Former President, Olusegun Obasanjo was no saint - He was a wife beater now being undressed by his Wife
March 2009
The tyrany behind 4 walls - A marriage full of chaos, shouts, beatings and even next to death moves. Did he misuse his powers enslaving a woman who gave him wonderful kids?
Let us get the story from the horse's mouth.....mrs Obasanjo herself:
All the president’s wives: How First Lady swayed African giant
Mrs Obasanjo and her children arrive at the Jomo Kenyatta International Airport, Nairobi, for a 10-day private visit in 1999. Photo/FILE.
In football parlance, they call them strikers. In some other social circles, they call them Casanovas.
I did not know my husband to be a flirt before our marriage. Perhaps, he was a master of decoy to have made me ignorant of that side of his life.
Mark you I was in my early teens when we met, just about to begin my secondary education. He was in the last lap of his and for seven years we courted before marriage. I was a school leaver of barely six months when we married.
He is the only man I have known all my life. I had not the luxury of mixing or experimenting like some other women before I married.
He manipulated me at his will, knowing my experience in the world was limited to him. He raised me, so to speak; gave me the books I should read; dictated the course I studied; sent me to England, paid my fees at school there; hired a flat for me, paid my way back.
In short, he took control of my life and moulded me. So when I found out his philandering exploits, I regarded it as the unkindest cut for his breaking the sacred vow we took at the London Registry.
There had been a woman, older than my husband, who was pestering me. She was Mowo Sofowora.
The woman became a terror to her husband, threatening he could be liquidated if he objected to her illicit relationship with Obasanjo. Any time she was in Lagos, my husband never slept at home. They usually had their rendezvous at Ikoyi Hotel.
One day in 1973, she phoned the house to brief Obasanjo of her experience in Vienna, Austria, where she had just returned from one of her numerous trips to buy lace fabrics.
I was eavesdropping on the phone downstairs while Obasanjo was in the bedroom. They had spoken for about 30 minutes then she said she was having a headache. I had heard enough, so I butted in:
“It’s that headache that will kill you, shameless married woman dating a younger man”.
On hearing my voice, Obasanjo charged downstairs to beat me and we had one of the many fights that had come to define our marriage. I later obtained her telephone number and I phoned her whenever I thought her influence was making me unhappy.
One day, her husband picked the phone and warned me to stop disturbing his peace. I abused him for allowing his wife to ridicule him so much. He later divorced her. But I met Mowo in flesh in a fortuitous manner. I was pregnant with Dayo and had gone to Unity Hospital to see my doctor.
I had been kicked out of the house at that point and while awaiting the doctor I overheard a nurse announcing that one Mrs Obasanjo was coming to the hospital with her sick children. I sat up.
Lo and behold, she soon appeared with Busola and Segun, my children. I removed my head tie, tied it around my waist to hold my wrapper in place and lunged at her.
I screamed, “You may snatch my husband, you can’t snatch my kids.”
I slapped and punched her. It was a spectacle. The hospital was turned upside down. I ran after the car that brought her, smashed the side glass.
My husband’s womanising knows no bounds. When we were in Ibadan, we attended the Baptist Church in the Salvation Army area of the town.
Opposite the church was the house of a popular shoemaker, Mr Akinsanya. We always called on him after service. I did not know that my husband was dating one of the daughters.
A lot of suitors proposed to the lady but she stuck to a married Obasanjo. Beauty fades with time. The lady is no more the beauty she was. She has been dumped. She was just another disposable needle.
On another occasion, Mrs Sodeinde during one of her visits from Kaduna had mentioned to me in confidence that my husband was having many affairs, including relationships with married officers’ wives. Because I was still blinded by love, I simply narrated the story to my husband. He turned it into a joke, assuaging my fears.
The first time Obasanjo beat me was on account of a woman. It was late in October 1968, barely one month to the arrival of our second child, Busola. In fact I had just started my maternity leave. An officer’s wife had just delivered and I had planned to attend the naming with my friend, Mrs Oyedele, our neighbour.
