Editor’s Note: The interview reproduced below was published in four parts under the ICON page in The Sun when the now late elder statesman and former vice president, Dr Alex Ekwueme turned 80. The issues are evergreen and germane even now. The remaining parts will be republished in Daily Sun. 

Shola Oshunkeye

WHEN, in 1979, he and Alhaji Shehu Shagari, running on the platform of the National Party of Nigeria, NPN, took the nation by storm, and swept that year’s polls, to the chagrin of closest rival, the Unity Party of Nigeria, UPN, what endeared Dr. Alexander Ifeanyichukwu Ekwueme to majority of his compatriots was not the aristocratic clan he leads as the surviving heir. Neither was it his charismatic personality alone. It was his intimidating CV and his professional trajectory before mounting the soapbox.

In a country where most politicians have no second address (known profession or business), as former President Olusegun Obasanjo often counseled while in power, in a country where most people who seek power rely on brawn rather than brain, in a country where most politicians gain political power through the brutal influence of godfathers and their ill-gotten wealth, as against their content of character and quality of ideas they want to bring to the table, Alex Ekwueme, came with a freshness that was alien in this clime, at the time. 

Then 47, and armed with a chain of degrees in sociology, history, philosophy and law, capping it with a PhD in Architecture from the University of Strathclyde, Glasgow, he had, through his architectural firm, Ekwueme Associates, Architects and Town Planners, the first indigenous architectural firm in Nigeria, had established a business empire that no one can ignore.

  Before he threw his cap into the ring, to run for political office, his flourishing practice had built a network of 16 big offices nationwide. With his phenomenal success in private practice, it was not difficult for genuine votes to connect with Ekwueme; neither was it hard for the architect-turned-politician to warm his way into their hearts. The result: they voted massively for them and their party, NPN.

As an intellectual in power, Dr. Ekwueme, proud recipient of the Grand Commander of the Order of the Niger, GCON, brought his vast knowledge into government and did his level best in whatever assignment his boss, President Shehu Shagari, gave him. He was neither attracted to any filthy lucre nor affected by paraphernalia of power, nor the prodigal indulgences that power, in this clime, offers. To him, power is just a means to uplift humanity through selfless service. He was true to that principle till the military struck on December 31, 1983, just three months into their second term in office.  Try as the military dictatorship of General Muhamadu Buhari did to roast him for alleged corruption, which was never substantiated, Ekwueme came out white as snow. He sparkled like diamond. Though, he was in house arrest, and later, prison custody, for six years, the Buhari Regime could not find one shred of evidence of corruption to nail him.

Dr. Ekwueme, who clocks 80, today, and who has been the worthy object of national celebration in the past week, was close to tears when I sat down with him for two days in his country home in Oko, Anambra State, recently. During the encounter, he had declared: “After the Buhari regime put me in prison for serving my country so selflessly, I felt Nigeria was not worth dying for or sacrificing for. I felt that bad. But, eventually, I got over that. But going into government and serving as selfless as possible, putting all your energy into it, having sleepless nights trying to work out solutions for the problems facing the country as honestly as possible, and then you end up in prison as a reward for that selfless service, is not something that one should be happy about it. But, eventually, I took it as part of the military hangover because once the military gets power, they would do just about anything to hold on to it forever.”

  As for General Muhammadu Buhari’s insistence in the early days of the junta that Ekwueme was corrupt, the former vice president says the Daura-born General was just dishing out lies to cover the illegality that he and fellow coupists committed, toppling a legitimate government.

In this two-part biographical interview to commemorate Dr. Ekwueme’s 80th birthday, the former vice president opens his entire life like a book, discussing, partly with nostalgia, and partly with regret, those events that shaped his life and made him the phenomenon that he is.

Even if it sounds like a cliché, can we start, sir, by asking how you feel at 80?

Quite frankly, I feel very happy and blessed. At 80, I’m almost as fit as I was at 60. Just this morning, I wanted to play two sets of tennis, singles. But the rain started falling, so we had to abort it. I hope the weather is good this evening so that we can go and play, and enjoy ourselves. I’m happy I’m privileged to be strong enough to be able to do what many people my age are not able to do. I thank God.

How long have you been playing tennis?

Since my first year in secondary school in 1945. I was in the Tennis 16 (a school club) of the secondary school but I don’t play championship tennis. I just play to enjoy myself.

