Watching the Book launch of General Ibrahim Babangida and his talk on June 12 brought back memories—painful, unforgettable memories. I vividly remember what happened the night Abiola died.
We were at Gbagada for a leadership meeting when, suddenly, an abrupt announcement came: “Everyone should leave for their homes immediately”.No closing prayer. No benediction. No explanation. Just an urgent dismissal.
On our way home, the news broke—Abiola was dead, and Nigeria was boiling.
A thought struck me: ‘If Nigeria was at a breaking point, then Oshodi would be a lake of fire and brimstone’. Fear gripped me. I lived in Oshodi. I knew my people. How on earth was I going to pass through that place without an “exchange of pleasantries” with the boys across the bridge?
“Don’t worry, Albert. Just follow me,” my beloved brother said.
He had said those words to me before, and I nearly got messed up. But this time, there was no alternative. We were caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. So, like a restless primary school pupil who had lost his “Kopiko”, I followed him.
When we got to Oshodi, the atmosphere had completely changed. Hoodlums had taken over. They looted and robbed everyone who dared cross their path. This time, there was no cause for control. Everything was under alarm!
I stopped my brother and whispered, “What are we going to do? These Agberos are everywhere.”
Calmly, he replied, “Don’t worry. Just follow me and do exactly as I say and do.”
By now, we were surrounded. The men of the underworld chanted “MKO! MKO!” Their bloodshot eyes scanned us. We held nothing but a Bible and a jotter—hardly enough to scare a *Tse Tse fly. Then, my brother gave a command and did the unthinkable.
“Roll up your trousers! Take off your shirt! Tie it on your head! Raise both hands in the air and follow me!”*l
Chai! My clothes off? My trousers rolled up like a tout? At Oshodi? Has my brother lost his mind? Has he abandoned all sense of decency and holiness? Mba! That was absurd. I refused.
By this time, the crowd was fully charged. The hoodlums were itching for action. Yet, some people in our group obeyed my brother’s command. They transformed—bare-chested, trousers rolled—joining the chant, “MKO! MKO!” With their hands raised, they approached the “daredevils”.
To my astonishment, they passed through unscathed—like a warm knife through butter.
By the time we, ‘the faithful few’ who refused to comply, attempted to pass the same route, the ‘Agberos’ pounced. They searched us ruthlessly, stripping off the very clothes we had stubbornly clung to—down to our underwear! What followed next is a story for another day.
The next morning, as I nursed my wounds, my beloved brother came visiting. I was visibly angry. “You left me at the mercy of those savages!” I fumed.
He simply smiled and said, “At a time of crisis, wisdom is profitable to direct. These guys only responded to solidarity chants. We gave them what they wanted, and they let us pass. But you? You held on to your pride, and they gave you the beating of your life—for free—because you had no single kobo on you.”
When I demanded scriptural backing for his actions, he replied with a smirk:
“Ask David. Ask Paul. Ask Jesus. They did exactly what we did that night at some points in their lives.”
Looking back, I thank God for the gift of life. Not everyone who passed through Oshodi that night made it home in one piece. Many lost their lives. Many lost their possessions. Many were maimed.
What a night.
The night MKO Abiola died.
English (US) ·