Tag Archives: Agbekoya

The Gathering Storm

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Moria had christened Afeez’s taxi “Ajagbe,” a name plucked from a word she had heard as a child “Ajagbe-mo-keferi.” A fitting moniker, she thought, for a car that rattled and groaned its way through Ibadan, yet, miraculously, never failed to deliver..

She had initially questioned her sanity in choosing this clattering chariot for her travels, but pragmatism had won. A last-minute phone call, received somewhere along the Lagos-Ibadan Expressway as Denrele drove her to Ibadan, had shattered her plans: her pre-arranged Ibadan transport had become a mangled wreck from an accident. Ajagbe and the unflappable Afeez had become her unexpected saviours.

The Moria who now sat in Ajagbe’s backseat was much different from the elegant figure Afeez had collected from Molete the previous day. Gone was the polished sophistication, replaced by a simple t-shirt, worn denim, and a discreet scarf. Only her signature eyeglasses and the lingering, unmistakable scent of her perfume remained unchanged. A wise voice, perhaps her own, perhaps Mulika’s, had whispered a crucial truth: leave the Boston persona behind. Blend, adapt, survive, and she had listened.

Afeez found himself strangely invested. More than a taxi driver, he was now a protector, a guide. Moria’s mission, however, remained shrouded in mystery. What drove her? What reward lay at the end of this dangerous path? Everyone knew the Agbekoya, their name a byword for courage in Ibadan’s folklore. Why was she so determined to understand their story? He had so many questions but lacked the boldness to seek answers from Moria as they started their trip for the day.

The Beere-Orita-Aperin Road stretches from Beere with its multiple intersections, descending sharply towards Oranyan, where it crosses the Kudeti River. As it starts its ascent at Oke-Labo, it crosses the Oluyoro River and then winds up through Elekuro to Orita-Aperin. It is on this arterial route that the Baale chose to build his house, not far from Wesley College, a renowned teachers’ training institution in Western Nigeria that produced prominent figures like Obafemi Awolowo, the first premier of the region.

Facing this winding road at Oke-Labo stands his impressive house, called Erikitola House. This two-and-a-half-story structure is influenced by British architecture. It stands out among the local houses due to its additional half-floor that serves as a third floor, providing an unobstructed view of the surrounding landscape. From here, one can see as far as Beere, Oja-Oba, and Oja-Igbo. Some visitors to the house have claimed that it offers a better view of Ibadan than that from the historical Bower’s Tower in Oke Are known for its 360-degree panorama of Ibadan.

Easily visible from the road is the large wooden signboard with a white background, prominently hanging from the metal balustrade that adorns the first floor. The inscription on the signboard, now faint but still legible, reads:

Samuel Tayo Bakare
Erikitola
S4/285 Oke-Labo, Ibadan

On one side of the board is the drawing of an elephant, while on the other is that of a tree in full bloom. Chipped on its edges and now hanging on a loose wire tied to the balustrade, it had all the telltale signs of its age.

Like many of Ibadan’s prosperous men of his time, the Baale had maintained a city residence, a haven of comfort far surpassing his village dwelling. It was to this house, now hemmed in by the skeletal frame of an unfinished building, partly blocking it from its former unobstructed view of the road, that Afeez brought Moria and Mulika, their journey leading them towards Ijebu-Igbo. Oladosu, a grandson of the Baale, was waiting by the side of the road to receive them.

Mulika’s tales of the Agbekoya’ assault on the house, riddling it with bullet holes, echoed in Moria’s ears as they stepped onto the balcony. Her eyes scanned the walls, searching for the scars of that violent day, but found nothing. A sigh escaped her lips. Time, she reasoned, had likely erased the evidence.

Inside, the house echoed with emptiness. No children’s laughter, no voices, not even the bleating of a goat disturbed the stillness. Moria felt the weight of absence; the silence spoke to her of lives lived and lost. The Baale was long gone, claimed by death a mere seven years after the Agbekoya uprising. Some whispered that the trauma of the conflict – his burnt farms, the forced exile, the siege of his own home – had hastened his demise. His wives, Adejoke, Faderera, and Olaoti, had followed him into the silence, one by one, with Olaoti being the last.

Before them, a wooden staircase ascended, its steps worn smooth by countless feet. The handrails, adorned with intricate carvings, bore faded patches of their original green paint. Each worn step a remembrance of lives that had passed. At the landing, Oladosu had arranged seating on the first-floor veranda.

From this vantage point, Moria saw Afeez and his faithful Ajagbe parked below, and the ceaseless flow of traffic on Elekuro Road. The surrounding landscape was a sorry sight of decay, crumbling buildings hinting at a forgotten era. It was hard to imagine that this had once been a neighbourhood of influential men, their legacy now abandoned, their descendants scattered all over the world in search of opportunity.

Their initial phone call had set the stage. Moria’s goal—to understand the Agbekoya story—had resonated with Oladosu, a firsthand witness to the Baale’s involvement. His narrative flowed smoothly, polished from years of retelling. He explained Tayo was a pillar of the community, holding many roles: cocoa farmer, Baale of Olorunda Village, customary court judge in Akanran, and a member of the Ibadan City Council. As Oladosu spoke, Moria’s fingers flew across her notebook, capturing his words. She interrupted only occasionally for clarification, mostly allowing him to freely share his knowledge of the Baale’s role in the Agbekoya Uprising.

The story, as told by Oladosu, had unfolded in a flood of detail. Moria had recorded every word, but the story was not yet hers. It was only later, in the warm, dim light of the Premier Hotel’s bar, with the rich tones of Lady Essien Igbokwe filling the air, that she could finally process all she had heard. She opened her notebook and switched on her Palm Pilot, ready to reshape the raw facts into her own narrative and wrote:

It was evening when the Baale finally found a moment of peace on his modest home’s balcony, relaxing after a busy day. He was resting on the wooden rocking chair, and from where he sat, he could hear the voice of Akanno, his junior brother, talking to someone in the next building while his eyes were darting between watching the traffic on the road and his grandchildren playing “Okoto” nearby.

The news jingle, the short musical piece signalling the start of the news broadcast, came on air on the radio. He mused as he pondered on the true meanings of the bata drum beat in the jingle. With many interesting interpretations, he liked the one that interpreted the beats as “T’Olubadan ba ku, tani o’joye?”

He quietens his grandchildren from their noisy play so that he can listen to the news rendered in the English Language. The Baale’s brow furrowed on hearing the government’s announcement of a significant increase in taxes, a move that he immediately knew would undoubtedly hit the rural population hardest. As a cocoa farmer in the Akanran area, he had witnessed firsthand the struggles of his people, their resilience in the face of adversity, and their unwavering connection to the earth. The new taxes would be a catalyst for unrest.

In Ibadan, the very air hums with the memory of past prosperity. The city, built on the wealth of cocoa, showcases the region’s dominance in the trade. The towering Cocoa House, the tallest building in West Africa, stands as a silent monument to this.

Yet, that wealth is now feeling like a distant dream. The Nigeria Cocoa Marketing Board (NCMB) derisively nicknamed “Ensin embi”—”You are killing it and still asking”—by disgruntled farmers, controls the prices, dictating their livelihoods. But volatile international markets and shifting government policies have sent cocoa prices plummeting, and many farmers are now barely surviving.

The hardship isn’t limited to cocoa. Traders in other commodities are also feeling the pinch. Asake Olusoga, a palm oil trader, is a perfect example. She once made a decent living, buying palm oil from distant villages and selling it at Ibadan’s bustling Oja-Oba market. Her clients came from all over, Lagos and Ekiti, and she even shipped oil from Dugbe Terminus to customers as far away as Zaria by rail.

Not anymore. Her customers are struggling, and so is she. The cost of transporting the palm oil from the farms to the city has exploded, leaving her with barely any profit. Her customer base has shrunk dramatically. The income she makes now barely supplements the cost of her son, Tomoye’s education, even though his brilliance has secured him numerous scholarships. Everyone, it seems, is just trying to stay afloat.

Kolapo, on the other hand, is a product of a different era. He is one of the few who benefited from the produce licenses that the late premier, Samuel Ladoke Akintola, handed out to his supporters. Now, with Adebayo’s new government, he faces a future with less access to the trading opportunities he once took for granted. He has to act, and he isn’t going to wait to find out if his fears are true. If A.M.A. says it, he believes it, and A.M.A. had not minced words when he told him about Adebayo’s plans to raise taxes.

Kolapo remembers Tafa and his antics with the Maiyegun League – a fiery group from the days when the government tried to cut down cocoa trees to fight the swollen-shoot disease. It’s time to get him involved.

Two days before the Governor’s announcement, Kolapo invites Tafa to his depot, where cocoa bags are graded and stored before being transported to Apapa for export. Over bottles of Fanta, a plate of Cabin biscuits, and some fresh kola nuts, he tells Tafa about the impending tax increases and the immense profits the Nigeria Cocoa Marketing Board (NCMB) is making from cocoa sales, all while the farmers struggle.

“Ma ma je keni keni tan e je,” Kolapo says, his voice dripping with false concern. “Don’t let anyone deceive you. The cocoa business is lucrative, but not for farmers like you.” He whispers, “We must resist these new taxes. This government needs to understand that farmers cannot continue to be exploited.”

As Tafa leaves that day, he thanks Kolapo for the information. Kolapo hands him an envelope with money for transportation, assuring him that he can always count on his support. The words echo in Tafa’s mind, fuelling a growing sense of determination.

These new words mix with the memory of Adisa. Tafa can still see the worry on Adisa’s face – a hardworking farmer forced to leave his village for the cruel uncertainty of unemployment in Ibadan. Tafa thinks of his own struggles; despite his backbreaking labour, he and his family live from hand to mouth, unable to afford a decent home for his wife, Suweba, and their children. He hears Suweba’s complaints about the maternity ward, and he remembers the roads, riddled with potholes that go unrepaired. Just the other day, his Bolekaja had narrowly avoided a head-on collision with a Peugeot pickup that swerved to miss a crater in the road.

He thinks of the cracks in his own mud house that he can’t afford to fix, and the gall of government officials living opulent lifestyles, now emboldened to increase taxes and worsen the plight of farmers. A Yoruba saying comes to his mind: “When you chase a goat to a wall, the goat will turn back and fight.”

If he has ever been determined to do anything, it is now. He knows the time for inaction has passed. It is time for the farmers to stand up and demand justice.

The alarm clock’s shriek sliced through the quiet. The Baale, feeling as though he hadn’t slept at all, reached out and silenced the insistent noise. A weight settled in his chest as he left the quiet of his home and stepped out into the pre-dawn chill, making his way to the local bus park.

