Escape from the South

By Yemi Adebiyi

Two ladies from sex-addict mothers in search of identity, two men - ignorant of their linked past - in a presidential race, two youth corps members vying for a prestigious service award, two brothers caught in a family vendetta, two ladies in love with one man, and two families on the run

Escape from the South chronicles the travails of members of a Nigerian family and their metamorphosis as they journey through poverty, politics, passion and violence that nearly submerge them into the dustbin of history. Their perseverance, survival instinct and quest for justice restore family pride and even rekindle the hope of societal rediscovery.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Feb 15, 2012
• ISBN: 9781467884280

Yemi Adebiyi

YEMI ADEBIYI is a biochemist, a journalist and a quality control expert. He attended the prestigious NOTRE Dame Grammar School, Ushi in Ekiti, Nigeria. He had his tertiary education in Nigeria, UK and USA. Yemi is the current Chairman of Association of Nigerian Authors in Lagos. He is the author of the novels: THE BLOOD SAMPLE, ESCAPE FROM THE SOUTH, THE PASTOR’S PROSTITUTE and PASS ON THE BATON. He is still a consultant in thechemical and allied industries in Nigeria. Yemi lives in Ajasa County in Lagos with his family.

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© 2012, 2014 by Yemi Adebiyi. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/10/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4678-8427-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4678-8428-0 (e)

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

DEDICATION

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

PROLOGUE

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

EPILOGUE

DEDICATION

For my cousin:

Clement Olusegun Adebiyi.

Also for two great villagers:

Sam Opeyemi & Modupe Odutola.

And in evergreen memory of my big uncle,

our epitome of family love:

Reverend Daniel Ojo Adebiyi

. . . ‘Tell me about Uncle Joseph,’ Pade tried to mimic the almost feminine voice of Samson.

‘Not until you do my wish,’ Cecilia felt the quick wave rising and rising in her stomach.

‘What’s your wish?’ He said and tried to look away from the sensuous motions she was making on the bed.

‘Make love to me now,’ she invited him without shame. When Pade did not respond, she spoke again. ‘Okay, I can read your mind. You think I am a slut and that I need deliverance. Deliver me from Robert’s magic drug, Samson.’

‘Look Cecilia,’ Pade almost forgot to talk like Samson, ‘I’ll pay you if you give me the information.’

‘I don’t need your money,’ she said flatly. ‘Bring calm to my body and my soul will be revived.’

‘Please, I am not in the mood,’ Pade pleaded.

‘Touch me and feel the fire,’ she half opened her eyes and closed them again. ‘This is our own world, let the houseboy take care of the housemaid. Really, you are the only saint in this house of devils. Be my angel.’

Pade hesitated, and then touched her.

She pulled him to her bosom and smiled without opening her eyes. ‘Master told me,’ a smile played on her lips as she spoke, ‘when he was out of his senses and I don’t know why I should transmit privileged information without first losing my senses . . .’

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

It is necessary to express gratitude to those who contributed directly or indirectly to this first attempt at writing prose. Here is the squad:

Francis Bita, the Platoon Commander whose theatrics inspired me to write this novel during my service year.

Kemi Eniola Adebiyi, my cousin, a four year-old then, urged me to complete the story and read it to her. I did. She got married before its publication! No thanks to missing manuscript.

Boladele and Yinka Ajayi, Wole and Funmilayo Akingbade—two couples and four friends of mine—whose unconditional love affairs inspired me.

Bosede Amaka, the daughter of my late big brother, Augustine, who came back to her father’s hometown and fell in love with homeboy Yinka Aluko.

Oby Peter and Yinka Oyebade; their efforts led to recovery of the lost manuscipt for this work.

Blessed Adje’s input is hereby appreciated. Olajumoke Verisimo, my final editor, who gave me confidence with her thoroughness.

And you, reading this, thanks for going through this performance.

Many of the exiles left the province of Babylon and returned to Jerusalem and Judah, all to their own hometowns.

Ezra 2:1

PROLOGUE

Saturday October 1, 1982

I am twenty-one today. My name is Laide Celina Robertson. For the records: the name is still official. I was eight years old before I knew my name was a wrong tag, but I didn’t know what to do about it. It was the year 1969 in Biafra.

It is twelve years since the Biafran war ended and I am now prepared to let the name go. I am prepared to shed the garb of false identity once I open the door to the abandoned ten-room bungalow that belonged to my paternal grandparents. I will become born-again this very day when I emerge from this house. For, it is my homecoming.