As I was driving out to the Oyedele’s a gorgeously dressed woman flagged me down, saying she wanted to see Obasanjo. She introduced herself as a late officer’s wife.
Unsuspectingly, I left her with the nanny, Kemi, who later informed me that Obasanjo kissed her on arrival and took her upstairs for some minutes before driving out with her. When I challenged him, he replied me with slaps.
People often wrongly thought it was Stella Abebe’s appearance in his circle that hurt our relationship. Hers was the least of the problems. She was a late comer to the fray. She met Obasanjo accidentally on a visit to see her boyfriend who was staying in my husband’s flat on a visit to London.
The boyfriend was absent at that time and my husband acted on his behalf. And that was how Stella arrived in the stable of Obasanjo’s many ponies. Her problem was that she was too showy and lacked self respect. During our tempest, she would telephone me to announce that she was in complete control of my husband.
Before Stella, there was this female Judas whose letter I saw in my husband’s briefcase in London. It was during my last trip before my husband graduated from his course in 1974.
I had inkling that my husband was engaged in extramarital activities but I had no proof. When he was out of our flat, normally as women do to their husbands, I searched the room and found a tell-tale evidence of my suspicions. He had left a briefcase unlocked. Right there was a letter from a most unlikely source.
The letter had started on a familiar note, “Dear Olu.” The letter had been written three months earlier. The writer, Mrs Labo Salako, demanded that my husband should marry her and give me the marching orders, stating everything she imagined I had done while my husband was away.
She even added that my husband should ensure I did not see the letter as he could be careless. I was disturbed because I was now reading in cold print what I had suspected but had no proof other than a woman’s intuition.
My mind flashed back to many events at such a speed, I feared I was about to lose my mind. I remembered when her husband, Captain Salako, died in 1972 in a motor accident; my husband and I broke the news to her.
I also provided a shoulder for her to lean upon. I bought the dress she wore to the funeral, took her children to our Ikoyi home and provided lunch for her for a long time. She was the wife of Mr Salako, who was my husband’s classmate and friend in England, who was very supportive of my relationship with Obasanjo.
I had known her since my secondary school days in Abeokuta; in fact she was only a year my junior. When Mr Salako was given a scholarship to study in England, he had planned to go with an old girlfriend of his.
But she had also won a scholarship to travel to the United States. Mr Salako wanted her to join him in England but she preferred to pursue her own dreams; so the relationship broke down.
Mr Salako’s older sister then arranged, as was customary in those days, to find another woman for her brother. It was called “marriage by post”. That was how Mrs Labo Salako came into her husband’s life.
In fact the day Mr Salako mentioned her name to me in England and showed me her picture; I gave glowing recommendation, saying we had been schoolmates. I added that she would make a good sister to me so that when our brothers were bonding, we would also have a lot to keep us busy.
Throughout her husband’s life, we maintained close ties. Mr Salako, was a gentleman, who gave his wife a lot of latitude, which she obviously abused.
A few months after her husband’s death, she told me one afternoon that Obasanjo had advised that she quit her apartment in Surulere, Lagos, on account of the cost and move in with us. It all seemed reasonable to me so I acquiesced, rationalising that Mr Salako would have done the same for me if the tables were reversed. She became my confidant.
I used to complain to her of my husband’s philandering. She used to laugh, saying I took many things for granted. She would say that she took care of her husband so well he didn’t have any reason to look at any other woman. Innocently, I would ask what I needed to do.
One day, she told me she would consult a diviner on my behalf. She later brought some powdery stuff which she said was guaranteed to win me my husband’s affection as soon as I rubbed it on my face. I did but instead of affection, it only earned me serious beating from Obasanjo.
As if tipped off, he had come in that day, accusing me of planning to kill him before proceeding to beat me. One day, she and Obasanjo returned from an outing barely minutes of each other.
I asked her if they came in together. She said no. But something told me she was lying. A few days later, I had the same feeling. “Look oh, I don’t think I was wrong to have allowed you to stay with us when your husband died. Your late husband, you, my husband and even I all come from Abeokuta.