As the bus arrived in Akanran, The Baale felt a knot of unease tighten in his stomach. The usual bustle of sellers setting up their stalls was absent. Alighting from the Bolekaja, he heard a distant commotion, a rising tide of sound that drew him forward. He knew this community. He knew that sound. It was the sound of farmers finally pushed to their limit. He was right. As he approached the town square, the voices grew louder, punctuated by a defiant chant: “A ko ni gba iyen!”[1]

The town square pulsed with a sombre tension. A crowd of farmers, their faces wild with determination, had gathered. Their leader, Mustafa, a fiery young man well-known to the Baale, stood at the centre, his voice booming with indignation.

“The government has pushed us too far!” he roared. “They think we are mere pawns to be manipulated and exploited. But we will not stand for it! We will fight for our rights, for our land, for our dignity!”

The crowd erupted, their cheers echoing through the town. The Baale listened, his heart swelling with a mixture of pride and fear. He had always known the people of Akanran were resilient and courageous, but today, he saw something new: unity, unwavering resolve, a readiness to fight for their future.

He recognised others in the crowd: Tafa Adeoye and Akekaaka, both familiar faces to the Baale. Tafa, quiet and thoughtful, was cut from a different cloth from the boisterous Akekaaka, who was standing firmly behind Mustafa, fuelling his passion. The Baale instinctively knew that Tafa, despite his quiet demeanour, was the true mastermind behind the uprising.

He also spotted Ajireni among those seated. Knowing Ajireni’s deep-seated hatred for him, the Baale decided against joining the gathering. Since the judgment he gave on Mulika’s case, the Baale had learned to avoid Ajireni. Their few encounters had made it clear: if Ajireni had his way, the Baale would be a dead man.

Without disturbing the scene in the town square, he quietly slipped away towards his village house in Olorunda, nearby. He knew what he had to do. He needed to speak with Tafa.

A gentle tap on her shoulder jolted her from the depths of her thoughts.
“Ma’am, we’re closing. Would you like to continue in your room?”

The music had stopped, the last echoes of the day fading into silence. She looked at her watch: 1:15 AM. The hours had vanished. For so long, she had been lost in a world of her own making, the words flowing effortlessly from her mind.

Her eyes fell on the notes from her meeting with Oladosu – so much still to write. A yawn broke free, heavy and unrestrained, betraying the fatigue she had stubbornly ignored. It was time to retreat to her presidential suite. Only then did she remember Mulika, likely fast asleep by now. The poor woman had been drained when they returned earlier, guided by Afeez and “Ajagbe,” after a day steeped in history: the solemn ground at Lalupon where Fajuyi and Ironsi were found, the sweeping views from Bower’s Tower, and the grandeur of Adebisi Mansion in Idikan.

Of all the stories, Adebisi’s had gripped her most – his bold pact with the colonial office to shoulder Ibadan’s tax burden, a man wrestling with the similar tax palaver that had now given rise to an uprising, shaping the city’s fate.

She had promised Mulika she’d only be gone a few minutes. But minutes had stretched into hours. With a quiet thank-you to the bartender, she gathered her things and took the elevator up. She didn’t stop by Mulika’s room. Instead, she slipped into her own, surrendering to the embrace of the bed. The story that had brought her here could wait. She would continue it tomorrow.

Seven Hills and Second Chances

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A quick dash across the road from Mulika’s house brought the two ladies to Afeez’s waiting taxi. Usually, by this time of day, Afeez’s eyes were dull with fatigue, but today, they gleamed with a newfound intensity. Moria’s first payment, before even asking him to wait, had far exceeded his typical monthly earnings, sparking a fire in him.

Spotting the two women approaching, he pulled the taxi forward.

“There’s a good buka in the KS Motel area if you really want some great amala,” Mulika said, responding to Moria’s earlier request for a good local restaurant.

“Afeez could you take us there?” Moria asked. “She’ll give you directions if needed.”

“Yes, ma, I know that area very well,” he replied. As soon as the two passengers were settled in the back, he pulled into the traffic on Ogunmola Road. Driving past the Beere roundabout and onto Basorun/Gate Road, then taking a slight left onto Adeoyo/Oje Road, brought them to Yemetu Aladorin Street. From here, they could see Oke Are, the highest hill in Ibadan, clearly, but not the famous Bower’s Tower that sat on it.

As they reached the junction where Adeoyo Maternity Hospital stood, Moria let out a loud shout. “I know this place! I was born here!”

“That’s why I was surprised you didn’t recognise Oke Are,” Mulika said with a laugh. “This whole area used to be your playground.”

“A lot has changed, Mulika,” Moria said, looking out the window at the familiar yet foreign streets. “This isn’t the same Ibadan I used to know.”

A knowing smile spread across Afeez’s face. She’s a true “son of the soil,” he thought to himself, bringing the car to a stop.

“The buka is over there,” he said, pointing to a set of shops just across a small gutter.

Moria’s unexplained wealth, the way she moved with a quiet purpose, intrigued him. He sensed a story beneath the surface, something hidden, something that demanded his vigilance, but first, he felt a divine responsibility to be her guardian angel and not just a taxi driver. He must keep her safe in this city.

Afeez watched as the ladies disappeared into the Buka. Moria had offered him lunch, but he had politely declined. His instincts told him to stay with the car and keep a watchful eye. Ibadan was generally a safe city, but a man in his profession knew better than to be complacent. Though the drive to the buka had been uneventful, it had not been without its moments of tension. The few Agberos[1] they’d passed missed looking into his car; if they had seen Moria’s dressing, it might have caught their attention and probably led to a demand for money. He couldn’t forget the sight of the near-toothless Agbero leaping onto the bonnet of a Micra ahead of them in his desperate attempt to extort money.

Throughout the drive from Beere, Moria and her companion, Mulika, had chatted nonstop about everything and nothing. It was from their casual conversation that he’d learned her name and that she was a native of Ibadan. Now, watching her through the restaurant’s window, he saw her diving into a plate of Amala[2] with a gusto that completely contradicted her sophisticated appearance.

With lunch done, stepping over the gutter separating the restaurant from the road where the taxi was parked, Moria said, “Afeez, please take us to the Premier Hotel.” In his five years of navigating Ibadan’s chaotic streets, no one had ever asked him to go to the Premier Hotel. His beat-up taxi simply wasn’t the kind of vehicle that frequented such a landmark, a place that represented a world beyond his own. As he cautiously drove into the hotel’s grand foyer, a smartly dressed bellboy appeared, opening the rear door with a practised flourish.

“Afeez, thank you for the good job today. Would you be available to drive me around tomorrow as well?” Moria asked casually.

“Yes, ma. What time should I be here?” he replied, managing to keep his voice even.

“Nine a.m. will be fine, and please come with a full tank of petrol. We have a long trip ahead of us,” Moria said, subtly emphasising the word “long.” Then, with a gesture that took his breath away, she slipped him ten crisp American bills.

The Presidential Suite with its plush carpets and hushed luxury made Mulika gasp. Her eyes, wide with wonder, darted between the massive 56-inch television, the whisper-quiet air conditioner, and the overflowing refrigerator, which she opened to reveal a treasure trove of treats.

“Moria, don’t look at me like that,” she confessed, a blush rising on her cheeks. “I have never seen anything like this.” Moria smiled gently, her own heart warmed by Mulika’s uninhibited delight.

While Moria went to the bathroom to shower, Mulika settled in front of the television, happily munching on a packet of chocolate she had grabbed from the fridge.

Refreshed from her shower, Moria returned to the living room, happy to be in Mulika’s company again. They spent a long time reminiscing. Their shared memories included trips to the river to fetch drinking water, during which they had often talked about boys. Moria’s first love had been Lekan. She had lost touch with him after leaving Nigeria, so she was eager to hear Mulika’s news.

Evening arrived, with Mulika in the other room, Moria finally settled into her room. Her window offered a clear view of Ibadan, the city sprawling before her with its rusty tin roofs stretching to the horizon. What she saw reminded her of J.P. Clark’s poem about Ibadan:

Ibadan,
running splash of rust
and gold-flung and scattered
among seven hills like broken
China in the sun.

When she had been made to recite it in literature class, she had not understood the “rust and gold.” Now, she could see through J.P.’s eyes. But sleep beckoned. In the morning, she and Mulika would set off for Ijebu-Igbo, passing through Elekuro to visit the Baale’s house first, then on to Akanran, the battleground of the Agbekoya.

A sharp streak of sunlight sliced through the pristine white linen blinds, casting golden veins across the room. It was this sudden intrusion – alongside the low, mechanical hum of what Moria would later discover was a carpet cleaner – that tugged her from sleep’s reluctant grip.

From the bedroom, she could hear the soft murmur of a television drifting in from the lounge. That meant Mulika was already up.

Moria groaned inwardly. Her limbs felt like they were stitched to the mattress. She glanced down at herself and sighed – still in the same clothes she’d worn the day before. No silky nightdress, no evening ritual. Just exhaustion. She had collapsed into bed like a dropped coat.

As she shuffled toward the bathroom, a dull ache pulsed at her left temple. Not unfamiliar, it was her body’s way of whispering, slow down. She caught her reflection in the full-length mirror and winced. The woman staring back looked worn, frayed at the edges. But Mulika wouldn’t care, she is no stranger to her.

Business in the bathroom done, Moria wandered into the lounge and found Mulika exactly where she expected – curled up on one of the plush couches, remote in hand, eyes bright.

“Good morning, Muli,” Moria said, the childhood nickname slipping easily from her lips. “How was your night?”

Mulika beamed, using Moria’s full name as she used to like it. “Fantastic, Moriamo. What’s there to complain about in a place like this? I’m soaking in every second.” She chuckled. “I actually came to check on you earlier, but your gentle snoring told me all I needed to know.”

Moria laughed, rubbing her temple. “Have you ordered breakfast? I’m starving.”

“I was waiting for Her Royal Highness to rise,” Mulika teased. “I’m not quite sure how things work around here, and I’m famished too.”

Moria reached for the phone and they placed their orders—different meals, same gnawing hunger. With breakfast on its way, they agreed to retreat to their rooms, freshen up, and meet at the dining table.

At breakfast, Moria was eager to return to their discussion about the Agbekoya insurrections, trying to weave all the new information into a compelling narrative. But Mulika seemed lost in her own thoughts, a cloud settling over her bright eyes.

“What is it, Mulika?” Moria asked.

