It is 3 a.m.
Benin: The army commandeers the radio station, the post office, and other important targets. It closes all exits from the city. Several officers disarm the policemen guarding the residence of the region’s prime minister, Chief Dennis Osadebay. Not a shot is fired. From time to time, a green jeep carrying soldiers passes down the street.
It is 3 a.m.
Enugu: The residence of the prime minister of Eastern Nigeria, Dr. Michael Okpara, is silently and discreetly surrounded. Inside, in addition to the prime minister, sleeps his guest, the president of Cyprus, Archbishop Makarios. The commander of the insurgents guarantees both dignitaries their freedom of movement. In Enugu, the revolution is polite. Other army units seize the radio station, the post office, and close off all roads exiting the city, which continues to sleep.
The coup was successfully carried out in five Nigerian cities simultaneously. In the space of several hours, the small army became the de facto ruler of this enormous country — Africa’s superpower. In the course of a single night, death, arrest, or flight into the bush ended hundreds of political careers.
Saturday — morning, afternoon, and evening.
Lagos awakes, knowing nothing about anything. A normal city day begins — the shops open, people are on their way to work. There is no visible army presence downtown. But at the post office we are told that all lines of communication with the outside world have been severed. You cannot send a telegram. The first bits of gossip start to circulate around the city. That Balewa was arrested. That the army staged a coup d’état. I drive to the barracks in Ikoyi (a Lagos neighborhood). Jeep patrols are coming out of the gates, armed with automatic weapons, with machine guns. A crowd has gathered across from the gate, motionless, silent. Women who eke out a living cooking and selling simple dishes on the street are already spreading out in a smoky encampment.
At the other end of town, Parliament convenes. There are many soldiers in front of the building. They search us at the entrance. Out of the 312 members of Parliament, only 33 have arrived. Only one minister appears — R. Okafor. He proposes that the deliberations be postponed. The representatives who are present demand explanations: What has happened? What is happening? At this, a military patrol enters the chamber — eight soldiers, who disperse the assembled.
The radio broadcasts only music. There are no announcements. I go to see the AFP correspondent, David Laurell. We are both close to tears. These are frustrating moments for journalists: we have news of world import, and we cannot transmit it. We set off together for the airport. It is guarded by a division of the navy and appears deserted — no passengers, no airplanes. On the way back we are stopped at a military checkpoint: they will not let us back into town. A long discussion ensues. The soldiers are polite, courteous, calm; an officer arrives and eventually waves us through. We return through dark neighborhoods: there is still no electrical power. The sidewalk vendors are burning candles or oil lamps near their stalls, as a result of which the streets look from a distance like cemetery alleyways on the Day of the Dead. Even at night it is humid, and so airless that it is difficult to breathe.
Sunday — new rulers.
Helicopters buzz over the city, but otherwise the day is peaceful. Such a revolt (and they are more and more frequent) is usually orchestrated by a small group of officers living in barracks inaccessible to civilians. They act with the utmost secrecy. The country learns of everything after the fact, and then most often has to rely on gossip and conjecture.
This time, however, the situation is quickly clarified. Just before midnight, the new head of state — Major General Johnson Aguiyi-Ironsi, the forty-one-year-old army commander — goes on the radio. He says that the military “consented to take power,” that the constitution and the government are being suspended. Power will now lie with the Supreme Military Council. Law and order will be restored in the country.
…
Monday — the reasons for the coup.
Rejoicing in the streets. My Nigerian friends, meeting me, slap me on the back, laugh; they are in excellent spirits. I walk through the square — the crowds are dancing, a boy beats out a rhythm on an aluminum barrel. A month ago, I witnessed a similar coup d’état in Dahomey — there, too, the street was cheering the army. The latest wave of military revolts is very popular in Africa; reaction is enthusiastic.
The first expressions of support and of allegiance to the new government arrive in Lagos: “The day of January 15,” says the resolution of one of the local parties, the UPGA (United Progressive Grand Alliance), “will pass into the history of our great republic as the day when we first achieved true liberty, although Nigeria has been independent for five years now. The mad rush of our politicians toward self-enrichment disgraced Nigeria’s name abroad…. A ruling caste had arisen in our country, which based its power on the sowing of hatred, on pitting brother against brother, on liquidating everyone who held a view different from theirs…. We salute the new regime as if it had been sent down by God to liberate the nation from black imperialists, from tyranny and intolerance, from the deceptions and destructive ambitions of those who claimed to represent Nigeria…. Our Motherland cannot be a stomping ground for political wolves, who plunder the country.”
“The widespread anarchy and the disillusion of the masses,” states the resolution of the youth organization, Zikist Movement, “made this revolution necessary. In the years since independence, fundamental human rights were brutally violated by the government. People were denied the right to live in freedom and with mutual respect. They were not allowed to have their own opinions. Organized political gangsterism and the politics of falsehood turned all elections into a farce. Instead of serving the nation, politicians were busy stealing. Unemployment and exploitation were on the rise, and in their sadism toward the population, the small clique of feudal fascists in power knew no bounds.”
…
Thus many African nations are already living through a second phase of their short postwar history. The first phase was a rapid decolonization, the gaining of independence. It was characterized by a universal optimism, enthusiasm, euphoria. People were convinced that freedom meant a better roof over their heads, a larger bowl of rice, a first pair of shoes. A miracle would take place — the multiplying of loaves, fishes, and wine. Nothing of the sort occurred. On the contrary. There was a sudden increase in the population, for which there was not enough food, schools, or jobs. Optimism quickly turned to disenchantment and pessimism. The people’s bitterness, fury, hatred was now directed against their own elites, who were rapidly and greedily stuffing their pockets. In a country without a well-developed private sector, where plantations belonged to foreigners and the banks to foreign capital, the political career was the only road to riches.
In short — the poverty and disillusion of those on the bottom rungs, coupled with the cupidity and gluttony of those on the top, create a poisoned, unstable atmosphere, which the army senses; presenting itself as the champion of the injured and the humiliated, it emerges from the barracks and reaches for power.
Tuesday — the tom-toms call to war.
A report from Eastern Nigeria that appeared in today’s edition of the Lagos newspaper, the Daily Telegraph: