JULY '93.

I drifted in and out of lethargy as I hung on loosely on the back of my father as we approached Mafoluku. We had to end our journey abruptly, alighting from the rickety yellow ‘molue’ with black stripes that we boarded from Western Avenue to Oshodi.  There were scenes of unrest that had become unpredictable and characteristic of Lagos roads following the cancellation of the June 12 presidential elections with the protests and violence that ensued.

We had waited for several minutes before the rush began for the limited spaces available on the molue. My parents somehow muscled their way through and we were soon seated somewhere in the belly of the overcrowded bus on the right side. I was too weak to partake in the hustle and still wonder till this day how my mother clung to her limp son during the ‘pinball’ rush for seats. A high grade fever, loss of appetite and vomiting necessitated the early morning adventure. The vomiting continued during the journey till my bowel was perhaps drained of all fluid. My mother must have used her handkerchief and wrapper to clean me up every time my gullet twitched.

I was barely able to stay awake or stand upright when we left the bus. The driver had decided against making any further progress beyond the Oshodi Bridge as he was apprehensive of getting caught up in any mob action that was rumoured to have broken out. My parents must have feared that the great beyond beckoned for their first son if they did not get him to the hospital on time. The post-election unrest had plunged the State in particular into such chaos and uncertainty. Businesses were closed, filling stations vandalized with everybody either staying indoors or joining in further enforcing lawlessness and the revolt against the man behind the annulment of the ‘best’ election ever conducted in the land. The crisis that confronted Nigeria had left my father’s Peugeot 504 without fuel and the city generally unsafe.

The race to the Holy Savior’s Hospital at Mafoluku began and my parents took turns to carry me on their backs till we got to the hospital safely. Dr. Aluko was my father’s mate when they studied together at Aquinas College Akure in the late ‘60s. His practice in the Oshodi area of Lagos was doing well and my father had him more or less as his personal physician. I remember attending his son’s birthday party a few years earlier with my siblings. I somehow failed to get into my father’s car for the return journey home after the party. I must have gone to the rest room when my dad departed with my siblings only for me to reappear and realized I was left behind. It took the good doctor to calm me down and give reassurances that my father would return for me…someday. Those were the days when mobile phones were light years away in the minds of many but reality in the imaginations of a few. My father indeed returned to fetch me after about one hour of holding back the flood gates. I was later told that he took a head count while driving when he felt that someone was missing in the car. He must have made a sharp turn and sped all the way back. How was he going to explain to his wife that he mistakenly forgot her son at a friend’s birthday party?

After a few tests, the diagnosis was typhoid fever and the doctors and nurses did their best to resuscitate my frail frame. The good doctor’s wife was very kind to me and the aroma of her well prepared ‘jollof’ rice helped to revive me further on the second day. I am not quite sure if I owe my decision to choose medical school to my early encounter with my father’s friend. He must have definitely played a role in the formation of such thoughts in my young mind. The good doctor paid a condolence visit to my mother in May 2008 after my father passed on. I remember very clearly what he said to me on that visit. He pointed out that my father living up till 2008 defied logic as he could have been gone at least on two occasions in the past. I reflected on those words and thanked God for every extra day we had to spend with him. The man who wanted to join the Nigerian Army during the Civil war was prevented unknown to him by his older cousin who was then enlisted. His younger brother once told me that he was just too precious to be allowed to go on such adventure. My father stood for what was simply right and fair, he always saw through the deception of the PDP- led government from 1999. He had his flaws though but also possessed an open mind devoid of cages to lock up those who let him down.

I remember the sacrifices my parents made that day to ensure I lived and I am eternally grateful. It was not their fault that our dear nation was plunged into confusion at the time. Greedy men, thirsty for power and not afraid of a bloodbath forced themselves upon a nation already scared by war and injustice. The open wounds are hid by royal robes and those who nurse are themselves sick. Those who wrote and fought for her are long forgotten while the remnants are regarded as noisy.

What if I succumbed that day in July? Would I not have been saved from this present embarrassment and uncertainty? What if I lived just to tell this tale so that those who read it would arouse themselves from their luxurious sofas and delusions? There is indeed fire on this mountain and it would take everybody to put this one out. I do not want this greatly endowed nation to be perpetually crippled by violence nor stunted by mediocrity. I do not want to bear children, brothers or mothers upon my aging spine to where help dwells.

There must not be an encore of July ’93, God forbid that I stay silent and do nothing.

Jide Akeju
12/05/2014