“Moria, in this story you’re writing, you need to sieve the truth from the lies, the embellishments and half-truths.”

“What are you insinuating?” Moria said, her fork poised over her plate. “Are you saying there were lies in what you had told me?”

“No, not at all. I just want to warn you, as we meet others, that there is always the risk of self-adulation by storytellers, so you just need to be aware of that,” Mulika responded.

Moria paused, nibbled a little at her food, and was momentarily lost in thought. A sudden clarity seemed to wash over her. “Mulika, I’ve never told you this, but I am sorry for all you have had to go through. No woman should ever experience a forced marriage, not to mention the molestation bordering on rape that you experienced.”

“It took me a long while to get over it, if I can even say I did,” Mulika said, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “I still have flashbacks of that night. I had to forgive my parents; surely, they didn’t know better. For years, I kept my distance from them, from everyone. I became a total recluse.”

“You did?” Moria said, her heart aching for her friend. “I can imagine.”

“Yes, I did. Life had no more meaning to me. I gave up on my education, my aspirations, on myself. Look at me – decades after, I still find it hard to start.”

Moria reached across the table and took Mulika’s hands, holding her palms in hers. She gave them a gentle squeeze. “You can start again, and I’ll be there to see you do so. When I get back to Boston, I’ll work toward bringing you over. You can work in my firm. It won’t be easy, but we can pull this off. You have a friend in me, Mulika.”

A tear welled in Mulika’s eyes. Moria handed her a napkin. “You don’t need to thank me,” Moria said softly. “I’d expect the same from you if the situation were reversed. I am just doing what you would have done.” She gave Mulika’s hands one last reassuring squeeze. “Okay, girl, let’s finish breakfast. We have a long day ahead of us.”

When they finished, they headed downstairs to meet Afeez, who had called to announce his arrival.


[1] Area Boys

[2] Local food delicacy

Big problems start small

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

From the moment she was welcomed into Mulika’s presence, she remembered how, after a few brief exchanges of pleasantries, the conversation had been dominated by Mulika’s storytelling. Moria had done her best to capture every detail, and only now did she have the time to weave it all into a narrative that fit seamlessly with the story so far. She began to write:

The seeds of revolt had been sown by the gods themselves. It all began on a rainy morning when the relentless downpour, a steady drumbeat against the thatched roof, seemed to echo the mournful howl of the wind. Tafa Adeoye stirred, his eyelids heavy with sleep, as the cold crept through the walls of his mud house. The wind, like a mischievous spirit, whistled through the cracks, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. A knock at the door jolted him awake. It was not yet daybreak, and even if it were, Tafa was not one to rise this early, especially since the cocoa harvest season had just ended. He reached for a matchstick and lit the Atupa[1] which casts a faint glow around the room.

Suweba, his pregnant wife, shifted beside him. “Who could that be at this hour?” she murmured, her voice barely audible. Grudgingly, Tafa crawled out of bed and made his way to the door. He swung it open, the cold air rushing in. Adisa, one of the village farmers, stood on the doorstep. His face was filled with sadness, and Tafa could see that he was fighting back tears.

“What is it, Adisa?” Tafa asked, his voice filled with concern. “Is something wrong?”

Adisa hesitated, his eyes darting nervously. “I came to tell you about the Chief,” he finally said. “He has asked me to leave his land and to do so within the week. I still have cocoyam that I have not harvested, and at the start of this year’s rains, I had planted cassava all over the one on the right side of Akinola, not far from the Oshun River. He is not compensating me for any of these.”

Tears welled up in Adisa’s eyes as he continued his lamentation. “Yes, the land is his but asking me to leave without adequate notice is just unfair. And you know what he did to Adeoba and his family; he is ruthless, and we all know no one is bold enough to ask him to desist, once his mind is made up.”

Tafa’s heart sank. While the news was overwhelming, it was not surprising. Adisa had been unable to pay the Isakole[2] to the Chief for a few years and had seen this coming for months now. The Chief’s underhanded tactics were nothing new, but this was different. Adisa was a hardworking man, and this land was his livelihood.

“What are you going to do?” Tafa asked.

Adisa shook his head. “I don’t know,” he replied. “I’m thinking of going to Ibadan. There might be work there.”

Tafa listened in silence, his mind racing. He knew that Adisa was desperate, and he couldn’t bear to see him leave the village. But what could he do? Adisa hadn’t come to him just because he needed a sympathetic ear, but obviously because he needed financial help, but his pride wouldn’t allow him to ask. Tafa understood; they had been friends for so long that he could interpret the lines of worry on Adisa’s face as that.

Adisa was a true friend. He recalled how Adisa had stood by him when he had the unfortunate incident of the snake bite on his cocoa farm. If not for Adisa, who had quickly applied local herbs and carried him on his back all the way from the farm to the village, he would have been a dead man. He owed Adisa his life.

Suweba is having a troubled pregnancy. The maternity ward at the Akanran Health Centre was derelict, with no drugs and the nursing team treating patients as if they were rendering a favour rather than the services they were being paid to render. Just the previous day, Suweba had come home complaining about the eerie glow of the peeling paint in the maternity ward, the stale scent of disinfectant and antiseptic, and the heat due to the lack of electricity to power the fans. At her last visit, she had been called into the small and cramped examination room, with faded curtains, and asked to lie on a worn, vinyl mattress. Her back ached as if she had lain there for hours before the midwife eventually got to examine her by running her hands all over her stomach, trying to feel the kick of the unborn baby, all while the midwife was distracted.

Suweba’s fear was palpable. Tafa remembered the look in her eyes as she pleaded with him to make arrangements for her to go to Adeoyo Maternity Hospital in Ibadan when her labour begins. “I don’t want to die during childbirth,” she had said, her worry clear in her expression. Since that discussion, all Adisa’s savings were being directed towards taking care of Suweba, and he is low on finances for anything else.

All these thoughts raced through Tafa’s mind, but despite them, he felt Adisa needed help now. He asked his visitor to wait as he took the Atupa and headed back into his room. Suweba, still asleep, asked, “Who is there? Hope all is well?” She turned on the bed facing the wall without waiting for a response and continued with her sleep.

Tafa took another look at his wife, the mother of his children, and the bed on which she slept, then around the mud-plastered room in which they slept. A teardrop formed in his eyes. He was sure they deserved better. They were not lazy people. Year in and year out, he had been cultivating the little Cocoa farm that he inherited from his father, but the income had not been enough to cater to the needs of his growing family. He was almost lost in his self-pity when the sound of a little movement in the room he had left brought him back to the present.

He reached for one of the dresses that he had hanging on the nail on the wall, checked the pocket, and took out one Nigerian pound. That was what he could afford, and he hoped it could provide some succour to Adisa as he faced an uncertain future. Back to where he had left Adisa, he handed him the note, explaining to him to accept it as his widow’s mite.

“Isn’t this too much?” Adisa said while receiving the money. “I am very grateful. This will help a lot with our transportation and the first few days of our arrival in Ibadan.”

“Don’t mention,” Tafa answered. “I wish we had more. I could have given to you, but please try to make use of that as you need.”

With Adisa out of the house, Tafa turned the wooden bolt back at the door and locked it. He opened the door of the next room to check on his children and then went back to meet Suweba on the bed, putting off the Atupa.

As he lay on the bed, Tafa started ruminating on his life journey. Tafa, a cocoa farmer with a small plot of land, had always managed to make ends meet. He supplemented his cocoa crop with seasonal plantings of cocoyam and corn, ensuring a steady supply of food for his family and a little surplus to sell at the market. However, as the years passed, the challenges of farming grew more daunting.

The recent announcement of new taxes on farmers was the final straw. An otherwise gentle soul, he was filled with a quiet anger. He understood the government’s need for revenue, but he felt that the new policies were inconsiderate and would only exacerbate the hardships faced by farmers like him.

While pondering the implications of the new taxes, Tafa made a decision. He knew he was not the only one struggling. He would have to speak out, to let the government know that their policies were hurting the people they were supposed to be serving.

Sleep finally claimed Tafa, but it was a restless embrace. A premonition, perhaps, of the tumultuous days to come. His peaceful slumber, once a nightly sanctuary, was now tainted with an unsettling unease. He couldn’t have known it then, of course, but his decision to speak his mind would shatter the quiet rhythm of his life as a farmer. His name would soon be plastered across the front pages of the Daily Sketch, the Tribune, and every major newspaper in the land, including the revered Daily Times. Even in the distant corridors of power at Dodan Barracks, in the bustling metropolis of Lagos, whispers of Tafa would echo through the halls. His story would become a battleground for national discourse, to be debated for years to come.

If Tafa could have glimpsed the future, he would have slammed the door shut on Adisa. The quietude of his life and the simple rhythm of the seasons were all he had ever truly desired.

It was all that Moria could write before her parched throat made her ask Mulika for water. “Mulika,” she rasped, “could I please have some water?”

“Yes, of course,” Mulika replied, struggling to rise. “I apologise for not thinking of it.”

Moria saw the pain on Mulika’s face and suspected the early onset of arthritis, a common but often misdiagnosed ailment in this area. The thick scent of Robb and Mentholatum balms filled the air, reminding Moria of how her own grandmother struggled with pain management.

“Please don’t worry,” Moria said. “I’ll get it myself. Could you tell me where the water is?”

‘The Amu[3] is in the corner of the room, at the foot of the bed,’ Mulika replied.

Moria rose from the seat, glancing at her watch in surprise. Two hours had already passed. She couldn’t believe she had been sitting there for so long.” Moria had sat with rapt attention, typing as fast as she could on the Pilot, completely absorbed by Mulika’s stories. Mulika’s words tumbled out, a long-awaited release, poured out like a burst dam as the floodgates of her memories were unleashed. She recounted everything she had heard about Tafa Adeoye, the celebrated leader of the Agbekoya, and the circumstances that had thrust him into the leadership of the movement.

When she arrived, the joy of seeing Mulika face-to-face was overwhelming for both. Though they had spoken on the phone a few times, the sheer delight of seeing each other’s faces was undeniable. Looking about fifteen years older than Moria, Mulika had aged, of course; no longer the beautiful, radiant young girl Moria remembered.

During school breaks, Moria’s father would take them to visit Mulika in the village, explaining that they were cousins. Moria, not one for genealogy, never questioned their exact relationship. They played, an inseparable pair, developing a deep affection for each other. She would often follow Mulika to the stream to fetch water, both girls bathing in the cool water before returning home, their heads laden with heavy clay pots.