You never represented your school or region or…up to championship level?

I represented my secondary school. But that’s as far as I could go. Of course, at the provincial or regional level, they had more experienced, more talented players than myself. 

Talking about youthful days, your childhood days, what were those unique things that made your childhood memorable? What were your unforgettable moments?

Well, the fact that I grew up in a rural environment…

In Oko here?

No. My father was a church catechist. At that time there were only three stations with three priests in what is now Awka. There was a priest at Agulu, a priest here, a priest at Ufuma. That’s all. All the other churches were manned by catechists or agents, as they were called, church teachers who took full control of the church, while the priest only came to do baptism and communion; and the Bishop only came once or twice a year to do confirmation. Of course, my father was in this profession and we moved from place to place. I was born, for instance, in a town called Nawfija, Emmanuel Saviour’s Church compound. That was on October 21, 1932. My father was posted there in January 1931. He was there till 1933. Then in January 1934, he moved to Emmanuel Saviour’s Church, Ugboluku, which is about four miles from here but in the opposite direction. And he was there just for one year before he was posted to Saint Jude’s Church at …in the present Aniocha Local Government area. He started in January 1935. He was there for three years-1935-1937.

That was the first place I started knowing my surrounding and having my own perception of the world as a kid. After 1937, he moved again to a remote town called Oba Ofemili, across the river. We had to get there by canoe because the road was not motorable. There was no even cycle track. He established the Anglican Church in that town. We were there for two years again-January 1938 to December 1939. He had to retire on health ground. He was asthmatic. So, he retired and we came back to Oko, which was my first sojourn in Oko, apart from the three months that I briefly spent in 1938.

So, while in Oko, I started school in St. John’s Anglican Central School, at Ekwulobia, the next town, which you passed before getting here. And I was there from January 1940 to December 1944. In February 1942, my father died.

From asthma?

Yes. And other complications.

How old was he then?

He was barely 45. He died quite young.

That must have devastated your life…

Naturally, because I was barely nine years and 19 months old. My immediate younger brother, Professor Laz, was barely six years old. My youngest brother, a professor and a surgeon, was three years old.

How many of you all together?

At the time he died, we were four boys.

No girl?

A girl who was directly older than myself had died in May 1941, a few months before my father died.

What happened to her?

It must have been malaria. We were in the same school and we had the first term holiday and she started running temperature and had some rashes on her chest. They took her to CMS Hospital, hoping that she would come back to school for the second term, only for us to hear that she was dead.

Back to your father who died so early. That event must have impacted so negatively on your life; it must have disorganized your life and the lives of your brothers.

That’s what I was coming to. It was obviously difficult for my mother to look after the three of us who were alive at the time my father died. My elder brother had gone to secondary school at Onitsha; and because my father was in the mission service, the then Bishop of the Niger took him on, had a room for him in the Bishop’s House, and paid tuition fees for him. That way, he was able to continue his secondary education.

My mother couldn’t look after the remaining three of us. Even then, by the time my father died in February, she was heavily pregnant. And in May, she had twin babies-two girls. There just was no way she could cope with all of us. So, I had to leave. I had to go to another village to live with my aunt, my father’s elder sister.

What were you doing there?

I was leaving with her. She had had 11 children of whom only one survived.

Ogbanje or what?

No, it’s these childhood killer diseases that we erroneously took for Ogbanje. The only surviving one lived in Onitsha and got married to an Onitsha man. She actually took charge of my school fees while I was leaving with her mother. From here, we walked to the same school that I was attending at Ekwulobia, which was CMS Secondary School-a journey of about five and a half miles to go in the morning and five and a half miles to return. Meaning, every day, we did 11 miles to go and return from school.

We would leave as early as 5 or 6 in the morning to try and get to school before 8. The school closed at 20 to 2p.m., and I had to try to get back on time for choir practice. So, it was very tedious. But it toughened me.

So, you became a man before you actually became a man?

Oh, yes. I grew up very quickly. I became a man before my age.

At what age did you actually become a man?

(Laughs…)Well, I was tough and independent. That was why I was able to I was able to go, all alone from Ekwulobia here, to attend an interview for admission in Lagos without anybody accompanying me at age 11! Because I was fairly independent and able to look after myself.

