Interventions

by Kofi Annan

  “I’m afraid it’s no longer a good night,” Lamin replied, before telling me what we now had to do.

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  Moshood Abiola had been imprisoned and in solitary confinement since 1994. Previously he had been a millionaire businessman reveling in the most extravagant of lifestyles, acquired through a long-lasting and close relationship with Nigeria’s military governments. But in 1993, there was a short-lived attempt to introduce democracy, and Abiola entered the presidential race. When Abiola looked entirely set to win, the final and full count was never allowed by the reigning military government of President Ibrahim Babangida, even though he had set up the elections in the first place. Abiola backed down quietly, but the vote changed his relationship with the government. He had acquired an unprecedented swell of support from many sides of the ethnic and religious divides that criss-crossed Africa’s most populous country.

  When President Babangida was ousted from power and replaced by General Sani Abacha later that year, in the midst of Nigeria’s deepening financial crisis, the new president dissolved the institutions that had been formed to move the country toward a semblance of democracy—the parliament, the thirty state governments, and every single local council—and declared all political parties illegal. But in the unfolding chaos of Abacha’s rule, Abiola stepped forward in 1994 and, on the basis of the thwarted 1993 elections, announced to a huge crowd of supporters in Lagos that he was the legitimate leader and president of Nigeria.

  He was immediately arrested and charged with treason and spent the next four years in solitary confinement. During this time, he was denied access to even a radio, saw no one from his family from 1995 onward, was unable to talk to anyone else, and was shown only one newspaper article: a report on the assassination of one of his wives in 1996. The only other reading materials he had were a Bible and a Koran.

  Abacha was as illegitimate a ruler as one might have the misfortune to come across—extremely corrupt, and prone to eccentric and self-indulgent behavior on a scale that only Nigeria’s crony-capitalist oil wealth could sustain. He loosely promised the return of democratic elections, including to me personally after I became secretary-general in 1997, but persistently reneged on such pledges. Opponents and suspected opponents were arrested, and the ranks of political prisoners swelled, as did the number of victims of politically motivated murders at the hands of his security forces.

  But on June 8, 1998, Abacha unexpectedly died. General Abdulsalam Abubakar was installed as his replacement the next day. I had met Abubakar previously, when he was accompanying Abacha at a summit in Lomé, Togo, in January 1997. He had once served as a UN peacekeeping officer as part of the UN Interim Force in Lebanon, so we had a common past in peacekeeping, which I used to get us talking. I found him reasonable in his outlook and straight speaking, in contrast to the strange, quiet character of Abacha. At one point, when the president left the room, I pressed upon Abubakar the importance of releasing political prisoners. Abacha had only sighed away my repeated calls for greater freedoms and the introduction of democracy, and I hoped influencing his advisors might at least increase the pressure upon the Nigerian president.

  But now Abubakar was president, and he, as he later revealed to me, was scared. The country was entirely isolated internationally after repeatedly refusing to change its political course or release political prisoners, and could count on little outside help; it was in a terrible financial position with a cripplingly high debt; Abacha had antagonized the country’s many power bases, which had brought growing unrest and violence onto the streets; the military (dominated by the Hausa ethnic group) was used to its privileged position in society and was not going to give this up easily; and while Abubakar recognized the necessity of democracy to ensure the country’s political sustainability, a mismanaged and sudden introduction of elections could bring even more instability. Abacha had disingenuously set the date of October 1, 1998, for a transition to democracy, which, everyone agreed, he fully intended to miss. But Abubakar, with his more genuine agenda, was now beholden to this deadline. One way or another, he needed a carefully managed way out of this very difficult situation.

  Part of the problem for Abubakar was how to deal with the imprisoned Abiola. If released, he could still upend the political balance in the country if he demanded the presidency as he had before. Such a move would be backed by his mainstay of supporters in the southwest of the country, but almost certainly rejected by the military.

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  When particularly sensitive meetings were scheduled in my diary—often taking place away from the office and at my New York residence—they would simply be entered in the record of appointments as “Blocked (private) (residence).” A few weeks after Abubakar came to power—on June 22, 1998, at 3:30 p.m.—I had one of these sessions with Nigeria’s foreign minister, Tom Ikimi. In the comfort of my living room, he conveyed a message from Abubakar: The president hoped I could help him exploit the current opportunity provided by Abacha’s death, Ikimi said, to assist his plan to move Nigeria out of its current predicament. He wanted to return Nigeria to a position of reasonable standing in the region and internationally, to end the country’s misrule, and to usher in democracy. But he also wanted to extend the timetable for elections to ease the process of change—and he wanted my public support for this.

  Ikimi’s style was unrecognizable in comparison to the one he had displayed while serving Abacha. Previously, he had lectured me and others, at length, on how the internal affairs of Nigeria were solely the government’s business. That bold front was now giving way to realism: a recognition of the truly interdependent world of which Nigeria was a part. My first thought concerned Abiola. He could not be a casualty of this transition, or it would not be a transition at all. He had all but won the first real attempt at democratic elections, retained significant support, and his imprisonment had caused him to become a symbol for those demanding political change in the country. Continuing to imprison him would mean the antithesis of any progress toward genuine democracy and the rule of law.