I manipulated my National Youth Service posting to Ondo from Kaduna, where I was posted originally, for this purpose of homecoming.That is another story. I am now in my ancestral home in Adodo, to take over my inheritance. I will now tell you how I traced my root to this Southwest village of fifty-five houses.

For many years, I thought I was a hybrid of four men, My mother said they were three but I found out that four men donated their semen, not by artificial insemination—a conception development not available in this part of the world then—but by actual coitus in one night. Such occurrence for a woman who was neither a prostitute nor a rape victim must have been an experience. I did not believe her story until I was old enough and did some verification. Two of the men in the tango correlated her story, that she submitted willingly at different times to them and each ignorant of the sexual engagement of the other with her that night, accepted her advances.

My mother was Cecilia Onugbo. Her story is that of a young twenty-year-old virgin, who was discovered, when she was unwilling in her first sex-for-money trade, by a prominent lawmaker. She was rescued from prostitution but turned into a sex addict for her lawmaker rescuer. But that is yet another story.

I remember some of our discussions on these issues, even though I was just eight years of age. Let me go down the memory lane:

‘Why was the soldier trying to kill you, mum? I saw both of you struggling on the bed.’ I asked my mum whom a Nigerian soldier bent over like a blanket. The man had brought us from their Idemili camp to our new Oji camp after Idemili was raided by the Federal army.

‘Oh! I am really a slut.’ Cecilia, as I called her, said under her breath when the import of my childish words hit her.

‘What did you say?’

‘Nobody was trying to kill me. You must have been dreaming.’ Mother reconsidered my question and tried to confuse me.

‘No! Mummy,’ I said, shaking my eight-year-old head. ‘I saw the uncle wrestling with you and you were almost crying and when I wanted to stop him, you were putting your tongues inside each other’s mouth. Is that kissing?’

‘What do you know about kissing?’ Cecilia said like she was afraid for me, her daughter, me. Later, I learnt that stories went round of sexual abuse of children abound in the war.

‘At the Red Cross gatherings, they told us about lover’s kiss and greeting kiss.’ I had given an innocent smile. ‘You gave a lover’s kiss to the uncle like you did to the soldier who brought us salt from the city, right?’

‘Okay,’ mother decided to explain the situation to fill my mind. ‘I was trying to earn our survival by making the soldiers happy. That’s the role assigned to the women captured who want to stay alive. We are forced to play lovers game with the enemies. I was playing lovers’ game with Dave because he protects us. It is an unwritten deal.’

‘Lovers’ game,’ she closed her eyes, thinking, ‘will you teach me?’

‘It is meant for adults. It is adults’ game.’

‘I don’t understand you.’ She spelt out her confusion by narrating what she witnessed between Dave and her mum. ‘You were both naked and even struggling.’

‘We were making love, Laide.’ She blurted and feeling guilty she invited me to sit on her lap. ‘It is an adult game, forbidden to children. Children are not supposed to see their parents doing it. We didn’t know that you were awake. You will understand this when you grow up.’

‘Tell me more about the play now.’

‘It is a play for adults when they want to make new babies.’ The mother had explained in a way to douse her curiosity.

‘But you told me that God makes babies.’

‘Yes, after love play between man and woman, God completes the play by moulding the baby inside the woman.’

‘You are my mother. Who is my father?’ When my mother did not answer the question, I recalled probing her further. ‘Is my dad one of the two soldiers that you did adult game with?’

‘Stop questioning me!’ Cecilia had flared up, not in annoyance but in attempt to intimidate her daughter to stop the embarrassing conversation.

‘I want to know my dad.’ Laide insisted. ‘I saw the photograph of Ada’s dad. She looks like her dad. I don’t look like you. I must look like him and I don’t see him among the soldiers.’

‘You will know your dad when the war is over.’ Cecilia mussed her rough hair affectionately. ‘You had just given me the clue for identifying your father. Since you don’t have my look, you, as a matter of fact, resemble your dad.’

Laide remembered that she did not understand her mum. ‘What is my father’s name?’

‘I am not sure who he is.’ Cecilia had given the painful truth.

‘Don’t you know my dad? Don’t you know the adult you played love game with?’

Cecilia was surprised at her daughter’s persistence. ‘All right Laide, I couldn’t find out who your father was before we left the Southwest as a result of this war. Uncle Dave promised to assist me when we get back to Ibadan.’