How was the admission process in those days?

It was strictly on merit. There was no question of your parents influencing anything.

There was no question of ‘special centres’, or parents buying question papers in advance, or hiring ‘exam contractors’ for their wards…

No way. There was nothing like those. If there was, there was no way an indigent student like me could have gained admission, and on scholarship. If it was not purely on merit, there was no way I could have gained admission and got scholarship on top. We wrote the exams; when the results came out, I was invited to Lagos for an interview; after the interview in August/September 1944, after which I was given admission to start in January 1945. So, the transition from the rural life of Ekwulobia to life in a big city like Lagos was a huge jump.

Didn’t you experience any cultural shock or flux?

Not really. Not really. But like I said, because I was already toughened by those sad experiences so early in life, I was able to adjust to many very difficult situations. And in that class of 25, we had students from all over Nigeria. There were four of us from the then Eastern Nigeria; one from Calabar Province; one from Owerri Province; I from Onitsha Province; then, the fourth one from Rivers Province. On the other side of the river, we had two from Warri Province, which later became Delta, and two from Benin Province; Ondo Province had three-two from Akure and one from Ado-Ekiti.

Were you at your father’s deathbed?

No. He was admitted to CMS Hospital, Iyelu, a foremost hospital, still a good hospital at Ogidi, on the outskirts of Onitsha.  It was a normal thing for all those who were associated with the Anglian Mission to be taken there. That was why my sister was taken there when she was ill. That was why my father was taken there. I think the doctor there knew that he was getting to the terminal stage, and they knew that if he died, our people would want to take him from the hospital back to Oko here for burial. Two of our relations at Onitsha decided to take him while he was still alive. So, one of my uncles, who was a lorry driver, went and took him. And the two of them were sitting in the front of the lorry. He was sandwiched between two of them, and they were coming home. By the time they got to Nnobi, about 13 miles from here, he passed on. The driver noticed that he had passed on but he didn’t say anything; because if he did, all the passengers would have been alarmed. So, he got him home. To answer your question, I wasn’t there when my father passed on. It was really evening, and we had gone to bed. So, they came and took my mother away to my uncle’s place. Later, they came and asked us to come down. We came down and found him lying down. It was a traumatic experience.

How did it affect your mum? Did she have to re-marry?

She never did.

How did she survive catering for five children?

It was traumatic for her. But she didn’t suffer for too long. Actually, we were six. My elder brother was at a grammar school at Onitsha, that left five of us. And I had left to live with my aunt, that left them with my two younger brothers and the two twin girls. Of course, with her state of helplessness, and lack of amenities, it was no wonder the twin girls died within a very short time. Between malaria and malnutrition, they couldn’t survive. It was not surprising that they couldn’t survive, granted the enormous challenges facing the family, coupled with my mother’s very limited resources. The first one died the first year and the other one a year later. Both died under age two.

What was mama doing for a living?

She was doing petty trading. She had a sewing machine and she used to mend clothes for people. She was also into subsistent farming.

Of course papa could not have money or property…

(Cuts in…) How much were they paid? A catechist? Church teacher? That was the only job he was doing, running the mission. It was a full time job. Of course, some of the churches have grown now. Some of those churches now have two or three priests running them.

Could the problems you faced in your childhood be responsible for the kind of positive aggression in your educational pursuit? You have intimidating CV, with a number of degrees in varied professions-architecture, law, sociology, etc.?

Well, not really. I was just fortunate that I was very good in both arts and sciences. I was able to pursue my studies in those areas. For instance, my first high school certificate, I took three subjects English, Latin and History, leading to the intermediate B.A. degree of London University. My second Higher School Certificate combination was in Physics, Chemistry and Mathematics. These are science subjects, which would normally lead to intermediate B.Sc. of London University. I was fairly good in both areas and that meant I could easily branch out.  And the fact that London University had a provision for external degrees meant that while pursuing full-time degree you could also pursue some part-time course. That’s what I took advantage of.  My first degree was a Bachelor of Arts degree of the University of London in June of 1955 in History, Philosophy and Constitutional Law.

Combined honours?

