For weeks, a guy named Saib, whom I met through a former colleague, Adeola Daramola, had been calling to say he had a story that would interest me. That was in 2007 or 2008. Not sure. Adeola, by then had left The News to join Zenith Bank and had been posted to Gusau.
Saib and I remained in touch and it was because of that he kept pitching the story to me. His eagerness suggested to me that the story was potentially a firecracker. He once said it was an exclusive that he wanted me to have. I thought he had something like a blockbuster document. I asked what the story was about, but he always said, as we often say, it wasn’t a discussion that could be had on the phone.
I think (don’t know for sure) that Saib got cured of whatever condition that predisposed him to listen to the man let alone believe that he had something resembling a story, as he never called me after that day.
The assurance he offered did not make me fret. As such, it took some three or four weeks before we could sit together to talk about it. We agreed to meet on a Sunday at Lascofis, a favourite haunt of many journalists at the time. I think it still is, but I no longer go there since its idyll gave way to maddening boisterousness.
The meeting time was 2pm and I was there well before time interacting with liquor while I waited. At 2 p.m., I called to find out if he had changed his mind. “We’re close to you,” he said. “We?” I thought he was coming alone. I later told myself that he was probably coming with the man who had the document, so he could explain its content better if there was a need.
At about 2.30, he drove in and was accompanied by a sullen-looking man, whom I thought had suffered some grave injustice (a wrongful dismissal at work, perhaps) and desired to have the guns turned on the perpetrator (s). They sat and I asked what they wanted to drink. The man, I remember, requested a bottle of malt drink. I don’t remember what Saib drank.
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We got talking, not immediately about the story. The man said nothing and Saib did not redirect the conversation to our objective. The verbal foreplay, I thought, was getting too long. I had a meeting scheduled for later in the day at the office. There had to be a way of getting the conversation to move in the direction I wanted.
I asked what the story was about and Saib said the man would speak. It didn’t look like he had any documents, but I was willing to listen. From his first sentence, it was clear that I was interacting with a guy, who was not just nuts, but weapons-grade bonkers.
He was looking for how to contact Condoleeza Rice, he said. “What Condoleeza Rice and why are you looking for her?” I asked. Saib interjected, saying it was the former US Secretary of State. Things were looking unreal or beyond “be careful”. I held on. I asked the purpose for the search. The man replied that he was once married to her. I asked if he once lived in the US and he said he never did.
I asked how he could have married Ms Rice, given that she had never lived in Nigeria. He replied that she was a Nigerian from Ilesa and they met in Obalende while he was in the Air Force. I was almost getting dizzy from the mazy and utterly deranged story he was telling.
“Did she divorce you?” I asked. No, he replied. I said I didn’t believe his story, but Saib said it was true. I asked for the wedding photos. He said they were with Justice Chukwudifu Oputa. My beer started tasting like piss. I became afraid.
“Oga, was Justice Oputa your best man or what?” He just said the photos were with him. I asked for Ms Rice’s alleged maiden name. “Adeyemi,” he replied. I advised him to go to her family house at Ilesa. He said he had forgotten how to get to the place. I knew I’d get into trouble if I didn’t find a way to quickly leave. I chose not to have an extra drink and called the waiter to come for payment. Still, I couldn’t just get up. I was in the presence of a genuine crackpot and I couldn’t predict his response if I chose an abrupt end to the meeting.
“When last were you in touch?” He didn’t remember the year, but said Ms. Rice sent him $250,000 cash through a friend. I became more scared. A mind diseased enough to produce a narrative such as the one I was being fed must be dangerous. No mas, I told myself. I said I would work on the lead given and get back to them on the time for another meeting.
I asked if they wanted pepper soup and extra drinks (certainly not out of generosity, but to forestall possible adversarial reaction to my soon to be exit). They both said they did. I ordered and paid before reminding them that I had a meeting to attend. The man, at least, grinned. I took the grin as a hint that he was not about to be triggered.
I warned that he was rolling with a staggeringly mad man, a Tier-A lunatic and one that could behead him with his teeth!
I thanked them for coming, got into my car and puffed my cheeks in relief. At the junction of Acme Road where my office is located, I parked and called Saib, pretending to want to ask if they were okay. He said they were and were waiting for the pepper soup. I told him exactly how I felt with what he had done. “You have exposed me to grave danger,” I told him. I warned that he was rolling with a staggeringly mad man, a Tier-A lunatic and one that could behead him with his teeth!
He couldn’t say much because he was still with the subject of our conversation. After my meeting in the office, I called Adeola Daramola, who introduced us, to tell him that Saib had tried to have me killed, providing details of the story. He was shocked and them burst out laughing so hard that I thought he was going to pee himself. When he regained control, he asked: “Se ki se pe o re Saib? (I hope Saib has not become sick in the head).”
I think (don’t know for sure) that Saib got cured of whatever condition that predisposed him to listen to the man let alone believe that he had something resembling a story, as he never called me after that day.
