By Lasisi Olagunju

It happened one sunny day in mid-May 2003. I was preparing to go to the office around noon when Tayo, the editor’s secretary, called me. “Mr Olagunju, don’t come to the office, Baba Adedibu is here looking for you. He came with his boys.” There were no two birds bearing ‘hawk’ in the skies of Ibadan at that time. Alhaji Lamidi Adedibu was the strongman of Ibadan politics. He earned that appellation in practical terms on the field of battle. Adedibu was death that thundered before killing; he was lightning that shrieked before striking. Alhaji Adedibu was the buyer who entered the market, bought all and paid for none. Before him, there was none so hard; after him, there has been none so dreaded.

What did I buy on credit from Alhaji Adedibu’s tray? If you offended him and he wanted you, you would surrender to him or find yourself in his presence. That was the man who came looking for me. He had enough big, street boys who made things happen for him and they were with him on that visit. I quickly checked the gate to my house and the door to my flat. I did a mind check of my recent activities. There was nothing that should make me a candidate for Adedibu’s trouble.

Tayo’s voice on the phone brought me back. “Baba said there is a report against him in the paper today and that you wrote it. He said someone in Tribune hinted to him that any story published without the author’s name was written by you, the news editor.” I laughed at that conclusion. I remembered that report. ‘Adedibu demands 12 out of 14 commissioner slots.’ The headline was something like that. I didn’t write the story. A colleague did. But I passed the story for publication because the source was very credible. The godfather didn’t like the report. He was livid at the audacity of the writer, and possibly wanted to use his visit to get a hint on who spilt the beans.

Chief Adedibu came fully prepared for me, the supposed writer of the story. He was adequately briefed on when I would arrive at the office. But he didn’t meet me. He couldn’t have met me. My masquerade did not put on its costume in the city centre and so would not suffer Adedibu’s rending effect. Eégún t’ó bá tì’gboro se l’aso won máa nya. Before that moment, I had spent all my years in Ibadan avoiding having anything to do with the old man. As a reporter, I always had excuses for not going for official duties at his popular palace at Molete, a place noted for anything and everything. Yet, Alaafin Molete’s palace was just five minutes’ drive from Tribune House and of the same distance to where I lived.

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The story we published was correct. Adedibu, Ibadan’s kingmaker, wanted more than enough from the governor he made just three weeks earlier. The godfather wanted to govern the new governor and run the coming government from his home. Adedibu’s godson, Senator Rashidi Ladoja, who had just won the governorship had not even been sworn in when Chief made that demand. Fortunately, both were Ibadan – very heady, crafty and stubborn – and so were a perfect match for each other in the unfolding war. Godfather wanted everything as fruits of his labour; godson thought he could be independent of the kingmaker. The result was that they fought. If Ruth Watson’s ‘Civil Disorder is the Disease of Ibadan’ was acted as a drama, one of the two would be the hero, the other the anti-hero. Ibadan had them and felt them. Limbs were broken; heads got cracked; there were accidents at home and on the road; lives got lost; tenure got truncated. The rest is history.

Four years earlier in Maiduguri, a similar incident had opened the floor for godfathers to drag godsons. Governorship elections were held across Nigeria on Saturday, 9 January, 1999. For Borno State, Mallam Mala Kachalla of the All Peoples Party (APP) won the seat with 388,058 votes. His opponent, Baba Ahmad Jidda of the PDP polled 348,800 votes. The victor and his followers started preparing for the swearing-in ceremony scheduled for May 29, 1999. But, amid all the preparations, the state’s outgoing military administrator felt a storm gathering. He got a troubling intelligence report in March that there were plans to impeach the man who had not even taken the oath of office. It was funny; it was not funny. But it was true.

Ali Modu Sheriff, born 1956, was Kachalla’s godfather. Kachalla was born in 1941, 15 years before his godfather was born. Before the election, Ali Modu Sheriff called Kachalla ‘Baba’. He was his father’s friend. During the election, there was a reversal of role; Kachalla worshipped the 43-year-old Sheriff. It is never by age, it is a matter of cash and Ali Modu Sheriff had it and gave plenty of it in service of Kachalla’s ambition. Godson won. Godfather wanted returns from his investment; he drew a list of cabinet members for the governor-elect. Godson said no; he picked some and dropped some. He flapped his wings and thought he could fly independent of the godfather who bought him the throne. He paid dearly for it. There was turbulence. His plane fatally suffered loss of altitude. Sheriff created ECOMOG; Kachalla countered with his own ECOMOG. But if iron hits iron, one will bow to the other. Kachalla’s iron got bent and broken; the earth quaked. The next election, power changed hands, kingmaker made himself king. Godson lost everything. Life continued.

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The godfather is the consummate ego tripper. Phillip Athans, author of ‘Devils of the Endless Deep’, describes the godfather as the “invader” who is determined “to be in charge of something, from the entire universe down to some back alley in the thieves quarter of the city.” The characterization is right. Even when they know that no king wants to share his throne, they still make a dash for power and the palace. Take Olusegun Obasanjo as an example. He was made president by some people in 1999; some people picked the bills. He became president and announced that if anyone thought his presidency was an investment, they had lost that investment. And for eight years, he did exactly as he promised. The same Obasanjo picked his successors in 2007 and 2011. Did he let them be? He wrote in his ‘My Watch’ (Volume 3, page 3): “I have learned from the Yoruba adage that ‘the kingmaker who does not hide his head after the installation of the king will be the first victim of the king’s wrath.” Now, did Obasanjo “hide his head after the installation of the king” as preached by him? He didn’t. The result is the long list of complaints we read in most of the pages of his three-piece memoir. It is the nature of power. The godfather is the kingmaker. He is never satisfied with half measures. The reason they are endangered and in perpetual state of war. It is the reason those very deep in Yoruba power-play say that the kingmaker’s blood provides the canvas for the king’s coronation dance (eni bá fi wón j’oyè, èjè rè ni wón máa ntè wo’lé). I heard that from my late father.

