Operation Wet It!

A fictitious short story about the deadly post-election violence in the South-western part of Nigeria in 1983

Unity Party of Nigeria logo

It became increasingly unbelievable that everyone around me thought I was a complete fool for not knowing that my father was a wizard. I had heard people complain about the immensity of his supernatural powers: some said he could disappear at will; others claimed he could read people’s minds with a flick of his fingers. I didn’t take their untrue insinuations seriously until a man I highly admired fell into the same trap.

“You must not follow in the footsteps of your father!” My High School’s principal roared with his usual trademark face — a scowl that often divided his forehead into leathery creases. “Because if you do, you will end up in Hell for sure!”

I came out of his well-furnished office half amused, half angry. How could a man of his stature and education fall for a mere rumor that he appeared so worked up like someone whose fingers were in a bowl of hot soup? How could anyone in his right mind think that my father, who happily sent his children to a Catholic High School, had anything to do with wizardry?

I was not ignorant of the fact that the recent spate of activities in our Town may have encouraged people who did not know us quite well to take rumors for truths. As a famous politician, my father had always been at the center of controversies: despite the fact that he was not the Chairman of Ondo Town’s Chapter of National Party of Nigeria, every pundit in our Town recognized my father as the brain behind the successes the party had recorded in recent local elections. The party had clinched more house of councilors’ seats and had almost toppled the incumbent Ondo Local Government chairman who belonged to the main rival party — the Unity Party of Nigeria.

To those who are unfamiliar with the dynamics of Nigerian politics, political parties were mainly created along the ethnic lines, despite their names revealing a national involvement. The Unity Party of Nigeria, UPN was sold to Yoruba people of south-western Nigeria as their own party, because Chief Obafemi Awolowo, one of the prominent founders, was a highly respected Yoruba man. The National Party of Nigeria, NPN was regarded as a party for the northerners and their corrupt friends in other geo-political zones of the country. Consequently, whoever happened to belong to NPN in Yoruba ethnic group was perceived as a traitor that should be dealt with suspiciously.

My father had lost many of his childhood friends because of his NPN membership; many of the people around him now were party members, his wives and children, and his employees. My father hired about twenty-five people who helped us manage his three-storied hotel situated at the center of our Town, behind our residential home.

“When you show that you are wiser than the average people around you, they will call you several bad names: some will say you are a wizard; others will call you a devil,” my father had once told me. I didn’t say anything at that time, but I had wanted to let him know that my principal was also guilty of that offence.

I was a living witness to how my father had demonstrated his political shrewdness that got everyone talking about him. In the 80s, there were no cell phones in Nigeria as they are today, and Nigerians normally relied on the home phones or private telephone services to keep in touch with relatives and business partners. But owing to his riches, my father could afford some walkie-talkies, which he distributed to all his personal assistants, who fed him important information every passing moment.

“A man is as good as dead if he cannot hear what other people are saying about him,” my father often said. As a result of this, he planted all his assistants at everywhere to eavesdrop or spy on whatever mischief his opponents might be planning against him: he had informants at the marketplaces, religious centers, schools and among his own political party. Each time I had the opportunity to stay beside him, I noticed that his walkie-talkie beeped almost every second.

“OK, thank you,” My father blurted into the gadget one evening. He was getting ready to attend a political rally when the call came. “Sola, tell your mum that I’m leaving for the rally,” he said and left home in the company of five political associates. I recognized all of them because they always hung around him, day in day out.

By the time the Ekimogun News came out later that evening, the headline screamed conspicuously: MR. BADEWA DID IT AGAIN — HE DISAPPEARED FROM HIS MERCEDES BENZ WHEN AMBUSHED BY THE ASSASSINS. So, when my father returned home later that night, I thought it was time to ask him if he was actually a wizard and that I had been wrongly defending him all the while.

“This is the source of the only power I know,” he brought a copy of the Bible out of his briefcase. “My life and that of my family are securely protected by God,” he told me. But I still had my doubts but let him continue. “You remembered I received a call before leaving for the rally a few hours ago,” he said, and I nodded. “I got a warning that some thugs have been paid by some disgruntled NPN members to kill me. So, instead of going straight to the rally, I chose to hide somewhere. And while the driver was heading to the rally with my empty car, he was attacked by gunmen who repeatedly shot the backseat thinking I was there,” he explained.

My doubts about his spirituality were finally laid to rest on that day. Many of my father’s associates had secretly told me that he was grooming me to take up his political dynasty. But I was afraid of politics, especially the do-or-die Nigerian politics!

Throughout July 1983, my father had been preoccupied with the preparations for the national elections coming the following month that he did not have time to manage his hotel business. But he was quite lucky to have got a manager who was passionate at what he did. So, the hotel workers did not feel his absence even though he sometimes stayed away for weeks. Only my thirteen siblings and I that had dearly missed him during those periods he was away from home. And my father’s four wives, too, had expressed their displeasure at his absence, which sometimes allowed them to pick up quarrels with one another. Something they could not do when my father was around.

