I served my National Service in the National Assembly in the early eighties. I spent a lot of time around the then President of the Senate, Joseph Wayas. Let me tell you something — if you think the present bunch of politicians are bad, you should have seen the scoundrels that ran Nigeria under President Shehu Shagari. They were the most corrupt collection of layabouts I had ever encountered — until Wike came along.
Joe Wayas was a character. The man was always drunk, kept a bottle of brandy on his desk at all times, and would stroll into the office around noon with all the pomp and ceremony of a short, fat man trying to act regal. His Nigerian-American accent was ridiculous. At first, I couldn’t believe this man was the third most senior official in the country. But when I heard him switch effortlessly between Yoruba, Hausa, and Igbo, I realised he was a political operator — a wheeler-dealer with that unmistakable Calabar charm.
He was rude to his speechwriter, a professor who had given up his job in America to serve Nigeria. Wayas could barely read; if it wasn’t the alcohol blinding him, it was his lack of education. Yet he paraded his honorary doctorate — “Dr. Joe Wayas” — with pride. That was when Nigeria began its love affair with fake titles and bogus degrees. Tomato sellers posing as PhD graduates. The almighty Alhajis — the import-licence kings of Nigeria — were all the rage.
I was fresh out of university in America. I had never lived or schooled in Nigeria. And suddenly, there I was — in the seat of power, surrounded by men running the oil-rich African giant. I learned quickly that Shagari liked to keep a bottle of whisky on his desk too. His right-hand man, Umaru Dikko, would ply him with drinks and allegedly fly in blonde, blue-eyed German boys for his pleasure. I saw and heard things at twenty-two that are hard to forget — debauchery, decadence, corruption, and daylight robbery. Dikko ran the country; Shagari merely signed whatever was put before him.
It was disheartening. When you’re young, idealistic, and raised differently, seeing that level of moral rot makes you lose faith in governance. The governors weren’t any better. Jim Nwobodo strutted around Enugu with sirens blaring, skin bleached yellow, Jerry curls dripping oil. His face was light; his hands were black — a tragicomic sight.
One day, Wayas came to the office drunk — nothing new. He had just humiliated his speechwriter, forcing him off an official plane as it was about to take off and leaving him stranded. The act disgusted everyone. Later that day, Wayas picked a fight with Anthony Ikoli, the former Attorney-General of Bonny State, who, like me, was serving in the Assembly. Tony wasn’t having it. He cornered Wayas and told him off in front of everyone, dressing him down like a schoolboy. Wayas looked terrified, surrounded by his NSO security men. When he ordered them to intervene, the Chief Officer turned on him, calling him a disgrace to his office — a drunk unfit to lead. It was chaos. We stood there watching like it was a movie.
Later, we all went back to our offices laughing. Wayas retreated to his room for another drink — he needed it. That evening, he threw a party at his official residence on the Marina and told me to come. He had just learned that my mother was an NPN heavyweight and had started acknowledging my presence.
At the party, one legislator asked him what his plans were for Christmas and the New Year. Wayas looked at the ground and said quietly, “I’m going to Calabar — but whether we’re allowed to come back in the New Year by the khaki boys is another matter.” Buhari answered that question soon enough — with a coup. By then, I was already in New York working on Wall Street.
Nigeria was broke. They had stolen everything — every cent of our foreign reserves — and spent it all on pleasure. The country has never recovered since.