‘Is my father not Mr. Robertson?’

‘There was no Robertson. It was the gardener, Cletus Obi that helped me to coin a name for you when he knew what happened through Samson Ikom, one of the men that were responsible for my pregnancy. As at now, the game of who God supported to give me beautiful Laide is not yet known. Sir Robert Sanya did not accept my pregnancy. Lai Pedro said that he would kill me if I implicate him. The third man, Samson, disappeared when I mentioned him to our master. I didn’t believe in the theory that another man had me that night. Cletus said that Laide Robertson is a combination of the four men’s name. But I was almost sure that the third man gave me my baby, the unusual sensations I had during the act and throughout the night made me want him again the next morning. I am awfully ashamed of my behaviour. Cletus told me that the master manipulated my body for his selfish use. The truth about your father will be known after the war. I will confront RS.’

‘Does it mean there was no fourth man?’

‘I don’t know. I never saw him. To me he doesn’t exist then.’ Cecilia’s voice was melancholic.

Laide remembered that she simply smiled and looked at her mother without understanding her response to the simple question. She had submissively and innocently accepted the tag: Laide Robertson.

A few days to the Christmas in 1969, Warrant Officer Dave Aboki visited the camp. Cecilia briefed him on her daughter’s enquiry about his father. Dave asked Laide to follow other kids to look for palm fruits in the surrounding groove. ‘Your mum and I will find out the identity of your dad and take you to him.’

‘Are you going to play adult game with my mum, today?’ Laide asked the solder as she wore the slippers he bought for her.

‘No, Laide. Mummy is pregnant already, expecting a baby.’

‘Is it your baby?’

‘Yes. I will be the proud father.’

Laide smiled. She was happy and it showed on her clear, bright eyes, ‘I want my brother to have a father, mummy is not sure I have one.’

‘You have one and you’ll soon know him. I will help you and your mum, Laide.’ He stooped to meet her height. ‘You are not a hybrid from three fathers. With patience and thorough investigation, we’ll get you to your dad.’

‘Is that a promise?’ Laide was elated. ‘Yes, it is a promise. On my honour.’ Dave crossed his hands over his chest to demonstrate his friendship and sincerity to help.

‘I love you, uncle,’ Laide said, grateful for the promise, and ran out to join other children. But her childish mind had its doubts that the two adults did not play the adult game that day.

*     *     *

The war ended two days before mother and I knew about it. We were praying to the Almighty God to touch the hearts of Yakubu Gowon and Odumegwu Ojukwu to call off the hostilities when Dave Aboki breezed in and gave us the good news. Cecilia did not believe him until she heard the Nigerian national anthem on the air wave of Radio Biafra, continuously.

‘Are we children of Nigeria, again?’ Laide asked.

‘Yes, we are.’ Dave answered jovially.

‘But we are still in Biafra. This is not Nigeria.’ Laide remembered that she could not fully understand their reason for being so excited that the war was over.

‘Everywhere in Biafraland is now part of Nigeria. The Head of State is still Gowon. Ojukwu had left the country for Ivory Coast to seek political asylum. Everybody must ‘gowon’ henceforth. That is the peace slogan for reconciliation. Gowon. Go on with one Nigeria.’

‘Can we travel to Ibadan to look for my dad?’ There was clear appeal in Laide’s eyes. She was not listening to Dave’s analysis.

‘We’ll soon go. But the date of our departure depends on the troop’s movements.’ Dave had been a combatant soldier in one of the units of the famed Third Marine Command, first directed by the fearless Commander Benjamin Adekunle, and later by the rugged and ruthless war veteran, Olusegun Obasanjo, to whom the Biafran Army surrendered, thus putting an end to the three years of civil war.

‘Tell your troop that I want to see my dad.’ I told Dave my major interest as my mother and other women in the camp jubilated over the ceasefire and reconciliation agreements between the Nigerian government and the rebellious Biafrans.

‘We will soon go Laide.’ Her mother had chipped in and spoke with her eyes to stop her from pestering Dave who looked unusually tired.

Everyone in the camp had a sumptuous dinner that day. Dave had brought a small bag of rice, tomapep and smoked-fish. It was the best food ever that I had since the war drove us out of my maternal home in Uli on the very day my three uncles died of food poisoning. My mother did not allow me to eat freely in the camps since then.

That night was different; I was overfed and I wet my sleeping mat several times before daybreak. I was sad because it was a habit I thought I outgrew a year earlier.