Though Moria had always known that fate had placed her and Mulika on separate paths, her warm welcome hadn’t driven home the reality of their divergent lives. It wasn’t until she stepped into Mulika’s room that the differences became painfully clear. The difference between Mulika’s living conditions and her own comfortable Massachusetts life was immense. Life, she was sure, had dealt her a far gentler hand. And here they were, years later, reunited by the very story that had changed their lives in different ways, a story Moria was only now beginning to grasp fully.

Not that she needed any conviction, but entering the room leaves Moria with no further doubt that Mulika is a woman of very little means. Next to the wall was her single bed with some of her clothes piled up on it and taking a good chunk of the space. The room had a wooden window, cracked in the middle with age, through which a ray of light streaks into the room, offering the only illumination during the day, except when the single light bulb hanging from the wooden ceiling is switched on.

Mulika’s wooden cupboard, about five feet tall with two padlocked doors, stood directly across from the bed. Two black clay pots, one larger than the other, sat on top. Moria recognised them; her own mother had used similar pots, one for stew and the other for soup. Old newspaper sheets, carefully placed to protect the wood from soot, lay beneath the pots. Moria didn’t open the cupboard, but she correctly assumed it held Mulika’s food. She knew this type of cupboard; her parents had one in their room when she was growing up.

She spotted the Amu in the corner of the room and scooped some water into the plastic cup provided. A wave of hesitation washed over her. Was it wise to drink this water? Her urban immune system might not be prepared for whatever pathogens could be lurking within. Should she ask Mulika to buy her bottled water? The thought lingered, but ultimately, her American pragmatism prevailed: “Better safe than sorry.” With that, she set the cup aside, abandoning the idea of drinking the water, and made her way back to the corridor where Mulika was waiting for her.

“Mulika,” she said, “please forgive me. I’m no longer used to drinking from the Amu. Let’s go out and have a meal instead.”

To her surprise, Mulika understood completely. She asked for a moment to get ready, excusing herself to dress up. As she waited, Moria couldn’t help but reflect on the capricious hand of fate – a cruel and unpredictable force that so often derails lives. She and Mulika had started their journeys with such similar hopes, and Mulika, with her academic brilliance, had been the one expected to thrive. Yet now, they found themselves holding vastly different hands, dealt by life’s unpredictable game. The outcomes were worlds apart, and Moria couldn’t shake the thought of how fragile and fickle destiny could be.


[1] Palm oil lamp

[2] Annual tribute for the rights to use the land

[3] Amu – Clay water pot, usually kept in a corner of the room to keep drinking water cold.

The Return

The cream and maroon Nissan Micra, the characteristic colour of Ibadan taxis, ascends Mapo Hill. Seated comfortably in the back is a middle-aged lady; her appearance suggests a sophisticated woman, an untypical passenger of such taxis.

In Ibadan, she would belong to the upper class, the kind usually found in the backseat of chauffeur-driven cars.Everything about her exudes sophistication. From the Gucci sunglasses to the Rose Gold Chopard Heure du Diamant watch adorned with 6.96 carats of round-cut rubies and 0.23 carats of diamonds, every detail speaks of luxury. A gold-accented brown Hermès Birkin 35 Crocodile Leather bag rests on the seat beside her.Afeez, the driver, knows this is no ordinary woman.

At Molete, she was ushered into the cab by a man with a luxurious white beard, alighting from a black Mercedes-Benz SUV with tinted windows. As she settles into the seat, the scent of her perfume fills the car; it is unlike anything Afeez has ever encountered, differing totally from the usual odours of sweating market women with their baskets of pepper or dried fish. Had Afeez been from a higher social class, he might have recognized this as being from the rare vintage 1970s Christian Dior Diorama Parfum.

She requests air conditioning and closed windows. Afeez, surprised by her request, realizes that she isn’t used to this type of commute – Ibadan taxis don’t have air conditioning. It is also a signal that money, lots of it, would not be an issue as fare and he quickly abandons all thoughts of negotiating the fare. She speaks to him in the local dialect, asking to be taken to Beere.

As he drives, Afeez can’t help but wonder about the woman’s identity and her reasons for choosing such humble transportation. Stealing a gaze at his passenger, his eyes meet hers in the rearview mirror, and he quickly looked away. They are approaching the Cathedral on the Hill, a name by which Christ Church Mapo is otherwise known, when the lady asks him to turn into the gate of the expansive church compound.With a little grunt and jerk, Afeez’s car makes the turn and is brought to a halt.

His passenger comes out delectably, stepping on the pavement and heading towards the Vicar’s residence. He can see that she limps a little on her right leg, but the radiance from her shoes sparkling in the early morning sun attracts the eyes more than anything else. But then, she stopped, turning back to face the taxi. Her dark Gucci sunglasses concealed her eyes as she took a slow, deliberate gaze across the familiar grounds—from the stately blue and white painted columnar church to the Vicar’s house. She definitely has a deep connection to this place.

Moria takes a long sigh. This was where it all began for her, not all of it, but the significant event that shaped her life. For almost three decades, she has dreamed of this day, the day she would set foot on the soil of this church.

When the Agbekoya left her sprawling with a broken leg in the gutter, it was the timely intervention of the Vicar, who, as fate would have it, had been forced to take refuge in the back alley of her mother’s shop that fateful day, that saved her. He had brought her to this vicarage from where she was moved to the University College Hospital (UCH).

Her parents only got to know of what had happened to her when contacted by the Vicar. From here, she was sent to the Igbobi Orthopaedic Hospital in Lagos. The fracture was a major one and needed advanced care, something not available at Igbobi then. The alternative was amputation, and she and her parents had resigned to fate with a scheduled date for the amputation until, by a stroke of fate, the visit of Chief Ebikeme to his son, who was scheduled for a similar operation, changed her narrative forever. She was flown with Ebikeme’s son to the Massachusetts General Hospital (MGH) in Boston, which was witnessing a period of significant advancement in orthopedic care, for a reconstructive surgery.

She muses to herself as she thinks of the chain of events that had bestowed upon her a life she never would have dreamt possible. What if the fear of the Agbekoya had not left her with a broken foot? Would this Moria have emerged?She gets back into Afeez’s taxi and requests him to take her to her planned destination. She would still like to see what has become of her mother’s shop and the gutter she had fallen into that fateful day.

A streak of tears comes to her face as she thinks of the fact that her mother and father are now dead; she has never gotten to see them since she left for Boston. She knows she could have done better, though she made sure they never lacked anything, but her resentment and anger for the nation embittered her and kept her away from visiting all these years.

At the centre of the roundabout in Beere, the taxi comes to the Iba Oluyole statue. Moria has seen better imposing statues, but is impressed as this was not there in the years she lived in this area; the taxi takes to the left, heading on the Bashorun Ogunmola Road, bringing her to Mapo Hall.

Twenty-seven years is a very long time, and things have changed. The set of stalls she was hoping to see has all disappeared; in place of these stands a sprawling building, now the secretariat of the Ibadan South-East Local Government. With no stalls, the idea of tracing the gutter is moot.

But one thing that stands unchanged are the columns of the hall and the long flight of steps. She takes measured steps that lead her to the stairs and takes her seat on one of them. With her head held up within her two palms, she fixes her gaze on Oja’ba in the near distance, her attention on the one-storey building on the right.It all starts coming back to her as she is soon lost in thought.

It was a cold winter when she arrived in Boston, and her surgery and recovery had taken the better part of six months, following which she enrolled at college. The rest, as they say, is history. Luck had shone upon her, and she had risen to unprecedented heights as a realtor buying properties, renovating and selling them.

A blaring taxi horn snapped her out of her thoughts, anchoring her once again to the present. She glanced around, reminded of why she’d chosen this particular spot. With deliberate motion, she reached into her bag and retrieved her Palm Pilot, just as a sudden surge of clarity washed over her—the opening lines to the story she’d already titled Agbekoya: An Uprising Like No Other.

Her mind drifted to the Magna Carta, a cornerstone of liberty she’d studied back at Community College. That memory stirred something deeper, drawing from that inspiration, she began to write:

“Echoes of the past, thousands of kilometres away in England, were beginning to resonate in the quiet village of Akanran. The events that led to the Magna Carta, the cornerstone of human rights, were eerily mirrored in the lives of villagers across the Western State. In Akanran, however, the seeds of revolt were only just beginning to sprout.”

She stops, gathers herself up as she remembers Mulika who is expecting her in the building on the right. All she needs to do now is walk into the building. She has been told many stories about Agbekoya, but felt pushed to begin with Mulika’s, her story being not only compelling but revealing of what she felt could also have become of her, if not for that fracture. In Mulika, she sees herself and every little girl who inhabits this area.

Stepping on a viper

The long-haul flight hadn’t been idle time. She’d spent those hours piecing together everything she knew so far about Agbekoya—details stitched from the stories Mulika had shared during their many phone calls. Realistic about the challenge ahead, she never pretended the writing would be easy. That’s why she’d packed her Palm Pilot, trusting its sleek technology to be a reliable companion. Alongside it, she carried a well-worn scrapbook, ready to catch stray thoughts and sudden insights.

Now, with a flick of her wrist, she snapped open the Palm Pilot’s cover. It was time to revisit her notes. As the screen lit up and she scrolled through the entries, she began to read aloud the opening lines of her first chapter

On a crisp January morning, Mulika Ajagbe stood resolutely in the wooden dock of the Customary Court in Akanran. The air was thick with anticipation as the Customary Court Judge prepared to hear her divorce petition.

Mulika’s journey to this moment began over four years ago when she was an exuberant 15-year-old, full of life and dreams. School was her sanctuary, and the three kilometres’ trek through the dense rainforest, past Cocoa, Kolanut and Palm tree farms, was an adventure she relished. The rainy season brought its own delights; she would often pause to collect snails and mushrooms, treasures hidden beneath the logs and fallen leaves, illuminated by the early morning sun filtering through the towering trees.

The stream she crossed daily, usually a gentle flow, transformed into a roaring torrent after the rains, a challenge she faced with unwavering determination. At Community Grammar School, Akanran, Mulika’s passion for learning made her a top student, and one admired by her peers who sought her help with their homework. She had read Mabel Segun’s “My Father’s Daughter” and had said that one day, she would write a similar book about her father, Ajagbe.

After school, Mulika would assist her mother at their modest market stall, selling beans, rice, garri, and other food items. Evenings in her village were filled with the joyous game of “ten-ten”, where she and her friends, with rhythmic hand-clapping and leg movements, combined physical coordination with songs to foster coordination, concentration, and memory skills, all while providing a lively and engaging form of play. This playful escape was far more appealing to her than listening to the familiar tales by moonlight of “Iya Agba,” many of which she now knew by heart after listening to them through most of her years growing up.