On the eve of 1983 national elections, our house was like a market jam packed with people from different walks of life. You could see businesspeople swaggering around in their flowing and embroidered garments; tired teachers returning from schools dejectedly clutched at their files as they listened to my father’s pep-talk; traders and market women tied their headscarves around their necks as sweat poured down their faces after long-hour rally; some young people of my age sat on the ground to hear my father’s last pitch for the national election.

“Go out in throng and in droves! Vote for all NPN candidates. They are politicians with credible and verifiable past performances. They have you and your concerns at heart every time. These people are not those who would disappoint you after assuming office — they would do exactly everything indicated in their manifestoes.”

As usual, there were drinks and refreshment. My mother and other stepmothers were busy dishing out food. You could hear people crying on top of their voices requesting for a bowl of amala — boiled yam powder. I heard some begging for more meat or fish. The spectacle was comparable to when Jesus fed five thousand people with almost nothing.

“If you don’t vote for my brother tomorrow, I will break your head!” A drunken man threatened me with a beer bottle. I stared at his potbelly and felt like punching his huge stomach to remind him I was just sixteen and ineligible to vote. Such was the level of craziness whenever my father’s party members were preparing for an election. Our house had always been the rendezvous for such a big party meeting because we lived in a semi-estate with six three-storied buildings, two of which were converted into the hotel. The field behind the hotel was big enough to occupy ten thousand people.

Though my father was not contesting for any political post, but people whom he had helped in one way or the other flocked in to promise him their votes. They believed that when they cast their votes for NPN, they were doing that for him because of his prominent influence in the party. As expected, it was a hectic day in the life of our family. We could not sleep until close to midnight. And some party members had decided to pass the night in our house; people lay across the expansive rug like tired warriors, and their scary snore woke me up three times before daybreak.

The Election Day was calm in the morning as traffic and other unnecessary movements within the Town had been restricted. Stern-looking police officers took positions close to the polling centers to ward off troublemakers. And nervous election officials sat behind the ballot boxes waiting for the starting time. Lines of anxious voters could be seen in front of each polling booth waiting to exercise their constitutional rights.

By midday the results from some polling centers were trickling in: NPN had reportedly unseated some favored UPN contestants. The news got heated and heated as some prominent Ondo indigenes that vied under UPN were losing their seats in large numbers. While this appeared to be good news for my father and other NPN members, they were however scared about the rumor spreading around the Town that the elections had been rigged by NPN supporters.

I watched my father and other party members sit round a transistor radio on the center table as they could not see the entire results on TV because of interrupted power supply. Each time a vote was announced in favor of NPN, my father and the other party members would jump up and clap their hands in celebration. At the same time, results from the national headquarters showed that NPN was winning big and Alhaji Shehu Shagari, the incumbent President from NPN was likely going to keep his job as the leader of the Federal Republic of Nigeria.

“These losers are talking tough,” my father was referring to the chieftains of UPN, who had vowed to revenge against the electoral irregularities committed by NPN in a more decisive manner.

“What are they going to do? Challenge us at the court? We will also beat them there,” a party member sitting across from my father had said with a hue of pride.

By 6 p.m. that same day, there was commotion everywhere. The report had it that some political thugs linked to UPN had begun to unleash their anger on some NPN members by setting their properties on fire. My father did not doubt that such a thing could happen again. In 1966, after the collapse of the first republic, some politicians had their properties (cars, houses, businesses) torched by disgruntled members of the other parties that had lost the elections then. Was there any possibility of such an action being repeated again? My father wondered.

Two of my stepbrothers and I were relaxing in the dining room after dinner when the siren in our compound began to wail like a small mouse caught in a booby trap. We ran out just in time to see our father gesturing that we should all go inside the building. I was surprised that none of the party member was there chatting with him. He ran as fast as his huge body could let him. When I noticed that his breath was coming fitfully and panting, too, I realized that something bad was in the air.

“Where are your mothers?” he called out as he made his way to the kitchen’s entrance; he was sure his wives would be there chatting or gossiping.

“Get the kids inside the bunker! This Town is burning! I had just got a call that Lawson and his family have been killed and burnt by UPN thugs. Stand up now!” He barked angrily.

Mr. Lawson was the deputy chairman of NPN Party in our town. In fact, he was with my father five hours before, when they sat listening to the election results from the transistor radio!

We disappeared into the “bunker” as directed: it wasn’t a bunker per say, but it was an underground facility built by my father to keep his hotel’s materials from being spoilt or stolen. But we used to joke among ourselves that it looked like a military bunker. All of us, my thirteen siblings and me, my father and his four wives had hidden inside the bunker, securely covered by pulling a rope tied to its lid. In no time, the heat inside the bunker was suffocating. And for the first time in my life, I saw my father reveal his fearfulness. The fear in his eyes made him look like an ordinary person — I used to see him like a superhuman.

