This historical fiction essay from Nigeria explores love, loss, and the tragic events of the 1966 Nigerian counter-coup.
Have you ever been in a deep romantic love?
The type that tickles your feet, makes you giggle to yourself, and wish to sink into the bosom of your beloved?
That was my relationship with Obi, whom everyone called “Zik.” He was the nephew of Major Achike, and I, the daughter of Captain Zabiru Hassan.
We had our differences, he was Igbo and Catholic, the type that leaves a crucifix dangling on their neck and I, a hijab-wearing Muslim.
Regardless of our differences, love still happened. He would tell me tales of his Uncle’s valour at the Congo Crisis and how he would join the army after he had bagged a law degree from Oxford.
I would hail him “My Major General” and we would laugh.
Everything about him seemed so perfect. His face was perfectly oval, just as his slim nose looked nothing African.
He was beyond handsome; he was something close to angelic, but I am sure it took more than just being handsome to sway me to become his woman.
I turned down his advances multiple times till he served me the “fufu and Oha” that changed everything.
He had told me, smiling, “Halima, I can cook my way into any woman’s heart.” From then on, love took flesh, it began to live and breathe in me. He became my opium, my endless love.
Bukavu Barracks housed a huge population of people, cutting across different ethnicities and languages.
Regardless, we shared a close-knit relationship. The children played together, not minding whose parent was a recruit or major.
We knew people by their names, Christian and Muslim alike.
Alas, 1966 came, severing everything that held us taut. After 1966, life at the barracks never remained the same.
The change began on the morning of January 15 when a young voice announced on BBC Hausa that the military had taken over and would purge every corrupt element of the First Republic.
I knew little about politics but I remember my father pounding the table with his fist several times and lamenting the death of the Prime Minister and Sardauna.
To my father, the death of Sardauna was personal. It left him silent and grieving.
He prayed to Allah to grant him rest in Jannah. The killing of Sardauna and the Prime Minister brought a divide in the Barrack.
Slowly, the vibrant and colourful barracks began to lose their colour. I heard my father tell Major Ademulegun that another coup was inevitable.
It wasn’t long before another happened. If the first coup brought a divide, the second shattered the people.
It broke whatever bond that remained.
The day before the coup, my father warned us not to step outside including going for Friday Jamaat prayers.
When my mother questioned him, he insisted that we were in dangerous times and must take precautions. He left and never came back until many days later.
The next day, Captain Ukpong’s wife came. She complained to my mom that she had not seen her husband for two days. My mother calmed her and assured her that he would be back.
I sat close to the window watching for when Major Achike Morris Minor would be out so I could sneak into Zik’s arms.
He had told me the previous evening that Major Okonkwo and other officers who attended an official event at Ibadan had gone missing.
I was still stretching my neck, waiting and praying for his uncle to drive out when a Land Rover truck appeared in front of their flat letting out a loud squeal.
Three junior officers and one senior officer, jumped down from the truck. They moved hastily into the flat pulling Major Achike who was still in pyjamas by the collar.
The senior officer pointed a revolver to his head while the junior officers pulled him to the front of the flat. I heard their voices rise, I saw Major Achike yelling and challenging the Senior Officer to do his worst.
Zik stood by the side, helpless and trembling. In a space of minutes, the Senior Officer shot him on the head.
They all jumped back to the truck, speeding as much as their tyres could. I saw the near-giant Major whom everyone feared, fall to his death.
Tales of his dealings at the Congo Crisis and his exploits with the African Union peacekeeping force made him a hero in our eyes.
He was one of the finest from Sandhurst. Zik rushed to his lifeless body, crying for help. I was never close to Major Achike, but I felt a sudden closeness.
Especially for his family whom I had never met. My heart went out to Zik. A small crowd grew at the front of their flat and shortly, a group of junior officers drove his corpse to the military morgue.
The next day felt like the world was coming to an end as more shots were fired. Shouts and cries filled the air. I smelled blood, I smelled confusion and violence.
From the window, I saw young boys within my age bracket chanting war songs, brandishing clubs and machetes.
I would later learn that the riot had spread ripple-like in the city and even beyond. They said it was in response to the killing of Sardauna and the Prime Minister.
Igbo people were killed in their numbers, in thousands.
It was so bad that you would walk the streets of Kaduna at the time and perceive the smell of burnt humans and even see their charred flesh.
The barracks were mired in confusion. If you looked out of the window, you would see people, predominantly Igbo and other Eastern groups, running with whatever luggage their hands could carry.
The Igbo exodus lit a fire in me, a desire to be with Zik no matter what happened. I wanted to run down the stairs, run to their flat, into his arms and tell him that I share in his pain.
My desire gave birth to action for I did run down the stairs and into his arms at sundown. I was locked in his embrace while we both cried. I said “sorry” for his uncle.
He had packed too, ready to leave. I asked him if he intended to leave me and run away. He gave me a cold stare and then wriggled himself out of my embrace and asked if my ears had been blocked to the news of the Igbo massacre.
He told me that Captain Ukpong was found dead and choked in his own blood. As for Major Okonkwo, he was shot alongside every Igbo and Eastern military officer that accompanied him.
He lamented that Kaduna was no longer safe for him and his kind. He pulled me close and kissed my forehead, telling me that he would come back once everything died down.
Our conversation ceased as a heavy banging came on the door. We both exited the house through the backyard.
He asked that I go back but I refused. I told him that I would follow him wherever he went. He walked so fast to discourage me but I kept pace despite wearing a hijab.
The roads within the barracks were deserted. Broken bottles littered the roads and smoke still spiralled from burning tyres zig-zagging its way to the sky.
By the time we made it past the gate, he pulled me close to himself and begged that I go back. I begged him to hang on until the riots stopped.
He said he needed to be at the train station to be at Enugu as soon as he could. I was still holding hands with him when a voice yelled “inyamiri,” pointing his club at us. He ran to us and threw a jab at Zik’s face.
Zik returned the jab, pushing him to the floor. Other men charged at us. They were among the rioters. I was slapped to the floor. The other spat at Zik saying that he killed Sardauna and now wants to flee.
I screamed for help but the world refused to answer. I saw energy and life slowly leave Zik.
Blood was already running down his nose and mouth. He stood to run but they pulled him down. He rose again but could not move as a machete landed on his neck.
I saw him collapse to the floor. I watched as blood oozed. He continued writhing in pain till he became still.
I jumped on him, screaming and shaking him. “ Zik!!.., I screamed, but he did not answer.” Then, I called him by his real name, “Obi!!” but he said nothing.
That was on 29 July 1966. The day fate and evil politics wrenched the one thing I loved most from my fingers.
It has been 58 years since July 29, I am old, my bones are weak and my memory is plagued by ageing. Regardless, Zik still lives in my mind. Soon enough, we shall be reunited once again.
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