  “I’m willing to publicly give my approval for the president’s plan,” I said, as Ikimi’s eyes visibly lit up. “But only if Abiola is released.” Ikimi looked taken aback. But he replied that if I came to Abuja personally to voice my support of Abubakar’s election proposals, then Abiola could be released. I accepted the invitation to visit. I would play whatever small role I could to aid the end of a military dictatorship; particularly in Nigeria, which had suffered enough from military rule, after an exhausting series of coups that had ridden roughshod over the country since 1960.

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  Due to my schedule, we flew on June 29 to Abuja from Vienna on a plane provided by the Nigerian government. They were clearly keen for us to come, as it was a brand-new and lavishly furnished aircraft, designed for the president’s personal use. On arrival I met with President Abubakar to discuss the situation. He reemphasized everything Ikimi had said in New York, and I pushed him to move on his promises, to open up the political system and to bring in civil society, to build the momentum in his favor in order to keep the country on course. He replied positively but said the October 1 date for a transition to democracy was too soon for credible elections. I counseled him that if he postponed the date, he would have to publicly provide a new and detailed timetable and communicate very clearly to everyone why this delay was necessary. I also reminded him that Abiola needed to be released if he was to obtain international goodwill—and mine.

  On this Abubakar wavered slightly. He pledged his willingness to release Abiola immediately, but under the condition that he made no attempt to claim the presidency. I could see the general’s concerns: if Abiola came out and demanded to be instated as president, it could cause a deep and violent split that, given the fragile conditions, could take the country goodness knows where. Abiola’s release was necessary, but it also needed to be a calm process.

  I asked if
I could see Abiola, to discuss this problem, and Abubakar said a time would be arranged. It was later that night that Lamin heard the knock on his door, and we found ourselves speeding along Abuja’s dark roads to Abiola’s current holding place. We pulled up at a location near the presidential palace, and sullen guards walked us inside the guest house–like building into a simple, bare room with white walls, where I found him sitting quietly.

  After exchanging greetings, I explained that I was in discussions with the president and the junta concerning current developments in Nigeria, and that I was pressing them for his release. He seemed remarkably ambivalent. I asked if he wanted to claim the presidency once he was out, which I told him I was confident would happen very soon. He said he was not sure, commenting that he thought the junta would be afraid if he did. He seemed to be hedging his bets, not wanting to be drawn into a firm answer.

  Suddenly, he switched his interest and asked, “But who are you?”

  “I’m Kofi Annan,” I replied. “I’m the secretary-general of the United Nations.”

  “What happened to the other one? The Egyptian?” He said, surprised. I had mistakenly assumed that Abiola had been told who was coming to see him and why. All he had been told was that an “important person” would visit. It was amazing the isolation in which this man had been kept—the regime was so used to keeping him in the dark, they maintained his ignorance of anything going on outside even now.

  Once he realized who I was, he became more enthusiastic. He also became more explicit regarding his plans. He said he had no intention of claiming the presidency. All he wanted to do was go to Mecca to pray and give thanks. But he emphasized that he would make no commitment in writing. If he did so, he felt this would destroy his reputation. But he said he was willing to give the same personal assurance to President Abubakar.

  I conveyed this message to Abubakar the next day, but he was still hesitant. I explained that a free Abiola, who had no interest in upsetting the situation, would be a calming influence on his supporters, not an agitating one. I then told him that I would be announcing in my departing speech to the press that the president had promised me he would release Abiola and the other political prisoners very soon. Whether this speech reinforced his credibility or undermined it would now depend upon him.

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  In the ensuing press conference, given shortly before our flight out of the country, I did as promised. But I also revealed that Abiola had, indeed, told me that he had no intention of claiming any right to the presidency, further removing any justification Abubakar held for not releasing him and also smoothing the path ahead with Abiola’s more hard-line supporters. I was also trying to ease the concerns of those Nigerians who feared Abiola’s return.

  On our return journey, everything seemed set for Abiola’s release. But tragedy struck a week later when Abiola collapsed and died during a meeting with the U.S. under-secretary of state Thomas Pickering. Despite the earnest intentions we had detected in Abubakar, the timing could only be considered suspicious. However, an international team of pathologists established that it was the result of a heart condition, and there was no foul play—other than the fact, I thought, that Abiola had been denied adequate medical care throughout his incarceration. Either way, he was yet another casualty of the systematic violations of a whole range of human rights that are inevitable under personalized and oppressive regimes.

  —

  On leaving the country after that final press conference, we found the Nigerians had lent us a very different airplane than the one in which we had arrived. It was old, run-down, and did not look entirely safe. On seeing it, Kieran Prendergast, my insightful and witty under-secretary-general for political affairs, turned to me, laughing through his beard: “Well, you’ve done what they needed you for. Who cares about you now?” Indeed, within fifteen minutes of taking off, the flaps jammed in a mechanical failure, and the pilot told us that we had to return and change aircraft.