“We are kindred spirits. But the way you are going, this house can no longer contain both of us. You cannot kill me the way you killed your husband. If you don’t leave this house, many deaths will soon follow. You will die next, and then Obasanjo will follow. And finally I will kill myself.”
She stared at me, without uttering a word. It was her last night at 36, Lugard Avenue, Ikoyi. Next day, she sent some relatives to collect her things.
(Days later…) My husband returned to our Lugard Avenue home in a murderous mood. I was on the phone talking to Mrs Salako, who had called to abuse me. Apparently, Obasanjo had phoned her to let her know I saw her letter in London. We were having a shouting match on the phone when my husband pounced on me and began to curse and punch me.
But when I saw him go for a knife, I ran out of the house. He pursued me. I ran across the road to the house there. Gbenga, my son, who was tailing me, was nearly hit by a car.
My husband picked him and only returned home when he couldn’t locate me in the house I was hiding. The domestic aides there had shown me an escape route at the back. After he left they gave me money to take a taxicab out of Ikoyi.
When I discovered in April 1975 that I was carrying his baby, I forced my way to his Broad Street office to ask for financial support for ante-natal care. He told me I was on my own and should expect nothing from him.
I went to highly placed Nigerians to intervene in the rift. I first called on Chief Obafemi Awolowo, one of Nigeria’s founding fathers. I related my story and on hearing of the involvement of Mrs Mowo Sofowora as one of husband’s concubines, he was aghast.
“Is that not Sunny’s wife?” he asked.
I also contacted Brigadier Murtala Muhammed, who was surprised that Obasanjo could be involved with Salako’s wife. He promised to discuss with Obasanjo but urged me to be calm.
The next time I saw Mohammed, he had become the Head of State, General Gowon having been overthrown. General Muhammed was a disciplined man, who, though not a saint, staved off domestic scandals. He was very cross with my husband but needed to be methodical in his approach.
Obasanjo fought me in many ways. He instructed authorities of Corona School, Ikoyi, not to allow me to see my children. One Friday when I went there to ask for my children, the gateman would not allow me. I made such a scene the headmistress, Mrs Pardon, an English woman, later attended to me.
Locked in a cupboard
Iyabo suffered when the father drove me out. It was much later she told me the story of how she was locked up in a cupboard by one of the cousins brought by the father to look after the children. She was suffocating and had almost passed out before somebody heard some rumblings and opened it and found the little girl gasping for air.
On August 5, 1975, Mr Gbolade Adewusi, Obasanjo’s (longtime friend), came to see me at my Aunty Joke’s Tapa Street residence.
He simply said Obasanjo wanted to see me. Adewusi took me and my aunt there. When we got there, Obasanjo told me Dayo, my fifth child, was dead. I was distraught. I burst into tears and was rolling on the floor.
My aunt asked: “Ah! What killed her?” “What a stupid question,” Obasanjo flared at her. “What killed her? I killed her and ate her. Stupid woman! Who invited you here? Leave my house, now!”
I later visited Gen Muhammed in August 1975 to let him know the developments. The Head of State reminded M.D. Yusuf of my need for an apartment in Surulere.
It was Yusuf who later arranged a flat for me at 19, Lawrence Road, to save the young government from embarrassment. I was also given a car, driver, a new set of furniture and money.
Both asked me to withdraw the civil suit, seeking to dissolve my marriage with Obasanjo.
It was later that Obasanjo surreptitiously contrived a divorce with a judge of the Lagos High Court to dissolve the marriage. I was never served any summons.
Happenings in government during Obasanjo’s 2nd term in office as president of the Federal Republic about a Bill from the National Assembly being doctored and signed surreptitiously into law did not surprise me.
If a divorce could be plotted and obtained without the participation of the other side, what else can’t happen with my man?
When Muhammed was assassinated and my husband was appointed the Head of State, he sustained the tempo of the moral reforms. He changed the former national anthem that was written by an Englishwoman to the nationalistic one, written by Nigerians.
National Pledge
He introduced the National Pledge, which we recite now. Obasanjo scaled down ostentation by introducing the “low profile” policy, which preached and demonstrated prudence in national life.