Nasir el-Rufai is fighting two wars at the same time. He is fighting the power caucus in Abuja and fighting local with Governor Uba Sani, his protégé in Kaduna. He tried to link the two fronts in a social media post last week. El-Rufai is angry because he lost his investment in Governor Sani to a more wily partner who has chased him out of a profitable partnership in Abuja. He spanked his governor for his undisguised support for President Bola Tinubu: “Every day I see this governor embarrassingly and sycophantically rambling, I used to wonder why? However, confirming that Federal Government ‘reimbursements, interventions, and grants’ in excess of N150 billion have been given selectively to Kaduna by Tinubu in the last 18 months now explains everything. By all means, defend Asiwaju for the conditional cash transfer. Asiwaju has earned it, coming from you. The people of Kaduna State will judge at the right time and place. Have a nice day,” the former governor wrote on X.

El-Rufai is (or was) godfather in Kaduna; he thinks he deserves that title too in Abuja – he, after all, led northern governors’ 2023 rebellion against Buhari’s from-north-to-north succession agenda. He thinks the revolt provided the wings for Tinubu’s eagle to fly into the northern space and into power. Truly, Bola Tinubu’s 2023 victory dress was sewn by a large confederation of provincial godfathers. El-Rufai was just one of them. Now, he, like many of the kingmakers, is down, locked out of the luxurious palace since May 2023. His lockout will be two years in May this year. He is very hurt and very angry. And justifiably so. If you eat gbì, you must be ready to die gbì. Watch him. He won’t stop until he is done. He has just started.

Follow closely the Mudasiru Obasa saga in Lagos. It is a tragedy that closes and unfolds like abracadabra. Some agents are said to have usurped the powers of the principal. They crossed the red line and are digging in. It is the digging in that intrigues me. Does it mean the palace eunuchs have grown balls, and boys have become men? Whatever answer that question attracts, I see this matter having very profound implications for politics at the national level. I see slithering snakes waltzing into the yawning walls of Lagos.

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The noise over Lagos’ speakership today is because a pride of cats thought they could barbecue Mr Jones’ bull in the Animal Farm and get away with it. Imperial Lagos is a mafiadom. There are rules governing every mafia’s operations. The bojúbojú removal drama of Obasa as Lagos speaker resembles more an operation by the Mafia of Sicily. Norman Silverstein says in ‘The Godfather- A Year After’ (1974) that “What makes the Mafia frightening is its creeping secrecy, its being a closed society, its weapon (of) secret terror – defending and offending.” That reads like Lagos’ conclave. It is an elaborate structure that diminishes the intelligence of those who contrived democracy as the best form of government. What next for Lagos? Read Orwell’s 1984: “If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face — forever.”

The godfather may also have a godfather to whom he does not say no. The senior godfather may not necessarily be a politician. He may be the king’s son, his brother or, more insidiously, his marabout, babalawo, pastor or Imam. In the south, pastors and Alfas call the shots; in the north, the clerics hold the yam and the knife.

Now, how did we arrive here? A northern Nigerian story gives some insights:

Northern region’s first and only premier, Alhaji Ahmadu Bello, the Sardauna of Sokoto, had this young Islamic scholar called Sheikh Abubakar Gumi. Sheikh Gumi was the father of the Sheikh Ahmad Abubakar Gumi that you are very conversant with today. The older Sheikh Gumi, who died in September 1992, did humanity a lot of good by documenting his everything in an autobiography. ‘Where I stand’ is the title he gave that book of enlightenment, and I wish we all read it to understand how the Nigerian rain started and why it is still pouring.

The Sardauna loved Gumi, his brilliance and his ways and took him as his son. Godfather confided in godson on almost all matters. One day, the two had a deep discussion that changed radically the course of the Sardauna’s political career and the direction of (Northern) Nigeria’s politics.

“I was with the Premier in his house one day when he began to lament to me openly about the money he spent in the course of his political campaigns,” Gumi writes on page 101 of his ‘Where I stand’. He writes that the Sardauna lamented further that “he had spent whatever personal money he had almost to the point of bankruptcy.” The premier was disappointed in some of his lieutenants who were not as committed as he was to their joint political journey. And what was Gumi’s response? I quote Gumi in the book:

“But if it costs you personally and the party so much, why don’t you do something that would make you more popular, not only with the people but also with God?” I suggested to him.

“What could that be?” he asked.

“You see”, I explained, “if you spent, say, ten percent of the money you now lose to politics to promote the religion, it would earn you more supporters. This is beside the fact that it would be more directly in the service of God.” Gumi said the Sardauna “listened carefully and I explained to him further.” Gumi did not state what his further explanation was but he believed that was the point the Sardauna began to “pay more attention to Islamic matters”, courting local Imams for his politics, and giving “them some money, whenever he went out on campaign visits” (page 102). Mighty oaks from little acorns grow. From that point, Gumi became the guide, the godfather showing the leader the way.

Today, religious leaders play godfathers to the godfather. Behind the crisis in Kaduna and Lagos are some prophecies and predictions about 2027. The clerics are the prophets. They are the gods to appease if there will be peace.