Nigeria Meltdown Page 2

  That was the one thing he would wish to pass on to N’Joffi before he died. They were strong units within their own territories, but such was the nature of Nigeria that each region had its own geographic and tribal personality. Like many African nations, they had to contend with the contradictions thrown up by the arbitrary nature of the borders the old colonial nations had imposed on them.

  Yobo’s dry, cracked lips tried to smile. He was wandering in his thoughts, a sign that death was fast approaching him. It was a great shame that he had not been able to pass on any information, or even just to point the finger at that fat pig Oboko, who had lead him to his own death.

  A grenade detonated about half a kilometer away. The impact, even at this distance, made the ground beneath him tremble, but he hardly noticed. Were the fools now throwing grenades at each other? Screams sounded in the aftermath: men in pain. The doctor in him pitied them. The victim in him wished them the same agonies that they had inflicted on him. He instantly regretted that. He was a good Christian, which was why it had been so easy for him to join the Brotherhood of the Eagle, and this spiritual belief made him feel shame at wishing ill on his pursuers. Although, of course, they too professed to be Christian but were quite happy to rape, pillage and murder any who crossed their path.

  His smile turned into a choking, strangled laugh that degenerated into a cough that felt as though it would split his chest. Through the pain and his own hacking that filled his head, he was dimly aware that the cries and the gunfire had died down now. Into the gap came the sounds of the wildlife and birds, returning to their own existence, uninterrupted by man.

  That was not all. He could hear the sound of one man, treading softly in the undergrowth. His footfalls had the lightness of a man familiar with the land, not a man who was hiding or seeking to evade detection. He even began to whistle, and Yobo recognized a Bhundu Boys’ tune that he had grown up with. It filled him with a nostalgia and longing for what was left behind, while he still had breath to remember when life was good. Tears welled up and rolled down his cheeks, but he had not even the wherewithal to sob.

  “Brotherhood scum. Let me see what I have stopped this time, count how many of you I have prevented from entering my beloved country.”

  The man’s voice was distant in Yobo’s receding consciousness but loud enough to be close. He tried to speak, but nothing came out. He heard the body of the man who had fallen close to him being turned over. Then he felt the body of the man on top of him being pulled off. Dimly he could see a tall, rangy man in camo vest and combat fatigues, a silenced SMG hanging from a strap on his shoulder, a pack over the other.

  “What have we here? Lord, what were they doing to you, my son?” The hardness of his tone was replaced by a softer compassion, emphasized by the gentle French lilt to his voice. He leaned down and checked Yobo. “My God, what makes them do this to a man? How did you manage to come this far and evade them?”

  Yobo tried to speak but couldn’t. It was a miracle; it had to be. He recognized the man crouched over him. It was the man he had been seeking. Truly there had to be a God, albeit one who did not believe in making the lives of his believers easy.

  Chapter Two

  Joseph Yobo had wanted to scream for the entire one-kilometer journey, like an eternity to him. Perception was a strange beast, as in truth Celestine N’Joffi had worked with the strength of ten to get his charge back to the village as quickly as possible. Even the brief examination in the forest had told him that there was very little chance he would be able to save Yobo’s life. Yet if nothing else, he wished to make him comfortable for what little life he had left.

  There had been no time for Celestine to go back to the village and get help; more than just that, he was loathe to leave Yobo alone and so unable to defend himself in the forest. Celestine was sure that he had driven away the last of the Brotherhood fighters, but that still left a lot of wildlife that would see a man in Yobo’s condition as easy prey.

  Quickly N’Joffi chopped down some branches with the panga he carried in a sheath on his thigh, then used strips of cloth to augment and strengthen the vine and bark that he fashioned into a makeshift stretcher. Once he had done that, sweat and effort sticking his vest to his body, he gently lifted Yobo onto the pallet.

  With no little regret in his voice, he said, “This will hurt, my friend. I cannot lie to you. But if I am to get you to my clinic quickly, there is no other way. Courage, Joseph, and I will give you morphine when we get there. The pain will deaden soon enough then.”

  Breathing heavily, he took the weight of the stretcher and pulled it along the path that he had fashioned in the forest, leading back to his village. It was a path that could not be seen unless you knew what you were looking for, such was his skill in building it. He had made many like this since the Brotherhood had started to encroach on the borderlands, enabling him to cross the forest with ease. It was rougher still with a sick and dying man at your back, knowing that every bump and jolt was agony to him, but it was as swift as was possible.

  When Celestine was a short distance from the village, and still camouflaged by the forest, he called out in a series of soft sighs and clicks. The signal brought forth three armed men who looked at him askance. He said simply, “Friend.” Such was the trust they held in N’Joffi that they did not hesitate to assist him in taking the prone man to his cabin, even though he appeared to be one of the hated and feared Brotherhood. His injuries showed he was no threat, but everyone in the village had suffered at the hands of the Brotherhood, and a man of Yobo’s appearance would normally be cut down without question.