He rode in Peugeot cars assembled in Nigeria and compelled government agencies to patronise Peugeot and other assembly plants such as Volkswagen, Steyr and Mercedes trucks.
He introduced “Operation Feed the Nation” to stimulate interest in farming and created farm development zones to boost agricultural development.
He banned the importation of rice and dairy produce to encourage self-reliance. His transition to civil rule programme was thorough.
Obasanjo bathed in the sunshine of that excellent job of voluntarily relinquishing power and conducting a successful election. His global profile exploded positively. I contributed my own quota in an unobtrusive manner.
Behind the facade of continental achievements, a lot was happening behind the scene. On that February 13, 1976, when Mohammed was assassinated, I headed to Corona School, Victoria Island to get the children.
I moved them and their cousins, Sister Adunni’s children, from Obasanjo’s house to my place. Obasanjo later came from hiding to see the children. After succeeding Mohammed, Obasanjo moved to Dodan Barracks.
Shortly after, the sister also moved her children there. Obasanjo then asked for his children to reunite with him. I did not want my children living in the barracks away from my supervision as I didn’t think Obasanjo would have sufficient time to pay close attention to them.
Not persuaded by my argument, one day in 1976 he sent a lorry-load of soldiers to come for the children.
His orderly, Emmanuel Osawe, led them. I did not give in easily as I was fearful for the future. So I resisted the troops he sent. In anger, I bit Osawe, kicking and cursing him that since the children were not his, why was he the one coming for my children.
In the end, naked power triumphed. Obasanjo had his way; my children were taken away and I was left alone.
Having succeeded in taking the children from me, Obasanjo thought he could keep me away from them. He was mistaken. Often, I would go to Dodan Barracks’ gate to make a scene.
When I found out that the children were housed in a bungalow at Dodan, which served as a guest quarters to the main house, I became convinced that my initial fears that they would not receive enough supervision were not unfounded. I was not comfortable with their feeding either.
To prevent further embarrassment, he moved the children to Capital School, Kaduna.
During mid-term, I phoned the headmaster to let him know I would be coming for the children. Obasanjo had also made plans for the ADC police to come for the children.
The ADC informed the headmaster he was coming for the children. The headmaster informed him of my previous plan.
But the ADC, Agwam, was adamant. It was only when I arrived at the school that I understood what was happening. I had seen the ADC and Bose Ladipo, Obasanjo’s niece, at the Lagos Airport but did not know we were headed to the same destination.
The duo arrived at the school before me and had already taken my children in a car, ready to leave for Lagos. I asked my children to come down. Gladly, they did.
The ADC protested, arguing that he was acting on the orders of the Commander-in-Chief. I replied I was acting on my own orders as their mother.
There was a shouting match and the Irish headmaster intervened to say the ADC should defer to me.
The state head of the National Security Organisation, a huge man, met us there and said I could not go with the children. I told him the only way he could stop me was to shoot me.
As the ADC was trying to contact Lagos frantically to determine his next line of action, I shepherded my children into a car and zoomed off to Hamdala Hotel, Kaduna. We swapped stories on our experiences till late at night.
When the Irish headmaster left, conditions of the school deteriorated. The dormitories were not well kept. One of the children had lice in her hair. Discipline was also being eroded. I decided to take the matter up with Obasanjo.
When I visited him at home at Dodan Barracks to discuss the subject, I met him with a woman drinking wine.
I told him why I wanted the children moved. He dismissed my observations, insisting that I should let things stay as they were.
He then asked the driver to take me back to Lawrence Road, apparently wanting to settle down to more urgent business with his guest. When I arrived home, I changed into a trouser suit and asked the driver to take me back.
The unsuspecting driver did. The moment I returned to Dodan Barracks, Obasanjo knew I was up to mischief he welcomed me with slaps. As he was beating me I pounced on the woman. As he beat me I sank my teeth into the woman’s breasts.
Copyright: Diamond Publications Ltd, Lagos.
source,nation.ke