But I had spoken to this colleague to help get me an interview with the woman whose word was law in the country’s seat of power, the Aso Rock Villa, for five years. I wasn’t going to miss this opportunity. So, I quickly replied that I would call once the service was over. I did. I was further informed that the interview would now hold by 3.p.m. in the Abuja residence of the former first family. I was excited as I drove home. I recited and rehearsed all the questions I would ask the woman who is regarded as one of the most powerful First Ladies Nigeria ever had.
My excitement surged as I visualized myself sitting before the widow of the late maximum leader, General Sani Abacha, the man who ruled the country with iron fists between November 17, 1993, and June 8, 1998 when he suddenly died. As I sped home, I recalled the countless articles, books and documentaries that have been published about how the Abachas wielded power during their time in the presidential villa. And majority of these commentaries aren’t flattering at all. Nevertheless, I couldn’t wait to engage the woman behind the former strongman, the matriarch of the Abacha Family, Mrs. Maryam Abacha. When I got to the Asokoro address, there were people all over the expansive compound. Most of them were seated on mats, some on chairs. Nearly everyone in the Abacha home was devouring steaming jollof rice with relish. My senior colleague ushered me into the sprawling mansion of the Abachas.
We were accosted by a man dressed in black kaftan. The man identified himself as the Chief Security Officer (CSO) of the house. My heart raced at the mention of the awe-inspiring acronym, CSO, remembering what it connoted when General Abacha held sway as Nigeria’s Head of State. Despite his friendly approach, I expected this CSO to be a no nonsense person, too. I quickly introduced myself. The CSO directed us to the main entrance of the house. As I stepped in, I came face to face with a giant sized picture of Gen. Abacha. Beside this giant portrait was an old childhood picture of Mustapha, the last child of the family, who was born while his late father was in power. Mustapha is now a gangling teenager.
To my right was a framed Nigerian coat of arms and on the wall, on my left, was a much smaller painting of Mrs. Maryam. I joined the others waiting in the small parlour we were ushered into. Just like the people outside, those in the parlour were the remainder of family members and friends who came to Abuja for the wedding ceremony of Sadiq, the fourth son of the Abachas. My enthusiasm was heightened by the realization that I was going to interview the former First Lady. But I was in for a minor disappointment. I had to wait for three hours with two other reporters I didn’t know were coming for the interview. Reason: Mrs. Abacha and other family members ensured that their guests leaving for Kano and Maiduguri were attended to. When the matriarch of the Abacha Family finally came down to another sitting room nearby, her steps were springy, despite being in the centre of the five-day wedding ceremony of her son and his bride, Huda Mahmud. Sadiq and Huda’s five-day nuptial was held between October 16 and 21. The only thing that showed that Mrs. Abacha had been on her toes for days was her voice.
As planned, I started with light-hearted questions about her joyful dancing during the Wushe-Wushe ceremony where her in-laws hosted her family and their well-wishers. Though the former First Lady was surprised that I didn’t know much about this old Kanuri tradition she still obliged me with an explanation on the origin of the ceremony and why she danced so heartedly during the event. “They have showed documentaries about it (Wushe-Wushe) on the NTA (Nigerian Television Authority) a couple of times,” she said, amazed at my ignorance.
“Wushe-Wushe is a Kanuri word which means ‘well-done’. It’s the bride’s family that hosts the groom’s family to say well done for all the wahala involved in a wedding, just like the Yoruba say ‘e ku inawo’. The bride’s family’s cook and the family organise other forms of entertainment. Sometimes, they light incense and other things to make the event grand. It is the bride’s family’s way of saying they have welcomed the groom into their family. It is an old tradition really that should be encouraged because there is nothing immoral about it,” she opined.
The Abachas adhered to other traditional ceremonies for a northern wedding. Was this her own way of promoting the Nigerian culture? “Well, if you want to see it from that perspective, I think that people should hold on to their culture and tradition,” she said. “Your culture is what gives you an identity among the peoples of the world. In the olden days, some cultures identified their people through tribal marks. But that is out of fashion now. These days, we have to retain ceremonies like Wushe-Wushe in order to maintain the identity of our culture. So, yes, people should hold on to all good aspects of their cultures, not the bad ones that promote superstitious beliefs.”