A week later, mother and I were transported in an army truck to Ibadan where—through the help of Warrant Officer Dave Aboki whose military assignment prevented from making the journey—

we were accommodated in the Second Division Army barrack, near Mokola Golf Course. After settling down, mother and daughter discovered that the house at 4 Yidi Avenue belonging to Cecilia’s boss had been burnt by political arsonists during the 1965 political riots in the Southwest. They were told that Honourable Robert Sanya fled to Lagos and never returned. This was news to Cecilia who had relocated to Oshogbo after the threats by Robert Sanya and the disappearance of Samson. Cecilia and daughter found out through old acquaintance in the neighbourhood that Robert teamed up with political associates to float a company that supplied war equipment to the Nigerian Armed Forces.

The warm presence of other kids in the barrack coupled with the love and affection from stepdad Dave Aboki, helped me in growing up without constant relapse to my paternal story. At school, I was brilliant and teachers predicted a bright future for me. When Dave Aboki mysteriously died in his sleep, the barrack accommodation had to be withdrawn from Cecilia. My mother thought it was the end of the road. Although, I was only thirteen-year old I thought differently. I approached the principal of my school who employed mother as the school’s cleaner with a room accommodation in the school’s premises.

Life rolled on promisingly until the afternoon of the 1975 bloodless coup that ousted General Yakubu Gowon’s military regime. I remembered that I was waiting for the municipal bus for the journey home from the army barrack. There was confusion in the barrack and I quickly ran out of it with such calculated steps that reminded me of the civil war years. As people started running off the street, I attempted to cross the road and was almost crushed by a taxi. The driver picked my fragile body up, carefully put me at the backseat and drove away from the chotic scene as I drifted into unconsciousness.

‘Where am I?’ I wondered when I woke up several hours later.

‘You are in the hospital.’ The cab driver responded. ‘I thought that I hit you with my car during the commotion. You passed out and I had to rush you to this hospital. It is the one I know well, and accessing here was easy for me.’

‘Thank you, Sir.’

‘We should thank God that it was the fear and not the minor contact with the car bumper that landed you here. I thank God.’ The cab driver said as the nurse entered the room.

‘We are now sure that the girl is not injured. She will be ready to go home any moment from now.’ The nurse said.

‘Thank you, matron.’

‘Has she told you her name?’

The cab driver looked at me. ‘I have not asked her.’

‘What’s your name, angel?’ The nurse smiled as she made to take record of my body temperature.

I returned her smile. ‘I like the name, Angel. In the past, I told my mum she should have named me after her late friend, Angelina, who died during the birth of her baby.’

‘Your mum must have her reason for your name.’ The nurse said and smiled. ‘Angelina, what’s your real name? It is for our records.’

‘Laide Robertson.’ I remembered why my mum gave me the name. I also remembered that my mum refused to choose Angelina as my baptismal name because she didn’t want me to end up a housemaid in the footstep of her late friend. She named me Celina, instead. The nurse’s appearance in the white gown and cap attracted me. ‘May I know your name?’ I asked in innocence and admiration.

It seemed like the first time a patient was asking for her name and she seemed fascinated by my animated expression, despite the frightful experience that landed me in the hospital. ‘I am Mrs. Bola Titicombe.’

‘I like your surname. It is not common. It is unique.’ I felt like I was completely recovered from the shock.

‘You are such a lovely, simple girl.’ Bola Titicombe said affectionately.

‘Thank you, ma.’ I smiled. ‘Which part of town is this?’ She tried to get up from the bed, thinking of home.

‘Yidi Avenue.’ The cab man answered.

‘My mum once lived in this neighbourhood.’ I informed the two adults. ‘She was in the employment of Sir Robert Sanya.’

‘He is a popular politician who got his house burnt during the political upheaval in the Southwest.’ Bola said noncommittally as she was not sure if I was related to the notorious politician. ‘He has just started renovating his burnt house, next door. I think he is getting ready for politics again.’

The cab man cut in. ‘I won’t dispute his popularity, madam, but I will add that he is selfish, wicked, corrupt, notorious and a political chameleon.’ He said, frowning as he spoke.

‘I am of the opinion that you know him more than madam.’ I turned my gaze to the cab man.

‘Do you know him? The two adults asked in unison.

‘My mum knows him very well. How did you know him, Sir?’

‘I worked for him on this street before.’

‘I will like to know more about him from you.’

‘I don’t want to talk about RS. It