At that time, they called it B.A. General. But now, they call it combined honours. My secondary degree, Bachelor of Arts in Sociology, in August of the same year, from the University of Washington. I was doing Architecture and Town Planning and because I had had higher school certificates in Arts and Sciences, I was exempted from many of the courses that were compulsory. For instance, for the requirement in architecture, for the first year, you had to do English (a quarter), Mathematics (a quarter), Physics for architects as background for lighting and air conditioning.  And because I had higher school certificates in those areas, I was exempted from them. But the way the American system worked, even if you are exempted, you are not given credits. You still had to have the minimum number of credits to get your degree. So, I studied the catalogue and found out that by concentrating all my electives in one area, to replace all those exempted courses, I could get for another degree. So, I took all the courses in Sociology, and I had my Sociology degree in 1955 before getting my architecture degree in 1956. I got my Masters in Urban Planning in March 1957. Meanwhile in 1956, after my degree in Architecture in June, then in September, I took LLB examination in University of London. Because I had done constitutional Law as part of my B.A., I was exempted from that, I had to do only three papers. 

Now, on my way home, I went to London and worked for some months in the attorney general’s office, and I was able to do my LLB in June 1957. But then I landed a job with ESSO Oil (West Africa) to oversee the construction department, so I had to come back to Nigeria. So, I skipped that. So, that laid fallow until 20 years later, in 1976, after I had been in practice for 18 years, I decided to take some time off to go and do my PhD in Architecture at the University of Strathclyde, Glasgow. While doing that, I remembered that I had some unfinished business, so in 1977, June, I took the Part 1 of the London University LLB examination. And in 1978, when I was about to submit my thesis for my PhD, which was on Housing, I took the Part 2 of the London University LLB Honours Degree and then came back and got involved in politics. So, because I got involved in politics, I couldn’t go into Law School with my classmates with whom I did my degree in London.

Until we finished our political service, followed by six years of imprisonment and detention, and restriction from 1984 when Buhari staged his coup and toppled our elected government.

Can we talk about your detention experience?

First, I was locked up in Bonny Camp, Lagos; from there, I was place under House arrest under 24-hour military guard; then, from there, I was moved to Kirikiri Maximum Security Prison.

Whereas your boss then, Alhaji Shehu Shagari, was kept in Aguda House in Abuja…

No! Not in Aguda House. He was brought back to Lagos and put under house arrest, again, under 24-hour military guard in Ikoyi. But people were furious that the Buhari Military Regime was discriminatory in the way it handled you people at the time-keeping you in prison and putting President Shagari under house arrest. Well, I tell you quite frankly, I was happier in Kirikiri than I was in Temple under house arrest with 24-hour military guard.

Ok, what’s the difference between house arrest and detention in Kirikiri?

House arrest meant that I was all alone in the house. Nobody talks to me. You can’t read papers. You can’t make phone calls.

You can’t watch TV?

No, you can watch TV. And when you look out of the window, anytime of the day and night, you see soldiers everywhere, milling around, looking wild, armed, very unfriendly. It’s not a safe environment to be in. Things could be volatile, and you can never tell if there would be a coup d’etat or a shoot-out. There could be anything. Under house arrest, and in a coup like we were, anything can happen. You could be killed. You could disappear. Anything can happen to you, and there would be a perfect explanation. It is dangerous to be under house arrest because if the state kills, nobody can unravel it. But in Kirikiri, many of us were there-governors, senators, reps, ministers, all sorts of people. So, had morning and evening prayers. We were able to talk, discuss, pray and play indoor games-draft, ludo. Although, the atmosphere was far better, you have to stay inside prison cells, and by 5 o’clock, the cell is locked. Once they lock the cell, they won’t open it until next morning. And if you have to ease yourself, you do it in the room. You could interact, unlike under house arrest where you see people milling around and nobody says a word to you. Though if you want to ease yourself in prison, you do it right there in the room, it still far more preferable to me than house arrest.

What if you want to do the big one? Pooh-pooh?

