PATRON OF TERROR

by Adimchinma Ibe

  “Maybe you should, and give me your own eye on what’s going on in the city right now.”

  Back in the car.

  I only got close to the National Conservative Party secretariat—the roads were blocked by three or four thousand people outside the house on Aggrey Road.

  They were not just standing there. The crowd was tense but relatively peaceful. These men were political animals. They were here waiting for the outcome of the meeting inside the secretariat. I heard noise a few blocks away—that was where the looting was. Here, at least until the decision was announced, it was wait and see. Once the decision was announced, well I agreed with Akpan we did not have nearly enough police available for this one site alone.

  On roughly one side were Puene’s people. Some chanted slogans, some waved signs, one close to me looked at me suspiciously. There were calls for revenge, too many “Shoot them too!”

  On the other side were Filatei loyalists. They were just as angry, had their own chants and placards. The Filatei supporters could not believe their man had anything to do with the Puene deaths—he was winning, they said, and had no need to kill off his opponent, and anyway he was not that sort of man. They thought a rival faction within the Puene camp had taken out their own leader.

  The Puene crowd was aggressive. It was their candidate who was dead. The Filatei boys were defensive.

  Among both crowds, the men not carrying placards often had nasty clubs in their hands. One side against the other, with a thin line of nervous constables between them.

  In between them were police, a very small number, given the crowd. There were also three TV news trucks, and two cars from local radio stations. The TV reporters were taping the crowd, looking nervous. The radio reporters stuck their mikes out their car windows.

  As I stood in the middle of the square in front of the building, wondering what to do next, a group of twenty to thirty men suddenly broke off and ran down the road to the waterside market. I saw them torch a parked scooter and shove it to the centre of the road. That brought the traffic to a halt outside the waterside area.

  I turned and saw another group break away from the main crowd. Maybe fifteen men ran to the radio station nearby. In the main crowd, individual Puene men began attacking Filatei boys, at least I think that was happening. It was breaking down very quickly. Looking down across the street I saw five vehicles burning on Aggrey Road. Angry men ran around the vehicles, chanting. There didn’t look to be one unbroken shop window on the street. I looked down at my feet and saw fresh blood splatters on the ground.

  Riot cops showed up in vans, and began to try breaking up the worst of it, going after the men with torches and clubs. It was easy to predict the whole situation was escalating into a full scale riot. For Port Harcourt, with everything it had seen, this was new.

  A car pulled up. Everyone knew it, it had markings over the license plate. It was the party chairman’s car. I don’t know if he was inside, but the window rolled down and supporters came over and listened to someone inside. I went over. It sounded as if the man in the car was trying to actually quell rumors about Puene boys attacking Filatei boys.

  Ten minutes later an car with a Government plate drove into the area cautiously. Its window rolled down, and Filatei men surrounded it. I could not get close, but I heard enough: they were told that Puene boys were attacking Filatei boys with sten-guns, that they all better run for their lives.

  Apparently if it was a rumor a lot of people believed it. Or wanted other people to believe it.

  There was a loud explosion from Aggrey Road. Another police van passed through the crowd and went towards the Aggrey junction. Now I was hearing war slogans being chanted, not political ones. The mob ignored the police van, pushing burning cars to the center of road. Only thugs and police seemed to be on the streets. Anyone with sense stayed inside.

  The police probably had orders not to engage the rioters, but do what they could. They could not get near the Party secretariat’s building, most of the roads were now blocked with burning cars or angry people. Some of the police looked worried, others were bunched together and talking about the situation.

  Smoke now poisoned the air. Someone’s supporters were attacking one of the TV trucks. The other trucks and the cars from the radio stations began pulling away. Several of the riot police ran over to help the TV truck escape.

  As it grew even worse, the rioting spreading, I saw individuals being attacked and simply robbed, beaten to the ground and their money taken. I could not tell if it was political or not.

  I was disgusted. I could not even get to those people. Pretty much all I could do, without even riot gear, was to watch. I got out my cell and phoned Akpan and updated him. More riot police were on the way but they were stretched too thin. The whole city was catching fire.

  23

  I picked up my cell again and called Ade. He answered the phone on the fourth ring.

  “Where are you?” he asked. He was excited, and a little scared.

  “In the middle of it. I’m in touch with Akpan. It’s bad, Ade.”

  “We have our hands full here too. A demonstration in the Garison area has become a riot. We sent a battalion of mobile police with tanks. There are tanks on the way to the Secretariat too”

  “Garison?”

  “One of the worst. Why?”

  “I can’t do anything here, Ade. I feel useless. But Garison, that’s where the Kumars have their shop there. I’m going to try going over there quickly. Inform Akpan I’ll on my way.” The kumars might be caught in the middle of the madness, and being foreigners, will be an easy target. At least I might help someone I knew. There was nothing I could do as an individual homicide detective right now.

  I did not want to go alone. I did not want to be a hero, not like this. Heroes in riots die. So I collared four officers so I wouldn’t be alone and crowded them into my car. Perhaps it was ridiculous, but I liked the Kumars, and I did not know what else to do.

