GENERAL MUAZIAH: JANUARY 1977
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It was difficult to understand how a man of my standing – a war veteran and no nonsense five star General – would lose a simple battle with the soft, caressing beckon of an inanimate bitch called sleep this afternoon. This bloody upholstery, I suspected and stumbled out of my seat. I opened the fridge, inspected and brought out a brown bottle of Buchanan and grabbed a glass. The BBC was reporting the anti-French demonstrations in Israel.
"The Munich massacre", I nodded as I poured myself another drink. Having had a couple of dealings with the French in the past, I had personal reasons to believe they were a ridiculous lot - selfish, self-preserving bastards. More reason Africa needed strong men to boldly articulate and defend the Africanist view. I poured another glass. I observed the bottle was a little too lighter for comfort now. I raised the bottle to my eye level. Its content had gravely depleted.
But that was the problem with Africa. There was an alarming paucity of such men. We had more cowards occupying sensitive positions of power, men that should never have lived. And when you succeeded in having strong men within the sacred echelons of power, another problem presented itself – the international community. I shivered in disgust as I recalled the international outrage that greeted my seizure of power three years back. It was ridiculously ironical that countries like Nigeria would plant itself in the position of taking medicine for another man’s headache when it had even greater internal problems to deal with. I smiled as I scurried through one of the files in search of a personal letter I received last week from my Nigerian friend, General Olusegun Obasanjo. There was something superficial about the way he sounded in the letter – proud, holier-than-thou, and a hollow emptiness fueled by either a self-propelled desire to play the Big Brother or lick the ass of their paymasters the Brits. The later was probable, I affirmed. The General had underscored, in his own words, the need to provide a leveled ground for a smooth transition to civilian rule to avert a looming crisis. And you can start by releasing the journalist Muhtar Ndelele. Utter gibberish! There were far better ways to insult a sovereign nation than this, I told myself as I shredded the piece of scrap.
But Muhtar Ndelele was a huge pain in the ass now. It seemed the whole world had rallied round this Panfritorian Nelson Mandela of sorts. Somehow I wished things were a little different now and Anza Jacobs lived. But he was a traitor, and traitors hang.
"The Commander-In-Chief!" chanted General Aszo as he walked in, accoutered in his impeccable brown khaki uniform. The General was one of my few most trusted Generals. Inasmuch as you made so many enemies, you didn’t want to lose all your friends at the same time. And he had been very instrumental in identifying and busting several cases of mutiny in the army over the last one year. Dissatisfaction was brewing unnecessarily from certain corners. Not that I didn’t expect it.
I had been expecting the General. He sank on the soft grey leather settee and grabbed The EagleTimes newspaper on the low stool. He smiled and nodded with satisfaction.
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"Here," I said, lighting a cigarette. I passed the pack to him. He took it, held it up and passed it back to me.
"You know I don’t smoke", he said.
"A year ago, you would. I almost forgot you are now a bloody Christian", I laughed heartily and puffed again. I watched as the silver gray smoke tendrils straggled upwards like a dancer towards the oval shaped ceiling, roasting into silence everything in their delicately dead path before they eddied into nothingness as quickly as they snorted out of my flaring nostril.
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"Religion is the reason why Africa has not moved forward despite its vast resources. The Muslims teach violence – brutes and baboons. The Christians teach blind faith and do nothing - lazy and stupid. The cult of the Luwendos teach piety and non-violence. Take away religion from Africa and maybe, just maybe, we’d move a step beyond what now is," I said.
"Well, in a sense, you may be right sir", he said, not willing to press further. I knew he did not necessarily agree with my view. Officers and their hypocrisies, I thought.
"Well, General, I have a task for you now", I said as I ditched the cigar inside the ash tray.
"Sir?"
"Yesterday I received intelligence reports on the activities of certain junior officers from the thirty-first regiment in Avonston. They have been conducting unsupervised training sessions just outside the Labonda Mountains. If you knew about this, surely you will come to me, won’t you?" I said, gently tapping the table with my felt-tip pen.
"Yes sir", he said.
"I need you to find out what exactly they are doing", I said. "I am not going to be the next Tafawa Balewa".
"Yes sir".
"Have you finally decided on what we will do to the journalist?" he asked.
I grabbed the bottle, unscrewed the cork and in one fell swoop, shoved the liquor down my throat.
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"I’d have him on the gallows or better still, send him to the firing squad’, I swore, ‘but we’d be shooting ourselves in the leg".
"What do you propose?"
"The American Government wants him released".
"But sir that would be suicidal", he said, worry lines written all over his face.
"Relax, General", I said, lighting another cigarette. "He will be dead in the next seventy-two hours. We’ve got a secret agent on the inside".
General Aszo rose and saluted smartly.
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