By Ebenezer Obadare
A
while ago, Mujahid Asari-Dokubo’s visceral defence of the Jonathan regime
against all real and perceived enemies left many observers bewildered. Is this
not the same individual, it was widely asked, who had made a name for himself
by his charismatic leadership of the Niger Delta People’s Volunteer Force and
vocal enunciation of the cause of Nigeria’s oil-producing riverine minorities?
How
did Asari metamorphose from a feared Mohammedan of the creeks (complete with
the elaborate head gear) to a megaphone of state power? This is the question I
propose to answer here, and my very simple thesis is that to track Asari’s
movement from the swamps to the corridors of the state is to apprehend a
sociological dynamic: the particular mode by which social agents gain entry
into the domain of the state, via, in this specific case, the instrumentality
of violence.
Analytically,
there are two immediate targets. One is Asari himself, particularly the gradual
but symbolic evolution in his personal profile and self-presentation over time.
Second, there is the theme of violence, its effectivity as a means of
negotiating access to material resources and social certification as a member
of the political elite.
For
a proper appreciation of this dynamic, in particular the latter idea of the
social utilisation of banditry, it is important to understand, first, an idea
captured here as “violence entrepreneurship.”
As a framework, violence
entrepreneurship avoids otherwise legitimate questions like, for instance, how
endemic insecurity threatens the short-term stability and long-term existence
of the Nigerian state. Instead, it prioritises the need to make violence
coherent as a political phenomenon, meaning that the most ostensibly unrelated
acts of violence are understood and made meaningful solely in relation to
politics and the dominant ethos of the political order — and not just the
current political regime — in Nigeria. For example, the unusual spate of
carjacking and violent armed robbery, the festering hostage-taking industry,
prohibitive auto-mortality, the insurgency in the northern half of the country,
resource militancy in the oil producing region, and sundry examples of routine
violence, all become perfectly explicable as effects of politics and political
choices.
Second,
the notion of violence entrepreneurship demands that violence be seen as an
agential strategy; a currency of exchange between the state and agents within
civil society. One implication (and Asari’s ongoing political evolution is a
great illustration) is that even when the violence deployed is visceral, and
the rhetoric of threatened exit from the state is prohibitive and inflationary,
ultimately, violence tends to function as a means of negotiating access.
Access,
of course, can be understood in various ways, but my basic concern here is to
show how violence entrepreneurs enter into and become part of the orbit of the
state. In this regard, particular attention must be given to how such
entrepreneurs attain ethical equilibrium with state officials, eventually
assuming the moral and material paraphernalia of the state. When examined
carefully, it becomes evident that this is the sociological trajectory that
Asari has assumed.
This
is not to say that the productivity of violence is always one-sided.
Historically, the Nigerian state too has functionalised violence in various
ways. One well-worn modality is through the development of relations of
patronage between state functionaries and political godfathers, many of whom
are often surrounded by thugs and other individuals with a history of difficult
relations with the law. Think here of the showdown between Rasheed Ladoja and
the late Lamidi Adedibu in Oyo State on the one hand, and that between Peter
Obi and Chris Uba in Anambra State on the other.
Following
the same logic, the state can use the prevalence of violence in a particular
region of the country to leverage both resources and moral sympathy from
various international agents, a good example being the mobilisation of external
resources to fund the pacification of civil unrest in the Niger Delta.
Last but
not the least, the state has been known to surreptitiously develop its own
extrajudicial killer squads, either as an alternative to, but in most cases in
simultaneous existence with, regular apparatuses of violence authorised by the
law.
Here,
think of revelations early in the year concerning the alleged use of killer
platoons by the Obasanjo regime; and Sergeant Rogers’ credulous testimony that
the late Gen. Sani Abacha actively maintained a killer squad and that it, i.e.
the squad, was responsible for the murder of Kudirat Abiola.
Be
that as it may, the key point to be emphasised is the structure of engagement
between the state and armed militias, and the main idea I am trying to develop
is how, in the long run, the threat or actual deployment of violence, one,
transforms the relationship between the state and armed militias, and two, tends
to eventuate in the incorporation of leaders of such militias into the orbit of
the state.
Mujahid Asari-Dokubo (and the Odu’a People’s Congress’s Gani Adams
no less) is a perfect encapsulation of this logic, precisely in his sheer
transformation from radical revolutionary and purveyor of violence, to a more
or less bona fide member of the state nobility, complete, as I claimed earlier,
with all the conceits and appurtenances of the Nigerian political class.
Now,
this is a very complex process, and yes, the last chapters have yet to be
written. Nevertheless, certain details in Asari’s transformation seem
instructive for my analysis. First is his (Asari’s) emergence from a proper
order of injustice: the crisis of oil exploitation in the Niger Delta. Second
is his astute reading of the social mood and readiness to capitalise on a
glaring leadership vacuum.
Here,
you have to go back to the hanging of Ken Saro-Wiwa in November 1995 by the
Abacha regime, the emasculation of the Movement for the Survival of the Ogoni
People, and the overall tranquilisation of opposition throughout the region.
Finally, there is his personal rebranding and self re-presentation.
For
instance, the distinctly Islamic turban has been jettisoned, though the bushy
beard (part Mohammedan, part Che Guevara) is still in place. Furthermore,
although there is a notional forswearing of violence, this is strategically
counterbalanced by frequent threats to “return to the creeks”, as seen in the
example with which I began this piece.
Finally,
there is of course the desperation to undo the obvious disadvantages of class
cum educational cum professional pedigree, often through regular appearance in
social circuits (weddings, burial ceremonies, etc). In short, there is an
enactment of the whole “Big Man” repertoire, complete, it goes without saying,
with personal channels of patronage. The Dr. or Chief prefix is just a matter
of time.
•Obadare
teaches sociology at the University of Kansas, United States (obadare@ku.edu)
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