There is a bucket for you to do it. It was dehumanizing. They do it just to dehumanize you. Seriously, when General Magodo, who was then Minister of Internal Affairs, came to Kirikiri, he asked to see me. I went to him. He asked if there was anything I wanted him to do for me. I told him there was really nothing. I told him we are here, we are here. Now, I don’t understand the logic behind the configuration of Kirikiri. The way Kirikiri is configured, from your cell, you can walk up to your corridor; the next corridor leads to a stairway. There is a door to your cell, and at the end of the corridor, before you get to the stairway, there is another door. Then, when you get down the stairway, there is a door to get outside to get to the courtyard, there is a gate. Then, you get to the courtyard, our block is this way, and the other block is the block of armed robbers. Between the two blocks is the courtyard and there is a gate that leads to an open field and you see the other block where the other prisoners are, before you get to the main exit, there is a gate that opens to a small reception area. So, all together, before you can get outside, there are all together six gates. So, I said, what is the point locking up the cell, and keeping us in the room from that time till morning so that we have to do both the small and big jobs there in the cell? It doesn’t make sense. It is not about security. It is just to humiliate. Why can’t they leave the actual cell door open so that people can go to each other if they so desire, and not live with feaces over night? I told him (General Magodo) all that. He listened and he said okay. And he gave instructions but I didn’t tell my colleagues what happened. They just woke up the next day and found that the cell doors were no longer locked.

At first, they thought the officials forgot to lock it. But when it persisted, they knew something had happened. Sadly, it was abused in the end. They would come to that corridor and they would be playing games-ludo, draft, and they will be making noise throughout the night, and they will be disturbing those who want to sleep. So, after some time, I had to call them to other. I told them that this was something they needed not abuse. That they (the authorities) did it to allow us go to toilet without us having to do it in our cells.

I remember some of you picked some terrible diseases, communicable diseases, from the prison at that time. I remember the late Governor Bisi Onabanjo of Ogun State, the late Professor Ambrose Alli of Edo State, the late Governor Aper Aku of Benue State, and so on. Sir, what disease did you pick?

Mercifully, nothing. Nothing. I was just lucky not to have contracted any of those terrible diseases in prison. I was just lucky. I was just lucky not to have died as a result of that experience. I just can’t thank God enough for everything, for all his goodness to me. I can’t thank Him enough.

Did that experience change your perception of Nigeria? Did it change the way you began to see life, things in general?

Well, not about life but about Nigeria. After the Buhari regime put me in prison for serving my country so selflessly, I felt Nigeria was not worth dying for or sacrificing for. I felt that bad. But, eventually, I got over that. But going into government and serving as selfless as possible, putting all your energy into it, having sleepless nights trying to work out solutions for the problems facing the country as honestly as possible, and then you end up in prison as a reward for that selfless service, is not something that one should be happy about it. But, eventually, I took it as part of the military hangover because once the military gets power they would do just about anything to hold on to it forever.

The major plank of Buhari’s coup speech was that there was heavy corruption going on under your watch, I mean, under the watch of your boss, President Shehu Shagari and your very self. Though, there were some in that same regime who believed that neither President Shagari nor your humble self stole, but that people under you were stealing the country blind and they seemed to be above the law; and you and your boss seemed so helpless.

As far as I am concerned, they merely saying that to justifying the illegality (coup) they committed. That was trash, and it was merely an excuse to justify what they did. If anything, the corruption that happened in our time was child’s play compared to what happened when we were over thrown. It was a child’s play to what happened under Buhari, Babangida, Abacha, Abdulsalam, in 16 years. Now, I don’t recall, in our time, any contract that did not go through due process, that did not go through Ministerial Tenders Board, Federal Tenders Board, Council of Ministers, and scrutinized at every stage before it was finally awarded. But in the case of the military, they will never go through due process. They will never go through any scrutiny. They just awarded contracts like that. Just like that! And nobody questions it.  Again, Nigerians are very gullible. They like to hear juicy stories about corruption. I remember the late Dele Giwa saying that Umaru Dikko stole N1.2billion from rice deals. And he was saying it on 60 Minutes, that popular American TV programme. And Nigerians bought into it. They were clapping. Now, if I was not in that government, maybe I would have clapped too. But not only was I in government, I was also the chairman of the cabinet budget committee. And I know, of a fact, that the total amount we spent for that importation over that period came to only N900 million. Now, tell me how he can steal N1.2 billion out of N900 million. And yet, Nigerians were clapping.

Incidentally, he is no longer around to defend himself…

Very sad.

Maybe, he had his own independent facts that were contrary to what your government had or would want Nigerians to believe.