  Having sent his assistants to continue the patrol he had started, N’Joffi made Yobo as comfortable as possible on one of the medical beds in his cabin and prepared a shot of morphine. As he injected it, he took in his old friend at a glance. Even without a proper examination, he didn’t give much for Yobo’s chances of survival. Certainly his feet were gangrenous and would need amputation—he had no way of knowing that Yobo had already accepted that—but it was doubtful that he had the resources out here to complete such an operation successfully.

  “Quiet, Joseph. Rest now. I will try to make you as comfortable as possible,” N’Joffi said softly as Yobo continued striving to speak.

  He had something to say that he felt was of great importance, but if he did not rest, then he would never be able to say it. As it was, N’Joffi was almost certain that whatever it might be would be Yobo’s closing statement to the world.

  That impression was only enhanced by the work he put into tending Yobo’s wounds. The man had been tortured repeatedly over a long period, and many of the older wounds had festered. In this climate, it did not take long for infection to set in. Add that to the actual injuries themselves, and it was astounding to the doctor that his patient had even made it this far.

  Almost as astounding, in truth, as stumbling across an old friend in the middle of a jungle, thousands of miles from where they had last met.

  Like Yobo, N’Joffi was a believer in God and the ways in which He moved the lives of men. Unlike his friend, N’Joffi was not so much of a wide-eyed innocent. Even before he had opted to come to this outpost and set up practice, he had been wiser to the ways of men. His work outside medicine had given him that perspective. He had a feeling that the contacts he had picked up along the way would also soon be of use to him.

  He kept watch over Yobo while he slept. He did not want him to die yet. Partly because of what he was so desperate to impart. Why was a trainee military doctor so far from where he had last been based? From what he knew of Yobo, N’Joffi suspected that the Brotherhood would be anathema to Yobo. So why did he seem to have been one of them and yet also treated in such a manner? It was not too great a leap of imagination to surmise that he had been an agent of some kind, and that he had arrived in this place—in desperate flight—because he knew that he might find shelter. A
fter all, N’Joffi could recall Yobo’s shock that N’Joffi would wish to bury himself so far from the city life he loved.

  That gave N’Joffi a greater sense of responsibility. He had been the last hope of this shattered shell of a man. He could not let Yobo down at the last.

  That night was crucial, not just to see if Yobo could survive until daybreak, but because the information he was about to give would alter the course of history in Nigeria, even if this would only ever be known to a privileged few. N’Joffi nursed him closely, making him as comfortable as possible and allowing him as much rest as would restore what was left of his strength.

  When dawn broke, Yobo was able to sit upright and drink some fluids without vomiting them immediately. A weak grin suffused his features, but he was not fooled. He knew this surge of strength would not last.

  “Do not lie to me,” he croaked in a harsh whisper. “How long do you think I have?”

  “Maybe a day or two,” N’Joffi replied without hesitation. The verdict was harsh but tempered by the compassion in his voice. He knew Yobo well enough to not treat him like a fool.

  “Then it is necessary that I tell you all I know, so that you may pass it on to someone who will be able to smash this filth in my country.”

  “Our country,” N’Joffi interjected. Although he came from—and now lived—in the south of Cameroon, the region had been part of Nigeria until fifty years past. There were some who wished it had never changed. N’Joffi was one of those.

  Yobo nodded slowly. “It is true, my friend. I may not be able to tell you all I know more than once. I will recall as much detail as I can. It may be best to record it in some way.”

  N’Joffi had already thought of that. His cell phone had all the capacity he would need, and he set it to recording while Yobo began his story. It was long and rambling, and he had to break off several times to cough and hack painfully. N’Joffi gave him glucose solutions to help, but most times the liquid came straight back up in a pained, broken stream. It was only the man’s willpower that drove him on.

  With more than an hour of details on the SIM card of the cell phone, an exhausted Yobo leaned back, his eyes closing.

  “I have done what I can. This is what happened to me, Celestine. It must not happen to anyone else. These people must be stopped. How many more men like Oboko—” he spit the name with a venom that sapped him of what little strength remained “—are there in the military, poisoning it and making our nation weak?”

  N’Joffi looked at his cell phone, and then at his dying friend. What he had heard—what he had as a record—was explosive. It provided a key to the heart of the organization that was like a cancer in the country. Yet who could he take it to? Within Nigeria, it could not be assumed that any institution or individual was safe. Even if the physician found an honest and true man, he would be surrounded by the corrupt. In Cameroon, although the levels of corruption were nowhere near as high as in Nigeria, there was still the suspicion that the Brotherhood had ears that could hear.

  There was one man he could trust, but he was not on this continent. N’Joffi would have to make sure that this man got to hear what he had recorded. This should be simple enough in terms of technology.

  But otherwise? The Brotherhood might still be looking for Yobo. Its militia, which had been trying to infiltrate the border area for some months, was camped deep in the forest and hard to root out. Their incursions across the border had been repelled so far, because they were not as familiar with the landscape as the people who had lived here for generations.