Complementing her brilliant mind is Mulika’s ravishing beauty – dark, elegant, tall, and perfectly curvaceous. This charm, however, was to become her downfall. Her striking appearance did not go unnoticed by the local men, particularly Ajireni, a prosperous cocoa farmer. The previous season had been exceptionally fruitful for Ajireni, with his farm yielding a bountiful harvest and market prices soaring to unprecedented heights. Flush with this newfound wealth, Ajireni set his sights on marrying Mulika.

Despite his persistent advances, Mulika firmly rejected Ajireni. Undeterred, he turned to her father, Ajagbe, who was struggling through challenging times. After discussing the matter with his wife, Simbiatu, Ajagbe concluded that Mulika marrying Ajireni might be beneficial, especially since she was of marriageable age. After all, Risikatu, her cousin, though younger was already married and a mother of two.

So, they agreed with Ajireni, who promptly paid her dowry and fulfilled all customary obligations. Ajireni envisioned a grand traditional wedding, but Mulika refused, forcing him to abandon the idea. Over the following months, Ajireni hoped Mulika would change her mind and recognise the benefits of marrying him. He even offered to set up a provision store for her in Akanran, like those he had established for his two other wives. Education, the type that Mulika was pursuing, was not in any plans of Ajireni for her. To him, she would be better off as the mother of his children, bringing them up and operating a trade beside.

However, Mulika remained steadfast in her refusal, repeatedly urging her parents to return Ajireni’s dowry, emphasising that he was old enough to be her father. After months of waiting in vain for his new wife, Ajireni informed Ajagbe of his desire to claim Mulika, and together, they devised a plan.

On a moonless night, with the village covered in thick darkness, heavy knocks on the wooden door reverberated through the mud-walled house of Ajagbe. The loud noise jolted Mulika and everyone else awake. Her father, though expecting the visitors, feigned ignorance and sluggishly moved from his room to the thick doors, asking, “Eyin wo niyen, se ariwo yi ko wa poju ni bayi?[1]”

Had Mulika been more observant, she might have noticed her mother’s red, swollen eyes earlier that evening, a telltale sign of tears. But even if she had asked Simbiatu, her mother, it was doubtful she would have received an answer that could prepare her for the night’s events.

As Ajagbe opened the door, he was confronted by four hulking figures silhouetted against the darkness. They wasted no time, their mission clear. Without a word, they stormed into Mulika’s room, where she lay half-dressed in her night wrapper, lifting her onto their shoulders and disappeared into the night, ignoring her wails and cries of “E gbe mi sile, Ki ni mo se?[2]”

The men navigated the bush paths, arriving at Ajireni’s home, where they delivered Mulika to his room, locked the door, and stood vigil outside. Experience had taught them that sometimes a woman could overpower her husband and escape, so they remained on guard throughout the night.

After sobbing, kicking, fighting, and making all the noise she could, Mulika eventually grew tired and resigned herself to her fate. It was then that Ajireni took advantage of her and consummated the marriage. Over the following weeks and months, Ajireni repeatedly asserted his claim, referring to Mulika as his new wife. Soon, Mulika became pregnant and gave birth to a healthy baby boy. The village celebrated, but Mulika’s joy had vanished the day she was forcibly taken from her father’s house. Not even the birth of her son or the festive celebrations could restore it.

Once her son was weaned, Mulika seized an opportunity to escape, pretending she needed to fetch some items. She fled to Ijebu-Igbo, disappearing for six months. A search party scoured the area, but she remained elusive until a chance encounter at the market one evening led to her discovery. Following pleas and entreaties, Mulika returned to the village but refused to go back to Ajireni’s house.

Now, standing in the courtroom, Mulika’s vibrant past contrasted sharply with the gravity of her present. Her story, one hitherto filled with youthful exuberance and simple pleasures, had led her to the Akanran Customary Court. The night of her abduction had set in motion a series of events that eventually brought her here, seeking a divorce from Ajireni.

Chief Samuel Ejitayo Bakare, who was also the Baale of Olorunda, a village in the area, presided over the case, dissolving the marriage and ordering Mulika’s parents to compensate Ajireni. This judgment became the Baale’s undoing. Ajireni, feeling the dissolution was unjust, harboured a deep resentment towards the Baale.

Unknowingly, the Baale had stepped on a viper. All this was three years ago, but the seed of discord never stops germinating as it gets watered each passing day with events that, otherwise, would have been no issues.

Moria felt a sense of fulfilment with what she had written so far. Her words faithfully captured the tale Mulika had shared with her. Yet, she knew there was more to come, more when she arrived in Ibadan. Mulika would be waiting for her.


[1] Who is there? Is this noise not too loud?

[2] Let me down, what have I done?

Lasgidi

No one needed to tell Moria that this was Lagos. Everything was self-evident as soon as she looked out of the Boeing 747 window after touching down at Murtala Mohammed International Airport. Tried as she did, she couldn’t remember what the airport looked like when she had departed 27 years ago—on a stretcher, in pain. She said a little prayer, giving thanks as the doors opened and she stepped off the plane from the first-class compartment. Her heart pounded with a mix of excitement and trepidation. She did not know what to expect.

Would Denrele be there waiting for her? What if he is not? What would she do? She soon found herself at the immigration desk, where, because of her blue passport as a U.S. citizen, her processing was swift. And there he was—the man with the “luxurious white beard,” the identifying feature she had been told would make Denrele stand out. She had mused over this a few times. How could this be? Surely, he would not be the only one with a greying beard. But surprisingly, it was not difficult to spot him in the crowd. Of course, she was further helped by the fact that Denrele was holding a placard with her name boldly written on it.

She walked straight to him. “Hello, I guess you’re Mr. Denrele,” Moria said.

“Yes, ma, and welcome to Lagos. Please, call me Denrele. Most people do,” he responded. He ushered her to a private waiting area and asked for a description of her bags.

As the conveyor belt whirled to life, she spotted her luggage through the glass doors and pointed them out to Denrele. Soon, they were out of the airport with her luggage, and the humid air clung to her skin. For the first time, she missed the cold of Boston. Denrele directed her to the black Mercedes-Benz parked near the exit. He opened the door and ushered her into the comfortable black leather seats with red trims. She settled in, watching Denrele load her luggage into the boot before whisking her away to Ikoyi.

The drive from the airport was a sensory overload, though her view was obscured by the deep, dark tint of the windows—a feature meant to shield her from prying eyes. At Oshodi, the bustling market and transport hub, they were held up in traffic for a while, thanks to the numerous yellow buses with black mid-stripes, popularly called danfo, which had taken over more than two-thirds of the road, dropping off and picking up passengers.

In the distance, she caught sight of an older woman roasting corn on a tiny charcoal stove by the roadside, two young children clinging to her wrapper in the sweltering heat. The scene stirred something deep within her, she was saddened by it. What future awaits these children? She wondered silently.

On the Oworonshoki Expressway, Moria’s eyes caught sight of a motorcycle mounted on a pedestal, emblazoned with the image and name of “Charly Boy.” She chuckled to herself, remembering the eccentric persona.

At an intersection, a deep green road sign with white lettering indicated they were heading toward the Third Mainland Bridge. The traffic had thinned, and the SUV glided smoothly, with only a barely noticeable bump at the bridge’s expansion joints. The view was breathtaking. To her right, she glimpsed a sprawling set of buildings with a lush, verdant stretch that stood apart from the others in the area. If she were a Lagosian, she would have easily identified this as the Lagoon Front of the University of Lagos.

Passing this area, the lagoon itself stretched out, dotted with wooden stilt houses clustered together like a floating village. Moria’s curiosity was piqued.

“Please, where is that?” she asked the Denrele, breaking the silence that had enveloped the car since they left the airport.

“Oh, Makoko,” he replied, his voice calm and measured. Denrele was a man of few words, though his presence was a reassuring constant throughout the journey. Makoko fascinated her. The stilt houses, the tree logs floating on the lagoon—it was a world unto itself. She had seen similar structures in the swamps of Louisiana, but this felt different.

They finally arrived at the gate of an expansive property in Ikoyi and for a split second, she thought she had been transported back to Boston. The shimmering glass buildings, the manicured gardens, the immaculate roads—the contrast was jarring compared to most of what she had seen on the trip.The car pulled into the underground parking lot of a 15-story glass-panelled building. Denrele parked next to the elevator pressed a sequence of numbers on the keypad and opened the SUV door for her. “Ma, the elevator will take you to the penthouse. I’ll be up shortly with your luggage,” he said.

Moria stepped into the elevator and gasped. The interior was a vision of gold, pristine and gleaming, without a single fingerprint or speck of dust in sight. It ascended swiftly, and within moments, she found herself standing before a tall, ornate white door. As she approached, it swung open of its own accord, revealing a penthouse that was nothing short of breathtaking.

She wasn’t expecting to meet anyone; no one lived here, she had been told. The apartment belonged to a friend of a friend, a man she had never met but who had generously offered her the space during her stay in Lagos. Caleb, her connection back in Boston, had arranged it all. The owner lives in Edinburgh and visits Lagos sparingly but wouldn’t sacrifice his taste when he did. He found most hotels inconvenient and had kept this penthouse apartment to avoid such discomfort. During their only conversation while she was still in Boston, he had told her, “You are free to stay as long as you please, Moria. Caleb’s friend is my friend, and Caleb has told me a lot about you.”

Moria remembered how embarrassed she had been on that call. Caleb hadn’t told her much about this friend, and she had missed his name due to the guttural sound when she picked up. She made a mental note to deal with Caleb in her way the next time she sees him.

At the penthouse, Moria took a moment to soak it all in before heading to the shower. While in the shower, she could hear Denrele bringing in her luggage and letting himself out of the apartment. Her thoughts turned to the week ahead. She had come to Lagos with a purpose: to reconnect with her roots and gather material for the story she was writing about the Agbekoya Uprising, she has a tangled connection with the event to which she owes her present circumstance in life.

Her chance encounter with Erik Johansson had ignited a fire in Moria. She was now more determined than ever to uncover the truth about the Agbekoya unrest—what happened, why, and who was responsible. To her, history wasn’t a static, dusty subject; it was a living, breathing story waiting to be told. Her brief stay in Ikoyi wasn’t for leisure; it was to solidify her plans, confirm appointments, and forge connections that would illuminate her path.

