Involuntarily, Pierce stopped at what he saw there. A thick rope dangled from the gallows; a man in a red silk gown, no doubt the hangman, was stationed on the platform. The Black Maria that had taken Bobby to and from the trial was parked with its rear door open, revealing a steel coffin.
Stunned, Pierce turned to Bangida. Nodding, the major said, “This is the day.” There was no pleasure in his voice, no emotion at all. “Come—Okimbo is waiting for you.”
Pierce made his mind go blank. Mechanically, he followed Bangida inside the prison.
Okimbo was leaning against the stone wall, arms folded. “The houseboy Edo told us,” he said in a conversational tone. “Did you think us too foolish to have spies?”
Pierce said nothing. Okimbo nodded curtly to Bangida, dismissing him. “Enabling a treasonous Luandian citizen to escape,” he told Pierce, “is punishable by death. It’s no help now that you’re American, or a lawyer. Though I suppose you can represent yourself to the same effect as you did Okari. Consider this morning a preview.”
Pierce felt loathing overtake his fear. “I came to see Okari. You can amuse yourself later.”
Okimbo seemed to weigh his choices. Then Bangida returned. Solemnly, he said, “President Karama is calling.”
Okimbo’s eye widened in surprise. Squaring his shoulders, he headed to his office. Quietly, Bangida told Pierce, “Go to Okari.”
Gathering himself, Pierce climbed the steps to Bobby’s cell.
Bobby sat on a stool, his hands manacled behind his back. With an air of resignation, Bobby turned at the sound of Pierce’s footsteps. Seeing Pierce, he seemed to relax. “Damon,” he said softly. “You never fail to surprise.”
Pierce gazed at him through the bars. “I wanted you to know about Marissa. She’s out.”
“Out?”
“Gone.” Pierce repressed his own worry. “Soon she’ll be at our embassy in Accra. Once she’s there, she’ll call me.”
“And yet you’re here.”
Though Bobby’s voice was filled with wonder, Pierce was not sure what lay behind this comment; nor did he wish Bobby to die with Pierce’s fate on his conscience. At length he said, “I’m your lawyer, Bobby. I wanted to be with you.”
For a long while, Bobby studied him. Gently, he asked, “Aren’t you still in love with her?”
Surprised, Pierce weighed his answer. “There’s been no time to think of that. It hardly matters now.”
It was a kindness, Pierce thought, that Bobby did not know the literal truth of his last statement. Bobby shook his head. “I think it will, in time. Marissa’s sacrificed far too much, in some ways more than I. I’d like the comfort of knowing that you care for her, as I think she does for you.”
Pierce absorbed Bobby Okari’s grace, his desire to die in peace. “Yes,” he said at last, “I’m in love with her.”
Perhaps it was true; at that moment, gripped by a sense of loss Bobby could not perceive, Pierce felt that it was. But he might never know.
Bobby watched his face. “I can see how sad you are, Damon. But you’ve lightened my conscience, and allowed me to die with dignity. What more could one man do for another?”
Pierce heard footsteps on the stone. Turning, he saw Bangida. “It’s time,” the major said. “Do you want to be there with him?”
“Yes.”
“Then go to the courtyard and wait.”
Pierce faced Bobby again. Eyes moist, Bobby tried to smile; for a moment, Pierce smiled in return. Then he followed Bangida outside.
In the morning light, Pierce saw a soldier with a video camera, aimed at the gallows. Only when Pierce heard it whirring did he see what the man was filming.
Okimbo hung from the gallows, his face suffused with agony. Someone had removed his eye patch; the stray eye, exposed, stared crookedly at nothing. His left foot gave a final twitch, then was still.
“It seems I’m now a colonel,” Bangida said.
His flesh crawling, Pierce watched the hangman give the rope a tug, confirming that Okimbo had become dead weight. “I have a message from President Karama,” Bangida went on. “When we’re done here, you must leave Luandia at once—if you want to live. A man of honor, he said to tell you, repays his friends.”
Pierce struggled to absorb what had happened. But there was no time. Flanked by two soldiers, Bobby Okari emerged from the prison. As they led him to the steps of the gallows, Bobby gazed up at Okimbo, less with surprise than what seemed a weary recognition of their common fate. Karama, and Luandia, would consume them both.
The hangman lowered Okimbo’s corpse. Two soldiers came forward, laying the body on the platform as though it were a sacrifice to Bobby. The video camera kept whirring.