  That balance in favor of the locals was shifting away as the superior firepower and military training of the Brotherhood fighters was beginning to tell. The villagers were farmers and fishermen, not soldiers. Their weapons were few. Their desire to fight was less. N’Joffi could see the village being overrun within a few months, unless things changed, and there would be no place for him then. He would have to leave or else face a certain death for his opposition.

  The Brotherhood had not sent men for Yobo during the night. This was a good sign. They were still adjusting to the territory, as the ease with which Celestine had scattered them on the previous day could prove. But now it was morning, and they had more confidence. If he was lucky, they would not want to admit their failure to their leaders and would report that Yobo had been killed. Maybe they even believed that.

  N’Joffi could take no chances. He had become de facto leader of the village by reason of his knowledge of military tactics, gleaned from his stay in Lagos and his training as a military doctor. The nominal head of the village deferred to him and trusted his instincts.

  “Rest now, Joseph. I must go and see that we are well protected. Do not worry, my friend, I know what I can do with your story. We will stop these people.”

  Yobo stayed him with a feeble grip as he turned to exit. “My friend, first take a moment to pray with me.”

  N’Joffi nodded solemnly and knelt beside Yobo’s bed. The two men prayed together before Yobo patted his friend on the hand.

  “Go and do what you must, now.”

  N’Joffi rose and left him, his heart sinking as he went out of the cabin and toward the cantina that was used as a meeting place for the village’s defense force. There were a few men waiting for him, expectant for their day’s orders. N’Joffi organized the patrols that would keep the village safe and sent them on their way before returning to his cabin.

  He was saddened, but not surprised, to find that Joseph Yobo had died while he was away. His wish was to give his friend a good Christian burial, but he could not do that. Joseph would understand why.

  * * *

  ABBY KOSOKO FELT that she was lucky to live in Lagos, in the Ogun region of south Nigeria. As she walked home from church, she reflected that the northern part of the country was becoming a dangerous place for anyone with Christian values. The Muslims were taking a greater hold, and there was talk that English and Common Law—under which Nigeria had worked for so long—was being abolished in favor of Sharia Law, even though the government had long since decreed such a thing could not happen.

  Like many in her part of the world, she was immune to the idea that there may be reasonable people in other religions, dismissing them as radicals. By the same token, she had not believed Joseph when he had spoken to her of radical Christians who sought to overthrow the present regime in the same way as the radical Islamists sought to in the north. She felt the idea of the radical north being suppressed was a good thing. When he had posited the idea that a radical Christian south would be equally as bad and against the teachings of the Bible, she had disagreed with him.

  Now he was gone. He had told her that he was being sent on a mission that would prove the veracity of what he had said. She had believed that, in truth, he was doing little more than going on maneuvers for the military part of his training, and would soon return to her and take up his medical studies again.

  But as time had gone on, and she had heard nothing from him, she had started to worry. Perhaps he had been telling the truth? If that was so, she would owe him an apology. She had wanted them to be married. He had wanted to wait until his training was complete. She would, perhaps, insist that she get her own way. She always did eventually.

  These thoughts occupied her mind, and she did not notice the Ford sedan waiting outside her house. It was only when the guttural voice of General Franklin Oboko called to her that she realized how caught up in her own world she had been. She turned to see the general heaving his vast bulk from the rear of the vehicle.

  “Abby! What is wrong with you, child? You are deaf all of a sudden?”

  “I’m sorry, General. I was lost in thought,” she answered as he left the chauffeur-driven state car and rolled toward her.

  Oboko was a huge man: over six feet and almost 280 pounds, squeezed into a uniform that was stained with the same heavy sweat t
hat he mopped from his forehead in the early afternoon heat.

  “You must call me Franklin, I keep telling you,” he said, ushering her toward her front door while his chauffeur averted his eyes as the general’s hand patted her buttocks.

  “I wasn’t expecting you— Have you had word of Joseph?” she asked as Oboko closed the door behind them. Abby lived with her mother, but at this time of day, she was out working. Oboko would know that.

  “Abby, you must sit down. I must talk to you and it is not good,” Oboko said flatly. He was not renowned for his tact. The bewildered young woman sat, thoughts crowding into her mind. The tone of the general’s voice, and the fact that he was calling unexpectedly, could only mean one thing.

  He continued, with his usual lack of subtlety. “You know that it was a very dangerous mission that I sent Joseph on. I would not have trusted anyone else, but even so, it was very unlikely that he would come back. I have to say that I was right in that. I have had word that he has been brutally killed. But you must not be sorry, my dear, because he died like a hero.”

  She opened her mouth to speak but started to sob.

  Oboko moved and put his arm around her. “You are upset. Of course I will comfort you....”

  She tried to resist, but the general was more than twice her weight and a good foot taller. She had little chance of stopping him, as he forced himself on her, muttering in her ear that she would feel better, and that a real man would show her that she wasn’t missing much with Joseph gone.

  “I will come and see how you are on Friday,” he said as he adjusted his uniform, leaving her on the sofa blank eyed and numbed. “You will say nothing of this to your mother, of course. That would not be a wise thing to do. For your mother,” he added, considering that she was nearer his age, but still a fine-looking woman for all that.