With a glass of 2000 Château Margaux in hand, wrapped in a silky white robe, she sat at the balcony of the penthouse, gazing out at the lagoon with its waters gently lapping against the sides of the building. Moria felt a sense of belonging she had not realised she had been missing. Lagos was chaotic, unpredictable, and a little overwhelming, but it was also vibrant, alive, and full of possibilities. For the first time in years, she felt truly at home.

The journey ahead would take her to Ibadan, where she would meet Mulika. Moria knew that seeing her old friend would unlock forgotten memories and help her fill in the gaps in her search for the truth. She had changed, and she knew Mulika must have too. Moria remembered Mulika’s beauty, innocence, and brilliance, and silently hoped that she had retained those qualities. While their recent phone calls hadn’t revealed much about the first two, Mulika’s sharp intellect was still very much on display.

Moria’s thoughts drifted to Ibadan itself. After nearly three decades away, how much would it have changed? Would the vibrant stalls at Mapo still be there? What about her parents’ old rented room? Her school, the vicar at Mapo Christ Church? She had so many questions, and this trip would hopefully answer them all.

For now, she allowed herself a moment of quiet reflection, savouring the sights and sounds of Ikoyi. As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, Moria smiled. She was ready to embrace whatever came next, knowing that her story was just beginning.

A fleeting thought of her successful realtor business crossed her mind. Would anything need her personal attention? She quickly dismissed the idea, confident that her assistant, Lucy, was more than capable of handling things. This trip was also a test, a chance to prove the business could thrive without her constant presence.

Osegayefo Must Die

At their next meeting, held at the same restaurant, Erik appeared paler than before. His age was beginning to weigh on him, and the prognosis of his medical challenges had not been encouraging.

“Moria,” he began, his voice a little weaker than usual, “today is not like other days. I came because I owe you and your people this story. Otherwise, I would have stayed home.”

“I appreciate this,” Moria replied, as Erik took a sip of his tea and grimaced. “It tastes like dishwater,” he muttered, setting the cup down and wiping his mouth with a handkerchief.

He cleared his throat. “I am going to share with you what led to the removal of Nkrumah. As before,” he continued, “please take notes.”

Moria listened intently, her pen flying across the page as Erik spoke. This time, her questions were fewer, her understanding of international politics deepening with each word. Just as before, after their initial meeting, she moved to the restaurant window, translating Erik’s insights into her own words. She wrote:

The early morning sun cast long, dancing shadows across the cobblestone streets of Westminster. A gentle breeze carried the scent of freshly brewed tea and toasted crumpets from nearby cafes. At the heart of Westminster, a historic Georgian townhouse stood sentinel. Its black door, adorned with a golden lion and unicorn, was a symbol of British power. Inside, the Prime Minister, Harold Wilson, had just concluded a press conference. The tension and anticipation in the room had dissipated, leaving behind a lingering scent of cigar smoke and the soft hum of conversation. As Wilson exited the briefing room, he headed for his office in the labyrinth that 10 Downing Street was.

Once in his office, he took his seat behind his writing desk made of dark wood, likely mahogany, featuring brass detailing and ornate carvings. The desk was cluttered with papers, files, and pens, reflecting the hectic pace of his political life. Not much else stands distinctively in the office except the small lamp that provided light for late-night work, and a framed photograph of his family, which sat on the corner.

Resting separately from the clutter was a thick, crimson dossier bearing a single, ominous word: Ghana. A look at the inking seemed to give an insight into the pulsating weight of the nation’s problems; instinctively, the Prime Minister knew that the future of the Commonwealth, and perhaps even the world order, hung in the balance. If anything can be done to save the flickering glory of Britain, now is the time to make the decision and do it. When he opens the folder, he would need to make that decision, one that he had been dragging his feet on.

The loss of Ghana was a bitter pill to swallow. It was a vivid reminder of the empire’s waning influence, and the rising tide of nationalism and anti-colonialism was ferociously sweeping across the globe. Kwame Nkrumah, the charismatic leader of Ghana, had become a beacon of hope for oppressed peoples everywhere. With the enormous wealth Ghana now possessed, thanks to its gold reserves and cocoa exports, Nkrumah could afford to be audacious; his fiery rhetoric fuelled Pan-Africanism, stirring unrest in other British colonies in Africa and the Caribbean. This is igniting a conflagration that could engulf the entire British Empire.

A single tear escaped his eye as he recalled the glory days of the British Empire. The sun had never set on its vast dominions, and its power and prestige were unmatched. But now, the empire was in twilight, its once-mighty grip on the world slipping away.

Wilson reached for his cigar box, something that had become a comforting habit during times of stress. As he lit the cigar, a cloud of smoke enveloped him, providing a momentary respite from the storm raging within his mind. He thought of his predecessor, Harold Macmillan, who had presided over the granting of Ghanaian independence. Had Macmillan made a mistake? Or had the tide of history simply turned against the British Empire?

Wilson knew that he had to act decisively. As he puffed on his cigar, he resolved to face the challenges ahead with courage and determination. The empire might be in decline, but its spirit would not be broken.

In the annals of British history, a record that the British might prefer to forget, Kwame Nkrumah’s greatest transgression was funding and training dissidents across Africa to rise up and demand independence, or as it was more popularly termed, the emancipation of Africa. Ghana had been a crucial asset for the British colonial conquest in Africa, serving as the site of one of the most important training facilities for Her Majesty’s Colonial Army at Tekshie. The single fly of Nkrumah was threatening to spoil the entire British jar of ointment.

As he reached out to open the dossier, the phone on his desk rang. How his secrets were leaked to the Swedes remained a perplexing mystery for MI6, the British Secret Intelligence Service. But on the other end of the line, when he picked it, was Willy SpĂĽhler, who discussed the need for British support for continued low cocoa prices at the United Nations.

“Willy, you know this isn’t in Britain’s best interests,” Harold replied. “The boys at Paternoster Square won’t like this. Those in the Square Mile will call for my head.”

“No, you need to look at this differently,” the Swedish leader sputtered in broken English. “The setback from reduced cocoa pricing is temporary, but the loss of the colonies will be permanent. And by the way, with no cheap revenues coming from cocoa, the governments in those countries will become unpopular. They will come begging for alms, and you can refer them to the boys in the Square Mile who can get their pound of flesh, as they usually do. Everyone gains, perhaps not the West Africans, though.”

“Could you give me some time to think through this?” Harold asked.

“No, no, Harold, we don’t have the luxury of time, and there’s really nothing to think about,” Willy replied. “If you want to quiet that thorn in your flesh, Nkrumah, this is the way to do it, and now is the time.”

From the moment Harold Wilson and Willy SpĂĽhler had this ill-fated conversation, Nkrumah was a sitting duck. Like Nero, fiddling while Rome burned, Nkrumah remained blissfully unaware of the impending doom. He had survived a few assassination attempts, which were like warning salvos that should have jolted him to caution. But those were for lesser beings, not for Nkrumah. Instead, he embraced a more flamboyant leadership style, adopting the title “Osegayefo,” meaning “Leader of the People.”

Yet, the people he led were growing increasingly desperate and impoverished. Life was becoming harsher and shorter with each passing day. Just a decade ago, cocoa prices had reached a dizzying high of over $1,600 per ton. Joy permeated the air across Ghana, Nigeria, and Ivory Coast. The Owambe parties, a cultural hallmark of the flamboyant Yoruba people of Nigeria, spread like wildfire across the region. The Akan, Ewe, and Ga people soon caught the bug, joining the revelry with unprecedented fervour. People became spendthrifts, and a new trend emerged: taking on new chieftaincy titles and expanding their harems with additional wives.

There was a practical reason behind the family enlargements though: more wives meant more children, and more children meant a larger workforce to tend to the farms. As cocoa prices soared, more land was brought under cultivation, turning cocoa into the new black gold. Expectations were sky-high; prices were expected to climb even higher, leading to widespread affluence.

Then, the unexpected happened: the price plummeted. The once soaring prices began a race to the bottomless pit. By 1964, as the new cocoa plants started contributing to the harvest, the price per ton had fallen to an all-time low of just above $500 per ton. As 1965 drew to a close, the price dropped even further to $250 per ton. Uproar erupted in the land. Farmers ended the year 1965 with empty pockets, and there were mixed reactions regarding the upcoming farming seasons. Should they continue farming, or should they abandon their fields and head to Accra, Kumasi or Takoradi in search of different employment?

Suicide was rife. Kwasi Adjei was one of the farmers who took this tragic path to end his life. He had taken a loan with a crippling interest rate from one of the loan sharks, anticipating a bountiful harvest and the high prices of previous years. The price slump made the loan impossible to repay. As a prominent Ashanti chief, death seemed preferable to the constant reproach and humiliation from the loan sharks.

One Monday morning, his second wife entered his room to deliver breakfast, only to find him hanging from a rope from the ceiling, the royal stool he had stood upon lying fallen away from him, presumably having been pushed away by him. His suicide was just one of many, perhaps more notable due to his status as a chief. But the peasants were also committing suicide in droves.

Somehow, deliberately or otherwise, Nkrumah seemed oblivious to the growing unrest. Fear was palpable in the land, yet he continued business as usual. Everyone, except Nkrumah, saw it coming: change was imminent. Ghana needed a leader who could alleviate the hunger and restore the good old days that now seemed like a distant memory.

The events of February 24, 1966, remain a subject for historians to debate, but it was clear that the coup was a case of Esau’s hand and Jacob’s voice. Although carried out by Ghanaian military officers under the sponsorship of the notorious CIA, the idea to remove Nkrumah originated in that phone conversation between the British and Swiss prime ministers.

It was a case of who was the bigger “bad boy” on the global stage and a masterclass in how to carry out a coup d’Ă©tat, a playbook that Nigeria would follow in less than a decade: remove the master while he is away from home.

Nkrumah was far away in Hanoi, meddling in a war that had nothing to do with Ghana, Africa, or anything that should have been of great concern to him. Oh, except that he saw himself as a player on the world stage, mediating between the all-powerful United States of America and the underdog, Vietnam, in the Vietnam War.

Though Nero fiddled while Rome burned, at least he was aware of the catastrophe. Nkrumah, however, seemed oblivious to the flames consuming his own nation. He was a man who left a fire burning on his own thatched roof while putting out one on his neighbour’s.

When Moria finally looked up from her writing, a sense of satisfaction washed over her. She had captured every point from the two-hour discussion with Erik. She remembered his parting words, a low, gravelly rasp: “History’s reckoning was brutal. Nkrumah returned to nothing, his legacy consumed by flames.” He had paused, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “You know, he died in exile?”