The soldiers pushed Bobby up the stairs. Briefly, he stumbled—whether from fright or exhaustion, Pierce could not tell. Then he straightened, walking the last few steps by himself.
The hangman stepped forward, holding a black hood. “Will you wear this?”
Bobby gazed at the soldier with the video camera, then met the hangman’s eyes. “No.”
Pierce swallowed. “Tell Karama,” he said to Bangida, “that his friend asks one last favor. Bury Okari in Goro, with the others.”
Bangida did not answer. As the hangman placed the noose around Bobby’s neck, Bangida stepped forward, standing at the foot of the gallows.
Pierce’s cell phone rang, shrill in the silence of the courtyard. As Bangida turned to Pierce, so did Bobby. Hastily, Pierce answered.
“I’m here,” Marissa told him. “In Accra. Tell me how Bobby is.”
Pierce saw Bangida move toward him. “I can’t talk now. But it’s going as he and I expected. He’ll be glad you’re safe.” Hastily, he switched off the phone.
Bangida turned away. Noose around his neck, Bobby looked toward Pierce. Silent, Pierce nodded.
As if in prayer, Bobby’s eyes shut briefly. As the hangman tightened the noose, Bobby gazed at the sky, taking in this last orange dawn. From the foot of the gallows, Bangida asked, “Do you have anything to say?”
Bobby gazed down at him. His face was weary, as though he were ready to die. “Yes,” he answered. “I recant nothing.”
A fragment of prayer, the legacy of his parents, surfaced from Pierce’s subconscious: Hail Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.
Bangida gave an order. Bobby Okari’s last expression in life, perhaps intended as a mercy to Pierce, was the faintest of smiles.
Afterword and Acknowledgments
THE GENESIS OF THIS NOVEL LIES IN TRAGIC EVENTS THAT OCCURRED in Nigeria almost fifteen years ago, when a courageous environmental and human rights activist, Ken Saro-Wiwa, was hanged by General Sani Abacha, the country’s brutal and corrupt dictator. The crime of which Saro-Wiwa stood accused, on flimsy evidence, was ordering the murder of four local chiefs who were members of the Ogoni, Saro-Wiwa’s ethnic group. The tribunal that tried him was summoned into existence by Abacha and answerable to him alone; its arbitrary proceedings had little in common with courts as we know them, or with other courts in Nigeria. In the minds of most observers, Saro-Wiwa’s true crime was to protest the excesses of the government and petroleum companies in the Niger Delta, and to seek for the Ogoni and others at least some of the benefits from revenues accruing to the petroleum companies and the kleptocratic regime of General Abacha. To this day, the facts surrounding the deaths of the Ogoni chiefs remain obscure.
There remains, as well, some debate about the complex character of Saro-Wiwa. But important things are clear: he was extraordinarily courageous; exceptional in building a mass movement in a country where no such tradition existed; an eloquent advocate for nonviolence; and a uniquely hopeful figure whose execution was devastating to the people of his impoverished region. Sadly, his legacy has been claimed by armed militia groups who have helped plunge the Niger Delta into violence, sustaining themselves by such enterprises as kidnapping and oil theft. Again, there is some debate about the charac
ter and intentions of these groups—particularly the Movement for the Emancipation of the Niger Delta (MEND). But there is no doubt that conditions in the delta are bad and getting worse.
I was involved with PEN, in a modest and ancillary way, in protesting Saro-Wiwa’s prosecution. But when I decided to use Saro-Wiwa’s story as a departure point for Eclipse, I confronted the staggering variety of a country with two hundred and fifty ethnic groups and an extremely complex society. Even Americans who know a lot about Nigeria do not pretend to fully understand it. As someone who can make neither claim, I worried about doing a serious injustice to Nigeria and its people. Hence Luandia, a fictional country that serves the purpose of my novel without being a fully realized depiction of an actual place.
Since Ken Saro-Wiwa’s death, much has happened. Nonetheless, events in Nigeria continued to inform this novel. The environmental despoliation of the Niger Delta is more widely known, as are the persistent problems of poverty and corruption. Though Nigeria has returned to civilian control, experienced observers label the 2007 presidential election a particularly blatant example of election rigging. The industrial world’s need for oil has combined with post–9/11 concerns to make Nigeria a focal point in the search for “energy security.” The pervasive corruption surrounding oil revenues persists unabated.
