Two and a half decades ago, his word was law; he was the god in green who decided the affairs of mortals in the ways that tickled his fancy. His chest was a barrel. His arms were thick. A lush beret covered a beautifully rounded skull encasing a brain constantly engrossed in mischief. His steps, springy; his smile like fresh snow, he was the ultimate kmercantile soldier; the fork-tongued evil genie. He is the Insincere Bada Barawu alias Ologun Dudu.
Today, time has seen age weigh down Bada Barawu. His actions when he held the mace of authority over the nation and the events in the polity have entrapped him behind the backdoor of history from which he has been peeping and trying to rewrite his name in the minds of the masses. Like hounds laying in wait, journalists watched as his airplane touched the ground and taxied. This is the big moment when Bada Barawu would clear the air on some misty issues surrounding his recent interview. It appears the more Barawu attempts to reposition himself in the eyes of the public by trying to stand with the masses on national issues, the more he shackles himself to the haunting memories of a better-forgotten past.

As soon as the airplane stopped, journalists broke into a run towards it and were just within earshot when Barawu disappeared into a Roll Royce. The newshounds numbering over 30 surrounded the automobile and some audacious ones among them knocked on the opaque windows of the spectacle on wheel. The Roll Royce stood still. The journalists didn’t move, either. Something must give. Slightly, the driver wound down his window, saying “The Great One is not in this car,” a grin playing on his lips. A chorus of protesting voices countered, saying, “He’s in this car! He’s at the back seat!” Slowly, the driver wound down the windows to the back seat, and behold, it was empty! As an object falls off a sleeping hand, the journalists slowly raised their heads from the windows and let go of the Rolls Royce, crestfallen, many couldn’t believe the abracadabra that just unfolded before their very eyes. “But I saw him enter the car. I saw him with my two koro koro eyes,” a veteran among the journalists stressed. “Na wa o,” another enthused. “The man sabi dribble, sha,” a female among the lot said. Again, the eel has slipped away.
“Ah! Comrades, he’s here o. I’ve seen him! He’s in this Volkswagen Beetle! Come o! Come and see him o,” a young, vigilant journalist cried out. In the mad rush to the yellow Volkswagen in the convoy, some journalists had their phones and cameras smashed as security agents tried to prevent them from interviewing the big masquerader at the back seat of the small car. From inside the Beetle, popularly referred to as ijapa (tortoise), Barawu waved his hand at his security aides and they stopped harassing the journalists.
“Sir, we want you to clear the air on your recent interview wherein you said nobody would read your biography,” one of the journalists fired.
“I’ve said what I meant and I mean what I said,” Barawu shot back.
Journalist: What do you think you’ve done that would make Nigerians not read your biography?
Barawu: You should use your newspapers and ask them what I’ve done that won’t make them forgive me more than 20 years after I stepped aside.
Journalist: You said you stepped aside. Does this suggest you were hoping to remount the saddle after that election crisis might have subsided?
Barawu: Why did you think I installed a puppet when I stepped aside? I can never forgive Sone because he went against our agreement for him to hold the fort for me. Look at all the money being unearthed in his name? Ha! Sone! Shege! I didn’t know I relied on a dangerous snake!”
Journalist: People see you too as a tortoise who never honored his word. They see you as having stolen much more than Sone. They see you as the leader who laid a solid foundation for corruption in the country and under whose watch a letter bomb boomed and many soldiers died in a plane crash. Some were killed over alleged coup plots.

Barawu: Who among Nigeria’s leaders didn’t steal? Someone had N20,000 in his account before we cleaned him up and brought him upon the throne. Today, the N20,000 has germinated into billions. Several retired generals have oil wells. One of them said he doesn’t even know what to do with his wealth. It’s only me they’re always pointing accusing fingers at. I created 11 states, I gave them the Third Mainland Bridge, I established the NDLEA, FRSC, NDE, NEC, DFRRI, SAP, Better Life Programme for Rural Women, National Economic Reconstruction Fund, Nigerian Export Promotion Council, National Board for Community Banks, Nigerian Deposit Insurance Corporation, among others. Show me any Nigerian leader who achieved half of what I achieved. Daley was my friend. I don’t know who killed him. In the military, the wages of coup is death.

Journalist: If you meant well for Nigeria, why did you annul the nation’s freest election won by the man you refer to as friend? And the way your friends ended up in undesirable circumstances…
Barawu: I wasn’t the one who annulled the election. Powerful Nigerians did. It was beyond me. The echoes of the annulment still ring.
Journalist: Sir, you’ve been hearing voices?
Barawu: “I hear echoes, not voices. Thank you.” (The window of the Beetle rolls up)

(A few days later)
Lightning ripped open the black blanket covering the night, drowning the shrilly monotone of the restless owl. The blaring siren of a blazing ambulance amplified the gloom heralding the journey to the hilltop. Two medical consultants and a female nurse swayed, fastened to their seats as the blue light-blinking ambulance tore into the night. Shaun Michael, an American consultant psychiatrist sighed, “I’ve never seen any medical case like this all my life.” Clearing his throat, the consultant radiologist, a Nigerian, Tali Ofege, said, “This medical case is a battle between man and conscience. I’ve practised medicine for more than 40 years, I’ve come to realise that there’s no cure for karma.” Michael slowly turned his head, met the gaze of his Nigerian counterpart, and said, “Deep words you uttered there; money cannot cure karma. I wish man realises this and keeps his life simple.”
When the ambulance pulled up at the mansion, gates and doors opened upon scrutiny by an invisible electronic security system. The medical team stepped inside the stately room as the bulletproof electronic door slid into the walls. Propped up by silver pillows on a golden bed, the patient opens his eyes, tried a smile. “Morning, sir,” Doctor Michael said, assessing the pulse, blood pressure, temperature and respiration of the patient with practised hands. “We’ve come to do a follow-up medical test. As I said, this is a case of comorbid insomnia. The medical test we conducted yesterday showed that you have some things deeply worrying your mind. If you don’t mind, sir, we shall conduct the concluding test now. Call it the waterboarding interrogation technique used in the military to obtain information from suspects, if you like. But this is a refined technique. It is aimed at making you recall those past experiences haunting you while we exorcise them in a scientific manner. This electromagnetic machine will enter into your mind and reveal the things worrying you. I can see you’ve not slept in 12 days.”

The nurse turned him face down on the bed and strapped the Velcro cords of the psychoanalysis machine to his head. The device beeped and whirred.
A thousand and one June 12! June 12! June 12! June 12! June 12! scrolled up the screen slowly.
*Written By Tunde Odesola