Moria struggled to process the weight of his words. How could Erik know such intimate details, the clandestine conversations within the Prime Minister’s office? Overwhelmed by curiosity, she had challenged him. “Erik, why should I believe any of this?”

A wry smile twisted his lips. “Because” he replied, “I was at the heart of it. I managed our company’s interests throughout.” He leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. “We had pressure groups, yes. But we also had eyes and ears within the very walls of government.” He shrugged with detached indifference. “Just protecting our interests. The tragedy that followed… unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate?” The word had struck Moria like a physical blow, a thunderclap of callousness. Lives shattered, families destroyed—and he called it “unfortunate.” Then, a chilling realisation: without the Agbekoya uprising, she wouldn’t be who she is today.

As Erik turned to leave, she had forced herself to speak. “Thank you, Erik, for everything. I’m planning a trip to Nigeria. Would you… Would you be interested in joining me?”

A shimmer appeared in Erik’s eyes, disappearing as quickly as it had come. “I surely would have loved to, but I am frail,” he answered. “I don’t think I can travel. I’m sure I’ve been knocking on heaven’s doors for a while now, not sure when that door will open.”

Moria rose, her heart aching, and embraced him tightly, tears threatening to spill. In that moment, the weight of mortality pressed down on her, a raw, visceral wish that death held no dominion over humanity.

The Swiss Affairs

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

The salt-laced air of the Atlantic kissed Erik Johansson’s face as he surveyed his sprawling Black Bay Estate. Once a haven of joy, a monument to a life well-lived, it now felt vast and echoing. At 82, the grand mansion was now more of a burden than a symbol of success.

Erik, a retired executive from one of the chocolatiers, had always cherished this home. He had poured his heart and soul into its creation, meticulously selecting every antique, every piece of art. But now, the weight of its grandeur pressed down on him. The echoing halls, the cavernous dining room, the manicured gardens that demanded endless upkeep – it all felt like a gilded cage.

Life in the US had always been attractive to him. So, as he approached retirement, he had bought this sprawling mansion, intent on living his later years to the fullest. But nature had other plans for him, and he has lately struggled with his health. Saga, his partner, had never liked living here. She had settled for a life in the Swiss Alps, satisfied with visiting him from time to time.

The decision to downsize wasn’t easy. But Erik knew it was time to embrace a simpler life, one that was aligned with his changing needs. He began to explore his options. A cozy cottage by the sea? A penthouse apartment in the city? Perhaps a retirement community with vibrant social activities? The possibilities were endless, each with its own allure.

It was while contemplating all this that a friend mentioned Moria to him as the solution to his needs. He called her, and her agency helped him to sell the mansion and buy a smaller house that met his needs. It was in this process that a friendship developed between them.

In getting to know each other, they found out that their lives have been shaped by the same commodity – Cocoa. This chance encounter that developed into a friendship was what rekindled Moria’s interest in the Agbekoya story, an interest that Erik gracefully filled with narratives that were then unknown to her.

It was at a quaint restaurant on the Boston harbour overlooking the Logan International Airport that Erik poured out his heart to her on the politics of Cocoa in the late sixties. Moria took notes as she listened attentively to him talk about the Swiss chocolate industry.

They were engrossed in conversation for nearly three hours. Erik, a captivating storyteller, held forth while Moria listened intently, taking notes, occasionally interjecting with insightful questions. At last, Erik glanced at his watch. A physiotherapy appointment was calling him away. He rose, but before leaving, leaned in slightly, his eyes glinting with a mischievous spark.

“Moria,” he said, “this is only the tip of the iceberg. There’s much more to this story.”
He paused, letting the suspense breathe. “Do you know why Kwame Nkrumah was removed as President of Ghana? Let’s meet again — I’ll tell you more.”

Moria remained at the table, her fingers resting on her notes. The weight of what she had just learned settled over her. Here she was, thousands of miles from Nigeria, uncovering threads that connected the cocoa price slump to the Agbekoya uprising. This was no coincidence – it was a piece of the larger puzzle she needed to understand.

She ordered another cup of tea and shifted to a seat by the window. Pulling her notes close, she knew she had to capture the conversation while it was still alive in her mind. She began to write:

Willy SpĂĽhler, a seasoned politician with a career spanning decade, was contemplating his legacy as President of the Swiss Confederation. From his office window in Bern, he watched the traffic on DalmazibrĂĽcke as it straddles the Aare River, providing a connection between Kirchenfeld on its east bank and Marzili on the West.

The Swiss chocolate industry, a cornerstone of national pride, dominated his thoughts. Throughout Switzerland, chocolatiers are a ubiquitous presence. From the shores of Lake Geneva in Vevey and Versoix to the bustling cities of Lausanne, Zurich, and Lucerne, and even the more secluded towns of Le Locle, Bern, and Aarau, their influence is undeniable. As a powerful economic force and a significant employer, the industry wields considerable political sway. Its support was a decisive factor in determining which party or group held power in Switzerland.

As he looked through the window, in his hand was the letter from a pressure group led by titans in the industry, who had visited him the previous day. They had urged him to oppose the establishment of an International Cocoa Organisation (ICO). Their argument was simple: higher cocoa prices would harm national economies. What bothered him was not how this simplistic argument was arrived at but what should be the right decision for his legacy and Switzerland, in that order.

Switzerland, a land of towering peaks and crystalline lakes, was also a global epicentre of a different kind of treasure: chocolate. Its confectioners were renowned for their artistry, crafting confections that were as exquisite as the alpine scenery. Yet, a peculiar paradox lurked beneath this sweet veneer. While Switzerland was a chocolate paradise, it was a cocoa desert. The beans that formed the heart of every chocolate bar thrived in the humid tropics, a climate utterly foreign to the temperate Swiss Alps. The Swiss, ever resourceful, had attempted to cultivate cocoa domestically, but the challenges were insurmountable. The delicate cocoa plants, accustomed to the warmth and humidity of equatorial regions, struggled to survive in the cooler, drier Swiss climate.

The most promising solution was greenhouses, vast structures that could replicate the tropical conditions cocoa craved. However, the scale of the endeavour was daunting. Cocoa trees, with their towering canopies, demanded ample space to grow. Building greenhouses large enough to accommodate these tropical giants would be a logistical and financial behemoth.

Until the Swiss could devise a solution to their cocoa cultivation dilemma, they remained inextricably linked to West Africa, particularly Ghana and Nigeria, the world’s largest cocoa producers. The uninterrupted flow of cocoa beans was vital to the Swiss economy, supporting jobs in logistics, production, and export.

However, a threat loomed over this delicate relationship – the International Cocoa Organization (ICO), a global body representing cocoa producers, was on the brink of being formed as a cartel. This move, driven by a desire to increase producer revenue, could disrupt the supply chain and drive up the price of cocoa beans. The Swiss chocolatiers, already grappling with the challenges of sourcing their primary ingredient, faced the prospect of further instability. The Swiss are determined not to fold their hands and watch this threat evolve; they want to stop the ICO from being born, fearing it would become a powerful force driving up prices.

As he read the letter, he nibbled at one of the exquisite chocolates left by the pressure group; he could attest that it tasted good. SpĂĽhler made a mental note to address the United Nations and advocate for lowering cocoa prices. He saw himself standing at the United Nations delivering a speech that would remain in the annals of history as part of his legacy. He became convinced that, in this case, protecting the Swiss chocolate industry was the right thing to do for his legacy. But before his meeting, he had an ingenious idea. He called his assistant, instructing her to send a selection of Swiss chocolates to the United Nations Secretary-General, accompanied by a note that simply read, “Want more?”

Getting SpĂĽhler to pressure the UN was just one of the multifaceted ways that the Swiss pressure group had agreed to pursue to bend cocoa-producing nations to their will. Crafting a deceptive narrative that lower cocoa prices were not only good for consumers but also beneficial for the very producers they exploited was another. Despite the glaring economic consequences of lower cocoa prices for West African nations like Ghana and Nigeria, the companies forged ahead with their insidious plan. Their target: Dr. Tomoye Olusoga, a respected scholar with a deep understanding of the region’s economic challenges. With the right incentives, they believed they could sway Tomoye to write a research paper that painted a rosy picture of low commodity prices for West Africa.

As masters of manipulation, they executed their plan with meticulous precision. They placed an ad in the Daily Sketch of Nigeria, seeking economic researchers interested in a development economics project focused on the cocoa industry.

As Nigeria stood on the threshold of independence, a severe shortage of skilled professionals loomed, threatening to stall the nation’s progress. In response, the Commonwealth Scholarship and Fellowship Plan (CSFP) handpicked a select group of gifted scholars to pursue advanced degrees abroad. Among them was Tomoye Olusoga, the son of Asake, the palm oil trader from Ibadan.

Gifted with a sharp and curious mind, Tomoye defied the constraints of his modest upbringing. He earned a bachelor’s degree in economics from University College Ibadan — then an esteemed affiliate of the University of London — before completing a PhD in Development Economics at the prestigious University of Melbourne.

Returning home with a deep commitment to national growth, Tomoye was appointed Research Director at the Cocoa Research Institute of Nigeria (CRIN). Driven by a passion for economic development and an acute understanding of the cocoa sector’s untapped potential, he was quick to seize opportunities. When a call for research appeared in the Daily Sketch, he recognised the perfect chance to apply his expertise. The Swiss pressure group, equally swift in its decision, commissioned him to lead the project without delay.

Tomoye’s research revealed that higher prices would incentivise increased cocoa acreage and benefit producers. The pressure group was discontent as his research was a defiant counterpoint to their meticulously crafted narrative. They questioned his methods, subtly hinting that his ‘lack of field experience’ had led him astray. They presented him with a stack of European studies, each a polished echo of their desired conclusion: lower prices, a universal boon. Standing at the intersection of truth and compromise, Tomoye felt the strain of a moral tightrope – one misstep betrays his integrity, yet resistance came with its own costs.

He was under immense pressure; should he bend his findings, reshape them to fit his paymasters’ agenda, and secure the funding he desperately needed? Or should he stand firm, a lone voice against a tide of corporate influence? In that fraught moment, he asked himself, “What would Lambert do?”

Professor Lambert, a titan of academia with his shrivelled white beard that seemed to hold centuries of wisdom, had warned about the treacherous currents of commissioned research. “The unforgivable sin,” he had thundered, “is to compromise the truth.” It was as if Lambert’s voice, resonant and unwavering, filled the room.