Indeed, since I completed the novel in January 2008, the conditions it portrays have metastasized. The price of oil has skyrocketed. America’s dependence on oil has begun crippling its economy, even as China’s needs grow exponentially. The militia, including MEND, have stepped up the ambition and sophistication of their military operations, cutting Nigeria’s oil production and influencing the world price of oil. And the pervasive misery and violence of the Niger Delta, by all accounts, deepens.
It was with respect to the delta that I encountered another barrier to portraying Nigeria itself. As part of my research I traveled to that country, visiting Lagos and Abuja, and interviewed as many Nigerians and Americans familiar with the delta as I could find. The focal point of this trip was to be a visit to the delta itself. But two weeks before my trip, armed conflict between and among military and militia groups broke out in Port Harcourt, the delta’s principal city. In a separate incident, one of my contacts was shot. Thereafter, the State Department warned Americans not to travel there. When I persisted in my plans, the security firm I’d engaged to help me insisted I not go—arguing that I could become a target for kidnapping, among other things, and that the state security services might see my interest in militia groups as encouraging seditious elements.
With great ambivalence, I heeded this advice. I became less ambivalent two weeks later when one of my principal contacts was jailed with two German filmmakers, on charges of sedition, for taking them on much the same itinerary she and I had discussed. Nevertheless, the trip to Nigeria was extremely informative, and, through extensive research and interviewing, I did everything possible to compensate for what I missed.
A final word about what separates fact and fiction. Again, Luandia is not Nigeria; I do not pretend to portray the energy and diversity of Nigeria’s people. Though I borrowed Ken Saro-Wiwa’s eloquence and bravery, Bobby Okari’s character and actions are my own invention. Nor was I able to do credit to Nigeria’s vibrant and courageous human rights community. Similarly, while I tried to dramatize the diplomatic complexities of a case like Bobby Okari’s, it was impossible to convey all the considerations pertaining to Nigeria, one of the most strategically important countries in Africa. But the corruption I depict—including oil bunkering—pervades the Niger Delta. So does the environmental despoliation. The lawsuit I portray finds its parallel in lawsuits brought by human rights groups on behalf of civilians slaughtered by Nigerian soldiers; while I have simplified the law for the lay audience, the central premise of these suits is that oil companies can be held legally responsible for the excesses of their protectors. Nonetheless, it would be wrong to reflexively villainize the oil companies, some of which have done much to improve their operations and all of which are handicapped by the absence of government bodies dedicated to the betterment of the people. As for the characters other than Bobby Okari, I researched the challenges they would face, then proceeded to invent these people from scratch. I hope that the result, while fiction, contributes to most readers’ understanding of the conflict between human rights and the geopolitics of oil in an important area of the developing world.
I COULD NOT have written Eclipse without the help of numerous people in Nigeria, America, and England who generously shared their knowledge. Their help greatly enriches the novel; any oversimplifications or errors of fact or interpretation are mine alone.
I begin by thanking many Nigerians who helped me: Omo Agaga, Congressman Ajuji Ahmed, Tem-Tem Amacree, Usman Bugaje, Sunday Dare, Sunny Ofili, former minister of finance Ngozi Okonjo-Iweala, and Patrick Ukata gave me valuable insights into Nigeria as a whole. And my comprehension of the Niger Delta was deepened by its residents, most of whom are members of its human rights community and several of whom knew Ken Saro-Wiwa well: Dr. Judith Burdin Asuni, Father Matthew Kukah, Patrick Naagbanton, Ben Naanen, Chris Newsom, Damka Pueba, and, especially, Ken Saro-Wiwa’s brother Owens Wiwa.
In dealing with the diplomatic aspects of the novel, I was lucky to have the advice of four former American ambassadors to Nigeria: Robert Gribbin, Howard Jeter, Princeton Lyman, and Thomas Pickering. I also profited from the advice of other current national security officers, State Department officials, or members of our foreign service: Sandy Berger, Carolyn Gay, Marc Grossman, Anthony Lake, Donald McHenry, Vic Nelson, Susan Rice, John Shattuck, Andrew Silski, Gayle Smith, and Rudolph Stewart. And three military experts helped fill in the military and strategic considerations inherent in my story: Lieutenant Colonel Mark Ellington, retired Colonel Bill Godbout, and retired General James Jones.
