forward and flung
him over my shoulder, still holding his right
hand. I broke it. He screamed in pain and I kept
twisting it till he passed out. I had deflected
his head shot to my stomach and it was bleeding.
I searched him found two passports belonging to
him. None for me. I opened the duffel bag and
used one of the shirts to stop the blood. I felt
dizzy as I walked out of office. The car was
exactly as we had left it when we came. I never
thought I would need it again.
It took them two weeks and five days to find me
but they did. I knew my luck would run out soon.
They had taken all my money. I couldn’t leave
Abuja, I couldn’t go to the hospitals, I
couldn’t go to the police and my wound had
gotten worse. I looked out of my motel window
and I knew I was out numbered; six bullets
against so many. I got up from the cold carpet
and sat on the bed. Put on the radio. It was 11
pm and there were some reports of news around
the world. A world I would soon depart from.
The Radio screeched BREAKING NEWS: PRESIDENT
UMARU YAR’ADUA HAS BEEN CONFIRMED! HE DIED AT
THE PRESIDENTIAL VILLA ABUJA. HE WAS 58 YEARS
OLD. ACTING PRESIDENT JONATHAN GOODLUCK IS TO BE
SWORN IN TOMORROW.
I laid the Colt on the bedside table. I was
tired of running. They can take me if they want
to. I felt someone at the door and I tensed my
hand grabbing for the Colt but I let go of it.
Nothing it can do for me now. I took another
dose of the cheap painkiller in the drawer but
it did nothing to help. I noticed a small blue
book inside the drawer and picked it up as the
sounds increased in front of my door. New
Testament Bible it read. Not for Sale. I opened
its pages: “for God so Loved the World that he
gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever
believeth in him should not perish, but have
everlasting life.” I laughed. Now? Seriously?
Karl Scuffed. I thought of Paul: “if only Karl
calls him Lord”, he’d have said. “Lord” I said
quietly. Karl looked shocked. “Lord”, I said
louder. “Lord!” I screamed as the door burst
open. I felt no pain as the bullets tore into
me. I was lifted up by their numbers and landed
holding onto the only thing that ever made sense
to me.
“Lord,” I said faintly, as my fingers let go of
the small blue book and I heard his voice for
the first time... he said ‘I love you’.
I was 58 years old.
The end.
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