On her dexterity on the dance floor that night, she revealed that her dancing was a show of love and support for her children. “When the children came up to me and asked that I join in the dancing, I didn’t want to disappoint them, so I joined them,” she said. “And the music was traditional Kanuri music. This traditional music is what we listened to while growing up. I have an attachment to it because of my mother who grew up in the palace of the Shehu of Borno.
When I heard the music it reminded me of those old days. Whenever the flutist in a Kanuri group plays, he is saying something like the Yoruba talking drum does. So, it is not only the words that moved me but also the narratives of the flutist. I know all the wordings in the song, so, I appreciate Kanuri music a lot.” When asked why she didn’t flaunt her blue-blood roots while power, Mrs. Abacha paused for a moment after which she said rather honestly, “It is because of my coming from a military home and our upbringing in the north,” she explained. “My home state is very far but you can go and ask them about how I grew up. We are here in Abuja and we do travel to the south, so it may be difficult to confirm when I tell people how I grew up. In the south, people will say ‘call me prince this or princess that’.
But we don’t do that in the north. Not even the children of Emir of Kano, Alhaji Ado Bayero, will go about, saying ‘I am prince this person or that person’. We don’t do things that way in the north. It is not in our culture.” How is life as a grandma and how does it feel with six of her children leaving home after marriage? I asked Mrs. Abacha. “I am coping well with kids leaving,” she says. “Though my children are leaving the house, they are being replaced by their children, so there isn’t a vacuum. Their marriages are a blessing in every sense.”
She, however, admits that she misses her husband very much during family events. “We are doing well; it’s just that the children and I miss their daddy who isn’t around.” Gen. Abacha suddenly bit the dust on June 8, 1998 at the height of the political impasse triggered by the contentious annulment of the June 12, 1993 presidential election by his predecessor, General Ibrahim Babangida. The interview was now progressing into serious national issues and I soon realized that Mrs. Abacha wasn’t keen on speaking politics even if it had to do with the governorship ambition of her first son, Mohammed. He contested for but failed to clinch the governorship ticket of the Congress for Progressive Change party, CPC. “If you want to give us advice to do it (participate in politics) or not to do it, just tell us,” was how she responded to the question on her son’s quest for the governorship of Kano State in 2011.
When I pushed a little explaining that I only wanted to know how she felt as a mother whose child had stepped into the murky waters of politics, the former First Lady countered: “Tell me the nature of politics in Nigeria. Maybe I need to know something that I don’t”. Responding, I told her Nigerian politics, most times, isn’t based on ideology. It rather is an arena for personality bashing and mudslinging coupled with escalating violence, all of which make the soapbox unattractive to those who would normally have loved to throw their caps into the ring. “So, you are asking us (Abacha family) to drop out of politics?” she asked me with a quizzical look. ‘No’, I replied. “Don’t forget that we are a military family,” she joked. “We are not too scared. We are Muslims who believe that anything can happen to anybody. We believe in destiny and fate.
We believe people have their own path in life. You can be a pastor or a mallam or a merchant, or even a trader. You can be anything you wish to be even if it means being a politician.” That’s in apparent reference to her politician-son, Mohammed. Presently, a horde of photographers came into the room, and shattered the little privacy we had enjoyed for the short chat. That offered a perfect opportunity to redirect the interview to ‘soft issues’, starting from her charity works. In her days as First Lady, the National Hospital, brainchild of her Non Governmental Organisation (NGO), the Family Support Programme, FSP, fully supported by her husband’s regime, focused on the health of mothers and children. Years after her husband’s death, and consequently leaving power, the once shinning centre of excellence has become a butt of derisive jokes by people who feel the hospital has become where people now go to die.
How does she feel about the dwindling state of the hospital? “Whatever you do to help the needy, you do it to please God, not to impress people,” she says, making deliberate effort not to comment on anything concerning government, no matter how remotely connected. Then, switching back to her current charity work, she asks: “Must I go round the world telling people what I am doing? It is not in our culture to announce our good deeds. Well, I have grandchildren to take care of. Let me concentrate on them. I served the country in my own little way when I had the chance to. Now, I just have to reserve the energy I have to take care of my family.
Taking care of my family is what I will be doing for the rest of my life.” By the time I was leaving the Abacha residence, the few guests remaining were eating dinner, which looked like tuwo and a traditional soup served with different kinds of beverages. Though I hadn’t asked all the questions I wanted to due to my hostess’s reluctance to talk policy or politics, I had the feeling that my time wasn’t wasted.
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