  But it was not a false start for Nigeria. Abubakar followed through in the months later. Political prisoners were released, and the military regime’s system of oppression began to lift more each day. Elections to the national assembly were held by the end of the year; Abubakar voluntarily stepped down as he always said he would and, in May 1999, presidential elections were held. The result was a reformist African leader, Olusegun Obasanjo, carried into office by popular vote, in a new democratic system that still endures today.

  THE CHALLENGE OF AFRICAN GOVERNANCE: BIG MEN VERSUS THE RULE OF LAW

  Nigeria’s transition is one of many stories indicative of the fact that elections alone are not enough to transform societies into functioning and legitimate democracies. What is needed are, on the one hand, a set of governing institutions and rules, which have to be built up over time, that protect the results of elections and so the rights of people; and, on the other hand, responsible and accountable leadership that serves the people. In short, the transformation of African democracies requires good governance that builds the rule of law, not the rule of force or the rule of one man. Since independence, however, these characteristics have long been in short supply in Africa. Instead, a system of rule whereby power and authority was built around the personality of the leader has prevailed throughout much of this time. It is a destructive form of rule, most commonly brought into being following illegal seizures of power.

  Zimbabwe was a prime example of this. In 1965, the white-minority government of Southern Rhodesia (later Zimbabwe) unilaterally declared independence from Great Britain, thwarting the British intent of building a multiracial democratic system as part of the decolonization process. From 1970, Robert Mugabe and Joshua Nkomo led an armed rebellion against the white minority government, with victory for the freedom fighters arriving in 1980. Mugabe took office as prime minister in that year, and then as Zimbabwe’s first executive president in 1988—a position that he still holds.

  What made Mugabe such an impressive revolutionary leader also made him an autocratic and ultimately dangerous president for Zimbabwe’s people. The need for unity, the aversion to pluralism, the distaste for division that the revolutionary experience brings, meant that his rule unfolded in an increasingly autocratic style.

  But the perils of this personalized form of rule only became fully apparent from the late 1990s, when he launched a series of aggressive and disastrous land reforms. In the 1980s and early 1990s, Zimbabwe was arguably one of the best-performing countries in Africa in terms of human development. These misguided reforms led to a crippling of the economy and an extraordinary decline in the standard of living and health for Zimbabwe’s citizens. But the idea of Mugabe’s authority was too entrenched in the political system and in his own mind for there to be any question of his stepping down. Zimbabwe’s political institutions were not strong enough to allow any viable means for curtailing his rule or ensuring his removal. Brutal repression increased in Zimbabwe in order to uphold Mugabe’s power in the face of unrest.

  Pressure from outside, among other African leaders, was slow in coming and feeble. This was largely because of the reverence in which Mugabe was held across Africa due to his heroic revolutionary achievements. Furthermore, he had directly helped the leaders of other freedom movements in the past, such as in Namibia, South Africa, and Mozambique, whose governments were now run by the very same people. In the community of African leaders, he was effectively the foreman of a union of freedom fighters.

  The worst feature of this system of rule is that even when the figure in power might seem like a good and desirable leader, such men can, and often do, change. This then leaves the people exposed to dangers from which they have no institutional protection. This was the way it went with Mugabe. His major misdemeanors as a ruler only emerged two decades after he took office.

  I personally observed Mugabe’s leadership transformation, from a clearly sensible and calculating style into one of irascible, even paran
oid, defensiveness. Mugabe’s political character, forged in revolutionary war in the Zimbabwean bush, was one that compelled him to hit back when threatened. This was his style. As he grew older, this trait, combined with the escalating criticisms of the outside world, drove an ever-deepening obstinacy in his destructive domestic policies.

  I began my time as secretary-general with good personal relations with Mugabe. Even in the midst of the turmoil in Zimbabwe, I saw a value in having this cordial relationship with him—it allowed another potential “way in” for the international community to make him change course. But I may have lost this asset after I commissioned a study on the brutal slum clearances in Harare. Anna Tibaijuka, the head of the United Nations Human Settlements Programme (UN-Habitat), conducted the study, producing findings that were frank and hard-hitting regarding the government’s culpability. After that, Mugabe, long wary of British influence in Zimbabwe, accused Tibaijuka of being a British spy sent to Zimbabwe to do Tony Blair’s bidding.

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  Zimbabwe acutely demonstrates the danger of relying on the value of any one man for the health of a country. It is only in the building of representative, responsible, and accountable institutions—with a power, sanctity, and life span greater than that of any individual—that citizens can entrust their collective fate. Leaders like Nelson Mandela understood this. Mandela stepped down without hesitation after one term, citing the very same reason: institutions were always more important than any individual.

  In its origin, support for the Big Man system as the solution to African problems derived almost entirely not from a genuine regard for the capacity of such individuals but the requisites of subservience to these autocrats and dictators, for fear of one’s status and life. But over time this produced a sense of political culture: these Big Men were how Africa best dealt with its challenges—a conceit pandered to for many years by both Africans and outsiders.