  I got back into my car before it could be overturned and burned, and slowly drove from the area. I was heading back to headquarters. Akpan wanted me there, to help mobilize and deploy riot police to the affected areas as the riot spread throughout Port Harcourt.

  As I drove through chaos, I saw two mobs fighting at the Aggrey Road junction, throwing stones, using clubs. I still did not hear gunfire. There was outright war between the groups. I saw a mob surrounding a burning corner house. Some men, women and children on the second floor wanted to jump, but it would be into the crowd. I heard screams. When someone ran out the front door the mob surrounded him with sticks and rods. I could not get closer than a block. I felt useless.

  I heard an explosion somewhere behind me, in the direction of the party secretariat. I called in for an update. The riot police were finally using tear gas to break up the crowds, starting with the group in front of the Secretariat. They were afraid the mob would set the building on fire.

  Some of it may have been controlled. I saw cars with party flags driving up to groups of men, apparently giving them instructions. The mob then went into the opposite direction, towards the Secretariat building. Any police I saw did what they could, but it was mostly to help injured people. There were a lot of injured people.

  It was close to 1 by the time we got Garison. Rioters were all over, including outside the Kumars shop. Fortunately, there were not nearly as many rioters as there were downtown. About 500 meters ahead of the road leading to D-Line, I saw a police constable on a motorbike. He told us two people at least had been killed, then he sped off.

  When we reached the Kumar Store, I pulled up twenty meters from the building. The store was on the ground floor of a three storey building. It was very popular for its wide selection of food, for its great general store, but also for the Kumars. Everyone in the city knew this lovely East Indian couple. But in a riot, anything was possible. I saw some flames at the side of the building, with a constable trying to put the fire out as three men harassed him. There was a
nother constable, he was trying to put out a fight in front of the store.

  I got out. An angry crowd stopped us. In the crowd were a few friends and more than a few people I had previously arrested. I called them over because they knew me, and told them I was here because I liked the Kumar’s shop. One man reminded me I’d produced the evidence that put him away for two years. Another fellow’s brother was in jail for six, because of me.

  They were no hard feelings.

  I might put them away, but I put them away fair.

  I asked for their help. Together we went forward, clearing the way through the angry rioters. Turned out they liked the Kumars as much as I. There were maybe a fifty men on the street, running, standing, talking in groups, all of them angry. Angry because they were finally “mad as hell and weren’t going to take it any more.” Many held clubs, knives or stones. The Kumars’ car had been overturned, along with two others, and set on fire, contributing to the heat.

  We were minutes too late. By the time we reached the store the side of the building was burning. The three storey building was old, the wood dry. It burned fast.

  Opposite the store, across the street, another shop owned by a local was untouched. Although the Kumars had lived here for years, some still considered them foreigners, and targets.

  I went into the building along with some of my new friends. We found the Kumars in the middle of the store. The store was a mess. They were terrified, and had felt trapped. One of their workers had tried to run out earlier, and the crowd caught him and broke his arm. We led them out of the store to safety on the street, and then stood and watched their store and building burn to the ground. The fire service had been called, but must have been overwhelmed this morning.

  Mrs. Kumar began to cry. She had looked stunned up to then. "So many men came in, maybe twenty-five, all at once. There was no back door. Sunil and I got the staff and tried to keep away from them. After that poor boy ran out and they caught him, we felt so trapped. Why did they wreck things? Why did they burn our shop down?”

  We led her to the shop across the street, owned by “a Nigerian”, a local. He knew the Kumars well of course, and had been watching from his store, also frightened to go out. He took them in, so I knew they were safe.

  I thanked the men who’d helped me, then got back in my car and drove on to headquarters having to pick a pretty roundabout route to avoid the worst of the disturbances, where the streets were clear.

  Akpan was on the phone. He finished, had to take two more calls before he could finally put the phone down, stand and pace angrily. I filled him in on what I’d seen at the Secretariat and across the rest of the city. He filled me in on his overview. I told him about the Kumars, and he said he had dispatched some cars to stores owned by “non Nigerians”. Some of those “non Nigerians” were born here.

  It took until three in the afternoon before the rioting burned itself out. That was not long but we don’t have a taste, in the end, for expressing our anger that way. It had boiled over today, and left scars that would take a long time to heal.

  Late that afternoon there was a media conference. Akpan held it in the yard, to allow room for virtually every journalist in Nigeria, and many who’d now flown in from other countries. I watched the Police Commissioner address the media. Chief Akpan stood behind him, along with the area commander.

  He told journalist that the rumor that some National Conservative Party senior leaders were trying to pressure the police to release some of the rioters arrested today was both false and misleading. But that most of the rioters, if they had injured no one or damaged property, would be released later today. Those who committed more criminal acts than acting out would be held overnight, and their cases considered.

  Which was a nice way of acknowledging the pressure. Of course, there wasn’t room in our detention facilities for everyone arrested to be kept for more than a few hours.

  The Commissioner did not help things out by then saying that it was Puene sympathizers that were alleged to have attacked a Filatei camp, and that will be considered in the panel of inquiry to be set up.

