Page i → “With this book Toyin Falola joins a band of distinguished and special historians who participated in the making of history they narrate. I found this book as enjoyable as Trotsky’s history of the Russian Revolution. While the scale of the two historical incidents are different, the writing is as close to the guts and as stirring of the senses as any personal history can be. This book also distinguishes itself as a modern classic in which one culture (Yoruba rebellion) is successfully written in the language of another (English). A unique reading experience.” —Kole Omotoso “Chronicles the cultures and traditions of Yorubaland of the 1960s, including the predominance of African traditional religions; Christianity; Islam; polygamy; agriculture; education; work ethics; and sacrifice . a must- read for scholars of African life-writing, history, sociology, economics, politics, and gender studies, as well as those interested in African, Diaspora, comparative studies, and the autobiographical genre.” —Adetayo Alabi, University of Mississippi “‘When an old man dies, a library is burned,’ said the late Hampate Ba. Book by book, Toyin Falola is building a library for Africa and the world, fashioned from his memories, wit, and wisdom. His are the tales of a generation who came of age at the same time as their nations. The tales are compelling, fierce, and funny, to be read and cherished.” —Aminatta Forna, author of The Memory of Love “Counting the Tiger’s Teeth shines astonishing light on a major rebellion so poetically as to make the reader relive the experience with the author. Toyin Falola’s indelible memory makes the story fresh and no doubt a unique mirror of a particular teenager with a sharp sensibility.” —Tanure Ojaide, University of North Carolina at Charlotte “I read A Mouth Sweeter Than Salt with my mouth agape at its mesmerizing storytelling. In his new memoir, Falola again enters the house of amazing tales and emerges with a narrative that is at once captivating and deeply riveting. Counting the Tiger’s Teeth is proof that we not only survive to tell the tale, but that stories keep us alive.” —E. C. Osondu, Winner of the Caine Prize for African Writing Page ii → Page iii → Counting the Tiger’s Teeth An African Teenager’s Story TOYIN FALOLA The University of Michigan Press Ann Arbor Page iv → First paperback edition 2016 Copyright © by Toyin Falola 2014 All rights reserved This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, including illustrations, in any form (beyond that copying permitted by Sections 107 and 108 of the U.S. Copyright Law and except by reviewers for the public press), without written permission from the publisher. Published in the United States of America by The University of Michigan Press Manufactured in the United States of America Printed on acid-free paper 2018 2017 2016 5 4 3 A CIP catalog record for this book is available from the British Library. ISBN 978–0-472–11948–6 (hardcover) ISBN 978–0-472–12071–0 (e-book) ISBN 978-0-472-03656-1 (paper) Page v → For Pastor, Baba Nihinlola, My Grandfather Page vi → Page xiii → Preface In 1968, I dropped out of high school to join a peasant rebellion, known as the Agbekoya, that continued to 1970. By the end of December 1969, I was no longer a member, but I followed its activities in 1970, until it fizzled out, although it remained in memory and has been forever remembered in oral accounts, even up to today. It has been the subject of a host of academic writings, mainly historical and sociological, and also of poetry and plays. Elements of it, especially the use of juju (powerful magic), continue to dominate people’s imaginations and have appeared in some Nollywood movies. This memoir is a small contribution to that moment in history, a way of walking with ancestors, remembering the dead, reminding the living, converting orality into a permanent text, and providing a small nugget about my own experience in life, as limited as it is. This memoir is neither a complete historical account of this period nor a full account of the rebellion itself. It is just about my own specific experience, a tiny slice of a bigger historical moment of which I was a part. It is certainly the first account from an insider, far different from all the research monographs and articles that are based on public records. I know where the records are dead wrong and where the secret records in the government ministry are, by and large, fabrications by state officials who were reporting what they knew nothing or little about. This memoir is based on the activities of just one wing based at the village of Akanran, southeast of Ibadan. But as this wing also hosted the coordinatingPage xiv → headquarters, I was in a position to know virtually all the most important steps and details of the rebellion, including those that never made it to any official or recorded accounts, especially since some political aspects of the rebellion in dealing with state officials were also, for strategic reasons, constructed on the manufacture of deceits to mislead the government. The event that occupies the entire space of this memoir, the peasant rebellion in the Western Region of Nigeria from 1968 to 1970, was very well known and reported in all the newspapers of the time; the records on it are abundant and can be found in the archives. I went to the archives to read all of the records. I went back to the ministry where I had worked as an administrative officer in 1977 and used my established contacts to enable me to look at all the confidential memos and secret documents that have not even been released to the public. While I read and re-read all the newspapers and records of the time, this memoir owes nothing to them and is not based on their evidence. For me to use those materials for this book is like asking a hen to lay duck eggs or to look for a black goat in the dark. Rather, this memoir is based on what I saw and heard, what I participated in, and what I suffered. I walked in the shadow of death, as the psalmist would put it, but survived. Not all did, most notably my grandfather Pasitor, whom I wrote about in A Mouth Sweeter Than Salt. Pasitor, without fully understanding the consequences of his actions, drafted me into the politics and violence of the post-independence years. The 1960s were a very turbulent time in Western Nigeria, and I observed most of it. In updating my memoir to include the years from 1967 to 1969, my first and most important declaration of gratitude goes to Pasitor, without whom this memoir would not be possible. Leku, my “godmother,” also died during the rebellion. I cannot thank her enough, and our relationship requires a separate book. Many others died, nameless in the records, all totally forgotten, as if they died for nothing. When a hunter sets a trap, using a goat as the bait, he never expects to catch a rabbit. The traps of the dead wasted the goats they used as bait. As Nigeria continues to regress, what we saw as corruption and as government excesses in those days would now make that period a moment of bliss. The leaders that followed those we fought have been worse. While these men were born in a stable, they did not come into the world as horses, but, as they continued to live in the stable, they behaved like horses. We could not ride these horses; rather, they ride us. Today, there is no longer a moral center to create the equivalent of that peasant rebellion. If change and good government were what the men died for, it is unfortunate that they died at all. Ile n je eniyan—the soil consumes human bodies. Such bodies became mere food for the “soil.” Assuming they provide nutrients, I simply hope that the new bodies they have nourished and will continue to nourish over time will create a better country. A big plate consumes more food than a small one. If a better country emerges, even if it takes as long as a thousand years, then their memories will be excavated, their place in history will be restored, and they will be treated as heroes in the long history of human suffering. For now, let the truth be told: They died in vain. The evil men survived, and with them, evil; they are the ones whose egos and vanity took the bigger plates. They continue to perfect the art of treachery and deceit; and as they do, they continue to drag down millions of people, give a bad name to their people, and lead Nigeria toward perdition. The words of truth cannot be chained. The dead shall rise again, and, when they do, they will repeat the fight. In that second battle of good against evil, we will win. One day, our frogs will stop jumping backwards. Page xv → Page xvi → Page 1 → CHAPTER 1 Ogun’s Gift In one stroke of the machete, the agile man in his mid-forties cut the frightened, lean-looking dog into two pieces, almost in the middle of its already over-stretched neck. Blood spattered everywhere: on clothes, bodies, sandals, instruments, weapons, plants, and wristwatches. No one cared about the blood that spilled on them; I saw some men even licking the blood that fell on their arms. Some smelled the blood and expressed satisfaction with smiles on their faces.