The UPN thugs that killed and burnt houses of NPN members did not come to our house until the early hours, precisely at 2 a.m. We could hear their shoes’ staccato as they searched every nook and cranny looking for my father. Soon, we heard the pleading voice of the hotel manager as he begged them not to burn our compound in the absence of my father or any member of his family. Suddenly we had a gunshot and my father believed that they might have killed him. We all panicked and held our breath to the point that breathing became painful. I felt that my chest might shrink like a collapsible plastic bag. A few minutes after the manager had been killed the trapdoor leading to the bunker was suddenly yanked open. A floodlight from numerous flashlights poured into the bunker and almost blinded us.

“Hahaha,” one UPN thug roared. “Is this where you have disappeared with your family?” they mocked my father.

“I used to think he was a powerful man. Now I know that he is just a coward hiding inside a hole between his women and kids,” another UPN thug mocked.

They dragged us out of the bunker one by one and put a handcuff on my father’s wrists to prevent him from running away. They ushered us into the living room with a marching order.

“Look at the time now,” they shouted at my father. “We aren’t here to play with you. So, tell your wives and kids to leave this compound now while we mercilessly deal with you.”

All at the same time, we began to beg the fierce-looking thugs to please spare our father’s life. But they seemed to have got their ears stuffed up with stones: none of them paid attention to our pleas. They kicked my father’s in the crotch: he fell down on one knee, groaning in pain. One thug kicked his other leg, and we watched our father collapse facedown with his two hands in handcuffs behind him. There in our presence, they poured kerosene on him and immediately set fire to him. My father let out a high-pitch cry as he struggled to free his hands and douse the flame eating his flesh, cracking!

When the UPN thugs realized that he would soon die, they used a shovel to toss him into the living room. The fire from his body scattered around the living room, setting the place afire. In raw awe, we watched our entire compound engulfed in high flames. As soon as the guests were safely evacuated from the hotel, they also set fire to it and left our compound burning to the heavens like a burnt sacrifice.

“Wet it. Operation Wet it. Wet it,” the thugs shouted as they sprayed kerosene on every object they could lay their eyes on in our compound.

The whole operation took them about three hours, and they disappeared in two Volkswagen buses they had come in.

After the inferno, we walked down the street looking for any household that would be willing to take us in for the night. To our surprise, no one wanted to have anything to do with us. Were they thinking that their properties would be set ablaze also? Even those who appeared too friendly to my mother before our trial had refused to open their doors when we knocked.

Our large family broke up into different units as we exited the gates of the burning compound that had once kept us together in a strong bond. Painfully, I looked back and stared for the last time at those possessions we had often been proud of and which made other people on street envious of us rise in smoke and flames. I could feel my pride of life vanished into the darkness that hung thick around us as we scrambled around for the next unknown destination. Each mother had dragged her children along in different directions, and no one bothered or remembered to say goodbye to the other.

My mother, a native of another city, Ibadan City did not have any relatives in Ondo Town to whom she could turn to for protection. The only place she could think of taking us to at that moment was the church. She believed her Pastor would be more than happy to offer us some protection. As the oldest child, I tried hard to comfort my two siblings who had become outraged at our current hopeless situations. Similola, my 4-year-old sister, cried loudly as we walked down the long street; Mayowa, my 2-year-old brother, dozed off behind my mother’s back, having been exhausted from crying for several hours.

The pastor didn’t come to meet us in person: he had delegated another church member to hire a taxi that would transport us to the church premises. By the time we entered into the church, the pastor was already waiting at the chorister’s section to receive us.

“Sister Janet,” the Pastor stepped forward and hugged my sobbing mother. “God is your strength at this trying time for your family,” he said and came closer to pat my back. “I’m sure God will not leave you to bear all these problems alone; he will definitely send you a comforter, a helper,” the pastor said.

For the fear that the church might be attacked and burned by UPN thugs if they discovered we were in there, the Pastor had made an alternative arrangement.

“I’ve told my driver to take you to one of my relatives living in Oke Igbo. He is going to take good care of you and your children until this problem dies down,” he said.

I did not realize the gravity of being guilty by association until it personally occurred to me. Everyone appeared to avoid us simply because our father had been an NPN member. No one wanted to drag themselves into a political mess; no one wanted to see their homes, hard-earned property and wealth burnt to ashes. Even the Pastor had lost his natural composure as he spoke to us inside the church, pausing now and then to be sure no one was eavesdropping on his discussion with my mother.

For the first time in my life, I could not bat an eyelid throughout the night. My eyes were bloodshot, and my head ached for staying up all the while. In fact, it was difficult closing one’s eyes when one had witnessed a rapid change in one’s future: from a happy child with a loving father and a gorgeous home to someone who roamed around the street at night looking for some shelter and encouragement.

The Pastor’s cousin in Oke Igbo had gladly welcomed us into his household. He has a small family of three; so, accepting my family of four was not an issue at all.

“Operation Wet It” is one of the 12 short stories included in my thesis for a Master of Fine Arts (MFA) in Creative Writing Program. The MFA was awarded in 2013.