A number of American and English experts helped as well, including academic writers, strategists, and members of the human rights community: Chris Albin-Lackey, Melissa Crow, Dr. Stephen Davis, David Goldwyn, Jean Herskovits, Dan Hoyle, Peter Lewis, Bronwen Manby, Bear McConnell, Stephen Morrison, Tom O’Neill, Dr. Robert Pastor, Susan Reider, Ken Roth, John Schidlovsky, Jill Shankleman, Robert Tyrer, and Michael Watts. Several judges and lawyers enabled me to better grasp the law: Martha Boersch, Judith Chomsky, Cindy Cohn, Judge Thelton Henderson, Rick Herz, Paul Hoffman, Judge Susan Illston, Dick Martin, and Dan Nardello. Three experts in the oil business were generous in describing the difficulties that business faces in Nigeria: Lew Watts, Nick Welsh, and Robin West. Retired British general Peter Williams was very patient and helpful in describing the daunting security problems plaguing oil companies.
I owe a great debt for the advice, knowledge, good company, and, not least, protection provided by Anthony Boyson, Cobus Claassens, Joe Jobert, and Daniel Revmatas of the Pilgrims Group. Finally, others enabled me to fill in some important gaps: Professor Bob Harmon explained the phenomenon of a solar eclipse, and my friend Alex MacDonald gave Damon Pierce a past, including an eyewitness account of the appearance of Robert Kennedy at the St. Patrick’s Day parade attended on March 17, 1968, the date of Damon’s birth.
I also benefited from reading fiction and nonfiction books about Africa, Nigeria, Saro-Wiwa, the Ogoni movement, and the geopolitics of oil: The Politics of Bones, by J. Timothy Hunt; Untapped, by John Ghazvinian; Violence in Nigeria, by Toyin Falola; Ogoni’s Agonies, edited by Abdul Rasheed Na’Allah; Yellow-Yellow, by Kaine Agary; Half of a Yellow Sun, by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie; The Fate of Africa, by Martin Meredith; Imperial Reckoning, by Caroline Elkins; Nigeria and Oil, by Anup Shah; The Next Glut, by Andy Rowell, James Marriott, and Lorne Stockman; You Must Set Forth at Dawn, by Wole Soyinka; Where Vultures Feast, by Ike Okonta and Oronto Douglas; and In the Shadow of a Saint, Ken Wiwa’s honest and affecting portrait of his father. Black, White, and Jewish, by Rebecca Walker, and Dreams from My Father, by Barack Obama, helped me with Marissa Okari’s inner landscape. In thi
s connection, I also borrowed from Ken Saro-Wiwa’s speeches to give Bobby Okari his voice.
I also read several important articles: “Curse of the Black Gold: Hope and Betrayal in the Niger Delta,” by Tom O’Neill; “Blood Oil,” by Sebastian Junger; and “The Megacity,” by George Packer. Tom O’Neill was also kind enough to give me the first draft of his article, an immensely helpful and evocative source. The reports I read included “Convergent Interests: U.S. Energy Security and the ‘Security’ of Nigerian Democracy,” by Paul M. Lubeck, Michael J. Watts, and Ronnie Lipschutz, as well as several comprehensive reports by Human Rights Watch and a number of articles in the New York Times. Finally, I owe a great debt to Glenn Ellis for his penetrating and sometimes harrowing documentaries about Ken Saro-Wiwa, the Ogoni movement, and the tragedy of the Niger Delta.
Finally, I wish to thank the core of people with whom I share the madness: my agent, Fred Hill, a mainstay of my career; my terrific editor, John Sterling; and my ever-patient and always discerning assistant, Alison Porter Thomas, whose daily comments help keep me on track. Then there is my wife, Dr. Nancy Clair. As an educational consultant, Nancy has worked in every part of the world; a lover of Africa and its people, Nancy helped encourage me to write Eclipse. Once I began, she went with me to Nigeria, a trip vastly improved by her energy, insight, and support. As if that were not enough, she read each chapter as I wrote it. For all of that, and all she has brought to me and to the kids, this book is for her.
About the Author
RICHARD NORTH PATTERSON is the author of Exile, The Race, and thirteen other bestselling and critically acclaimed novels. Formerly a trial lawyer, he was the SEC’s liaison to the Watergate special prosecutor and has served on the boards of several Washington advocacy groups. He lives in San Francisco and on Martha’s Vineyard with his wife, Dr. Nancy Clair.
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