At that instance, Tomoye knew what Lambert would do: uphold the sanctity of his research. But the weight of his family’s dreams, the humble house he yearned to build, pressed down on him with agonising force. Every brick of that future home seemed to whisper a temptation, a siren song of compromise. Yet, deep within him, the ancient code of the “Omoluabi,” the Yoruba ideal of uprightness, resonated like a drumbeat, an unyielding refusal to betray his principles. He would not, could not, sell his truth for a house.

Meanwhile, in Zurich, Erik Johansson, then a chocolate mogul with a reputation for his keen business acumen, was flipping through the latest copy of the Neue ZĂĽrcher Zeitung (NZZ). His office, a sleek sanctuary of polished wood and soft leather, was as refined as the chocolate he oversaw. It was 10 past the hour, and he was holding the day’s copy of the NZZ in his hands while enjoying his morning cup of tea and biscuits.

His assistant had just left the room after handing it over to him. The phone was ringing incessantly, but he couldn’t be bothered. Anyone who was anyone knew not to call him at 10 past the hour when he was taking his morning tea; in any case, Saga would take the call when she got to her seat.

He had made a good living off the chocolate business and was always interested in keeping abreast of developments in the industry. A man of his stature and power hadn’t reached his position by being ignorant of developments in his world.

As he scanned the pages, his eyes fell on a seemingly innocuous news item: “San Francisco utnämnde Ghirardelli Square till ett officiellt stadslandmärke[1]” at the lower corner of the fourth page.

It was an innocent news piece, and not many would have taken notice of it, but not Erik. His mind raced with possibilities, differing from the serene atmosphere of his office. He buzzed for his assistant, Saga Karlsson, a striking young woman in her early forties with a figure that commanded attention:  ‘Please get me Emil Gustafsson, my dear.’

One can smell the scent of an office romance between the two. Not that Erik could be accused of anything untoward to Saga; it was the frolicking of two mutually consenting adults. Saga was the one who initiated it, aware that Erik had just gone through a bitter divorce. At their office in Zurich, the affair was an open secret that everyone knew, but no one talked about.

Seeing the name Ghirardelli had jolted Erik to a possibility that the pressure group had missed: what if West African cocoa was starting to be diverted to the West Coast of America, where Ghirardelli was willing to pay better prices than the Swedes? This was a potential game-changer, a door of opportunity that no one seemed to have considered which must be closed.

Not that this hadn’t been tried before, Erik mused, a flicker of history crossing his mind. Just over three decades ago, a Ghanaian cocoa trader named Winfried Tete-Ansah had attempted a similar feat. A Krobo man, Tete-Ansah, had founded the West African Co-operative Producers, a bold venture to bypass the imperial system and directly export Gold Coast’s and Nigerian cocoa to the United States. Unfortunately, the European stranglehold on the cocoa trade proved too strong. Tete-Ansah’s companies faltered, leaving him with a staggering ÂŁ11,000 loss and unpaid debts to farmers for about 400 tons of cocoa.

Erik leaned back in his chair; his gaze fixed on the newspaper. He knew that if it had been done before, it could be done again. As he awaited Emil, he began to ponder the logistical challenges. The shipping routes between West Africa and the West Coast of America were limited, and the Panama Canal, with its intricate locks and lengthy queues, presented significant hurdles. But what if Ghirardelli and its West African suppliers could bypass the Panama Canal entirely, shipping the cocoa to the East Coast of the United States and then transporting it by rail to major markets like San Francisco? Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Emil sauntered in, “You called for me, boss.”

Erik handed the NZZ to Emil, pointing at the news item. “What do you think?”

Emil scanned the article, thought for a moment, then said, “What’s so striking about this? It’s just a news item about a chocolate company.”

Erik was unimpressed. With years of tutelage, he expected more from Emil. By Erik’s standards, Emil should be living and breathing chocolate, knowing competitors like Ghirardelli inside out. However, Erik also saw this as a teachable moment. In aristocratic German, he shared his concerns with Emil, who immediately saw the same problem Erik had seen. But Emil also saw an opportunity that Erik had missed.

Emil explained that if Ghirardelli chose to pay better than they did, they should encourage it. Erik was bewildered. Had Emil lost his mind? Though he didn’t express this in words, his facial expression spoke volumes. Noting the expression, Emil said, “Let me explain so you can understand. With high input costs, Ghirardelli would have no choice but to increase their chocolate prices. When that happens, it will be an opportunity thrown at our laps.”

Erik, you know how long we’ve been seeking a market entry opportunity on the US West Coast. Perhaps this is it. We can deliver quality Swiss chocolates at lower prices than Ghirardelli to the American consumer.

“How come I didn’t think of that?” Erik muttered to himself. His earlier dejection at Emil had faded away. “Excellent thought,” he said. “We need to get the boys in planning to work out that scenario, but we need to keep it under wraps for now.” He was already thinking of how to outmaneuver the other members of the Swiss coalition.

[1] Swedish, meaning “San Francisco designated Ghirardelli Square as an official city landmark”

Previously Prologue. Next? Osegayefo Must Die
Erik’s second meeting with Moria, informing her of the extent to which the Swiss were involved in protecting the chocolate industry from threats against cocoa supply

Prologue

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

The early morning call to prayer was a daily ritual in Ibadan, a practice deeply rooted in Islamic faith. As the city evolved from a war camp into a thriving trade hub, particularly with the Hausa people, Islam flourished.

Each dawn, the pre-dawn silence was shattered by the rhythmic chant of the “Alfa”, amplified by the Ahuja horn loudspeaker. This resonant call to prayer, or adhan, echoed through the city, beckoning the faithful to commence their daily prayers.

As the Alfa’s call echoed through the streets, Ibadan began to stir. Residents emerged from their homes, wrapped in prayer rugs, and made their way towards the nearest mosque. The once-quiet streets filled with the sound of footsteps and hushed conversations as people prepared for the morning prayer.

Moriamo, affectionately called Moria, a young girl with a heart full of dreams, was roused from her slumber by her mother, Nasifa. She had slept through the morning call to prayer, her usual alarm. It was time to help her mother with the food-selling business before the morning rush.

Little did she know that this would be her last morning in that small room she shared with her parents. As she rose from the mat, she knelt and briefly greeted her father and mother. They lay on a foam mattress, separated from her sleeping space by a simple curtain. Had she known, she would have taken a moment to appreciate the simplicity of their shared space truly and hugged her parents a little tighter.

She stepped out of her mud-clay house, its walls smoothed with a layer of cement. Feeling fortunate compared to some of her schoolmates, she made her way to the stall less than a kilometre away behind Mapo Hall. There, she retrieved a giant pot and placed it on the Adogan, a simple fireplace of three stones.

Kindling the fire was a surefire way to wake up, even after the morning walk. She tore some Ogusho and placed them among the firewood. Striking a match and blowing gently, she coaxed the dry wood into flame. The emerging smoke triggered her cough and made her eyes water and redden, but it was a necessary task before heading to school.

With the fire crackling, she turned to the Amu, a large clay pot used for storing water. Dipping into the water she had fetched from the mosque the night before, she poured it into the pot. Carefully measuring the rice, following her mother’s instructions, she added it to the boiling water.

Their family’s food-selling business was booming. The previous day, they’d sold out their entire stock ahead of schedule. Civil servants, drawn by the tantalising aroma of steaming rice piled high in a basin, would place their orders with her mother. Some would add beans, plantain, or eggs, while others opted for a generous serving of fiery stew and assorted meats, depending on their budget. These customers would then settle at the long timber table and bench, crafted by her father, Alimi, a skilled carpenter.

The income from this bustling business helped her mother shoulder household expenses, ensuring a steady supply of food and other necessities. Her mother would soon join her, but first, she had to wash the dishes and measure out the Elubo for the Amala that her mother would prepare and sell to their customers at lunchtime.It was this mundane task that was interrupted by the sharp cry of Mama Rafia, their neighbour. She shouted for everyone to shut their shops and run.

In Ibadan, Mapo Hall, a grand edifice perched atop a hill, reminds all about the city’s colonial past, modelled after St. George’s Hall in Liverpool. In the late 1960s, the hall’s imposing presence dominated the surrounding landscape. Its majestic architecture, characterised by columnar facades and intricate detailing, was a sight to behold.

It offered visitors a sweeping panorama of the city below. From its elevated position, the grand hall stood as a silent witness to the vibrant, chaotic life of the metropolis. Inside, its corridors and chambers hummed with the constant flow of people—politicians, students, merchants, and citizens—each contributing to the building’s rich, human atmosphere. The air was a thick blend of sweat, perfume, and the faint, savory scent of food from nearby stalls.

This was more than just a building; it was a stage for history. In 1948, the Ibadan Conference brought together Yoruba leaders from across Nigeria, and it was here that Chief Obafemi Awolowo delivered the powerful speech that launched his career. Seven years later, in 1955, the National Council of Nigeria and the Cameroons held its annual convention in this very hall, featuring a presidential address by Nnamdi Azikiwe.

Yet, this hallowed space also bore the scars of conflict. In late November 1968, as the dry Harmattan winds began to blow, the hall became the target of the Agbekoya uprising. As the headquarters for the Ibadan City Council, which administered the very taxes that had sparked the revolt, the building symbolized the government’s oppression. Steeped in the belief that “those who make peaceful change impossible make violent change inevitable,” the Agbekoya stormed the hall. They felt that if peace had been denied to them, the government should find no peace either. In their eyes, the building was not just an office, but an emblem of the injustice they were determined to bring down.

The cry of “Egbami, mogbe!”  was what Moria heard that alerted her that something was off.  A surge of panic swept through her as she saw, coming towards her, a group of men, dressed in frightening clothing and armed with cudgels, machetes, clubs, and other unfamiliar weapons. They were scattering everything on their way.

Before Moria could close the shop, the Agbekoya men were upon her. Seeing their menacing appearance, the Ewu-Etu worn and the assortment of charms they carried, her heart pounded with fear. She abandoned everything and fled for her life, stumbling into a ditch and breaking her right foot. The pain was excruciating, but she stifled her cries, too terrified to make a sound. Unbeknownst to her, the Agbekoya were not targeting people like her. She was merely caught in the crossfire of their anger.

As she lay there, struggling with the pain, she noticed a figure hidden behind an overturned table, not far from her. It was a man wearing a cassock and a clerical collar. He also could see Moria and had witnessed her dashing out of the stall and running without looking into the gutter. He beckoned to Moria to be patient; he was too afraid to get out of hiding to Moria’s help.