Where did he get his own facts? Where did he get them from as to say categorically that N1.2 billion was stolen? Yet, nobody asked questions. They believed him without a shred of evidence. And I’m sorry to say, your colleagues in the Nigerian media encouraged, peddled and published some of these stories as the gospel truth. And when they did, the opposition feasted on them. Indeed, the opposition had some control over the media. The media was not entirely independent. They played into the opposition’s hands. But incidentally when Buhari started trying politicians, the first evidence they were able to produce of kickback was not from NPN, it was from the UPN.

Yes, I remember. A few of their governors were prosecuted for paying money into the party’s coffers.

Absolutely.  They were said to be paying kickback money they got from, I think Crusader Company, from the contract they gave the company, to the party.

But you cannot totally also rubbish the popular belief then that the Nigerian National Supply Company, through which rice and all other essential commodities were brought into the country, wasn’t a beehive of corruption.

Here we go again. That is the type of statement you people make-‘beehive of corruption’, and nobody has brought facts and figures to say this and this happened. They just make general statement like that and people applaud.

Okay sir, when you came out of prison, why did you not refute some of these misconceptions? Why did you not call a press conference and set the record straight?

When I was locked up in Kirikiri, in January 1984, in February, this same Buhari who was president of Nigeria, though unelected, called a press conference and said that I, Alex Ekwueme, was responsible for all the corruption in government; that I was in charge of petroleum, and I was in charge of Abuja, and I was in this and that. And that they had all the facts. And that I would be presented with those facts. And that there was no way I would get out of prison. He had already taken a position. He had already judged me. He announced it to the whole world. I think I still have he publication.  So, my mentor, Dr. Akanu Ibiam, the first governor of Eastern Nigeria, at his age, then over 80, when he read it, he was so worried. He drove from his village in Nwana, from the border of Ebonyi State with Cross River, all the way to Lagos, and went to see Buhari, and told him that he wanted to see me. Buhari was dogging. But he told him that he must see me because of it. Finally, he did?

Did he finally see you?

Of course. You didn’t know Dr. Akanu Ibiam? He was a dogged fighter. Yes. You know Ibiam was a dogged man. Eventually, Buhari sent some SSS people to bring him to Kirikiri to see me. They came, and somebody was sent to me to say I had a visitor. So, I went up to the front part of the prison, where we had this steel prison barricade separating the outside world from the prison side. He (Dr. Ibiam) was waiting for me that side. When I saw him, I asked him: Baba, why do have to come here now? He said he read something in the papers, where Buhari was saying I was in charge of this and that; and he was very worried. He said that’s why he came to see me. He asked me if it was true. And he started crying like a baby.

Crying at that age? Over 80?

Papa was crying like a baby. And I asked him why he was crying. He felt let down by what he had read, and heard Buhari say. I asked him: Is that why you are crying, Baba? He said ‘yes’. As I said, he was my mentor. I told him there was no truth in all these things. First, I had nothing with petroleum. The Minister of Petroleum in our time was the president, just like in Abacha’s time. And the Special Adviser on Petroleum was Yaya Dikko. So, I had nothing to do with petroleum. As for Abuja, yes, there were two ministers for Abuja-first, Kadiat; and after Kadiat, Iro Dan Musa. The only thing I had to do with Abuja, apart from reviewing the Masterplan, was that tenders were coming into Council at a fast pace for Abuja and it took a lot of Council of Ministers’ time.

And invariably, when they brought some of these things, they were not carefully thought out. And to carefully sort out and given my own professional position, I would pick holes in some of the presentations, and invariably the whole thing would collapse. So, at one time, after seeing what happened, the president said he would set up a cabinet committee on Abuja, including the Minster of FCT, Minister of Works, and some others. So, when they brought these memoranda now, we would first go through them in that committee; we would scrutinize them to make sure that everything was in order before bring it to council. That was a way of accelerating the process and making sure that things were properly done.

So, I told him (Sir Akanu Ibiam) not to worry about it unless I’m dead. That if I’m alive, this thing will not stand in any court. Buhari cannot even get any evidence to support what he was saying because they were allies. Blatant lies. It was just a hang-up he had simply because he was in power, and had the gun.  And he had to justify his own illegality (of toppling a legitimate government).

But eventually, he took you people to the tribunal…

Where? Nothing. He didn’t. I waited for them for 20 months and they didn’t even come to ask me a question because I was the first person to be detained from December 31. Shagari was in Abuja.