  Then he talked about reinforcements from headquarters and the military throughout the city, and every law abiding citizen to go about his business. He said was under control, how over a hundred armed riot policemen had been deployed, and then there were more statistics and he lost me altogether.

  I hoped his singling out one side was just his usual blundering. This was the moment all sorts of people would take advantage of.

  Fifty-two people had been arrested, about three times that many were in hospitals. He had no idea how many buildings were burned, cars destroyed. He did

  manage to say it was unfortunate that people resorted to violence.

  It’s remarkable how the spokesperson for the police who do such hard work can put such a bad face on it.

  24

  I tired of hearing the man talk. I decided to drive over to the Kumars house to check on them. I thought I should see if they’d made it home okay.

  As I drove along Old Aba Road, I saw a crew pulling the car wrecks to the side, with a few residents watching.

  It would take a long time to clean up the streets. I passed smoldering buildings and charred cars. It was a nightmare.

  At least people were now staying home. The streets were clear except for the military, patrolling with AK 47s and tanks. In a few areas crews were coming out. The main streets would be cleared overnight.

  The Kumars live in G.R.A Phase 3. They were safely home. Their colleague across the street had driven them home.

  "Is the riot really over?” Mr. Sunil Kumar asked as he cautiously opened the door for me when I knocked.

  “I have no idea. Right now there’s chaos, but I think the whole thing’s died down.”

  “We don't feel safe," Mrs. Kumar said. “I know what they say about us. We’re East Indians. We weren’t born here. We’re citizens, but that does not make us Nigerians. All we are interested in is milking Nigerians for money. That’s what they really think.”

  “She’s right,” her husband said. I’d never heard him so bitter. "We’ve lost everything. Even our car."

  All I could say was, “You have a lot of friends here. They can help you rebuild.”

  “We had insurance,” he said, “but I don’t think it covers this.”

  He was in shock. And why not? His life’s work had been burnt to the ground, literally. One of his staff had been beaten and they’d all been terrorized. He was a strong man, but he would wake up differently tomorrow, trying to figure out how to rebuild. But first he had to grieve, as did she.

  “Perhaps it is the beginning of a civil war. Or worse,” she said. “Look at what happened in Uganda. We never should have come here.”

  I could not say anything to them that was not patronizing or false.

  At least they had made it home safe.

  I was driving back to headquarters, to check in with Ade, when Akpan phoned. I was to meet with him and the Commissioner at the Governor’s Lodge in the Government Residential Area. I had been hoping to eat dinner instead. All day I’d grabbed what I could to eat, along with four bottles of water. I needed a decent meal. Then I thought: Governor’s Lodge. That had to have a good cook.

  I drove on to Governor’s Lodge.

  As I approached the Government House entrance, I saw the Governor’s Lodge, perched on the north side. The Area was over 300 hectares, with several buildings, the Lodge being most impressive. Security was heavy. I hung my visitor’s tag around my neck that I got from the first roadblock, which made going through the other two easy.

  I parked my battered Peugeot in a lot. You had to walk up to the mansion itself, along a gravel path. That was great, because then I did not have to be embarrassed about my car.

  Lots of questions to ponder while walking up the path. What was this meeting about? Was it the Puene murders? Did they want an update? Would they want to know why I had not arrested someone? Was it about the riot?
Was this updating, criticizing or planning? Or was it a pre-meeting meeting? Either way, would there be dinner?

  The walk was nice. Around me were beautiful trees and plants. There were even birds chirping. I had thought the pollution killed most of them off. Maybe the Government had hidden speakers wired throughout the Area, with recordings of the birds which used to be able to live in Port Harcourt.

  The Lodge was pretty hot stuff. A two storey mansion on a cleared fifteen hectare section. There were stairs at the entrance, and further Security. Four columns made the place look Roman, or noble, or whatever. Real elegant doors, mahogany with stained glass in the center, handles and frame brass.

  One of the security men walked over as I approached, checking my visitor’s tag. “I’m to take you to a private sitting room.”

  “Is there dinner?”

  “I’m sure that will be possible.”

  He led me up the stairs and into the Lodge.

  I saw servants and government officials rushing about as he led me into a private room. And left me there. I asked him to send in a sandwich or something. He nodded and left.

  Governor Fangbe like I said was a short chubby man, as was his wife. I’d met him a few times, never thank goodness, as I say, professionally. He seemed nice enough. It was his wife people really liked. She was outgoing, was in the community a lot, held some apparently very nice dinners at the mansion. Maybe I’d see them both.

  Though not while sitting here.

  Everything in the sitting room looked very expensive and imported. Rumour was they were.

  And then there they were, the door opened and His Excellency Joseph Fangbe walked in with his wife. I stood. What was going on?

  Fangbe extended his hand and I shook it. His wife smiled pleasantly.

  “Please sit down,” he said. He wore a light blue Kaftan, she wore a flowing kente blouse, the type the Yorubas favor.

  I sat.

  They also sat.

  We were all sitting.