(Book Excerpt: ADVENTURES OF A GUERRILLA JOURNALIST, Authored by BABAFEMI OJUDU)
Shaki, a prominent town in the Oke Ogun area of Oyo State, isn’t typically a place where big stories break. But on April 22, 1990, it became the focus of my colleagues and me.
That morning, Nigerians awoke to the now familiar tune of martial music. This coup d’état, however, was unlike any before. On Radio Nigeria’s national network, the plotters announced the overthrow of General Ibrahim Babangida’s regime and declared the dismembering of Nigeria, excising five states to form a new country.
The coup leaders were virtually unknown, almost anonymous in national discourse. Among them was Major Gideon Orkar, a name unfamiliar outside his circle of colleagues, friends, and possibly his community. By afternoon, it was announced that Babangida’s regime had survived, some insurrectionists were arrested, others were on the run. Major Orkar was among those arrested.
In the African Concord newsroom, we brainstormed the best angle to report this earth-shaking story. The only useful details we could gather about Orkar were his Benue State origin and his last posting at the army base in Shaki.
As an Assistant Editor and with my friend and colleague, Bayo Onanuga as Editor, we decided to send a reporter to Makurdi to dig up Orkar’s background. Onanuga, reporter Seye Kehinde, and I embarked on a mission to Shaki to uncover more about Orkar and, if possible, obtain his photograph.
Setting out around 2:00 pm in Onanuga’s car, we drove several hours on treacherous roads to Shaki, arriving late, about 9:00 pm. Our mission to enter the barracks was suicidal. Under normal circumstances, probing questions in a military formation were dangerous; post-coup, it was perilous. The military was hunting both civilian and military accomplices.
In Lagos, one of our staff, Onoise Osunbor, had already been picked up in a barracks. Unbeknownst to him, his friend, with whom he spent the night, participated in the coup. Osunbor was still sleeping when the military arrested him. He spent months in detention and fled Nigeria upon release.
Under such dire circumstances, we ventured into a military barrack the night after the coup attempt. Journalism was our calling; informing the people was our duty, risk notwithstanding. We headed to the Mammy Market, the soldiers’ night time hangout. That night, it was deserted, the commander arrested, uncertainty looming.
The market’s eerie silence urged us to leave before being noticed and arrested. Back in town, we searched for a place to rest. The town had no notable hotels. After some inquiries, we found a six-room guest house – a brothel more than a hotel. We managed to rest.
Early the next morning, we gathered in Onanuga’s room to strategise. Someone in town must know Orkar. Stepping out, luck favoured us. Seye Kehinde was recognised by a former University of Ife student who turned out to be a tennis friend of Orkar. He described Orkar as taciturn, strict, unsocial, and married to an Ijesa woman. Yet, the challenge remained: how to get Orkar’s photograph.
It occurred to us that Orkar must have had interactions with the town’s commercial photographer. We reached the studio and met an apprentice. Her boss was away, but she showed us military photographs from their archives. Among them, an officer laying a wreath stood out. Convinced it was Orkar, we concocted a plan.
Feigning thirst, we sent the apprentice to buy Coca-Cola. During her absence, we stole several military photographs. She returned with hot Coca-Cola, we pretended to drink, tipped her, and disappeared from town before her boss returned.
In Lagos, we confirmed the photograph as Orkar’s. National Concord ran it the next day, the first public image of Orkar until his tribunal arraignment. The following week, African Concord published a comprehensive profile on Orkar, detailing his life, military career, coup motivations, arrest, and snippets about his wife.
Years later, I travelled to the US to interview the coup conspirators who escaped abroad. In Mississippi, I persuaded Major Saliba Mukoro, now a criminology professor, to speak with me. It took a lot of effort doing so but later became so comfortable with me to offer me a room in his house to stay the night. He introduced me to other Orkar coup exiles, many of whom had rebuilt their lives successfully in the US. This culminated in a cover story about their involvement and remarkable transitions.