Uncivil Disobedience

By Kevin Fedarko

Driving from Murtala Muhammed Airport into downtown Lagos normally requires at least two hours. Last week it took barely 30 minutes: what traffic there was in the largest metropolis of one of the world's major oil producers bunched up at the few gas stations that still had fuel. Around those that had none, lines of abandoned vehicles fanned out in all directions. The effect was eerie, as if a neutron bomb had been dropped in the middle of the most populous country in Africa.

If the success of a strike can be judged by the degree of economic paralysis it induces, the 230,000 Nigerian oil workers who began walking off their jobs on July 4 in an effort to topple the country's military government were successful beyond their dreams. The work stoppage, which escalated last week when it was joined by the 3.5 million members of the largest umbrella union, the Nigeria Labor Congress, played havoc with everyday life. Banks were shuttered, as were most small shops and businesses. Most painfully affected was Nigeria's biggest source of foreign exchange, the oil industry. The Royal Dutch Shell Group, the largest operator in the country, announced that the strike had forced it to cut production nearly 40%. In the cities, virtually the only signs of life were the riots staged each week by teenage thugs known as "area boys."

The catalyst behind the unrest was Moshood Abiola, a bearish 56-year-old multimillionaire who is widely believed -- based on incomplete results -- to have won election as President in June 1993. He was deprived of victory, however, by General Ibrahim Babangida, who had ruled the country for eight years. Babangida charged fraud and annulled the results before they were published.

Two months ago, Abiola surprised everyone by marking the anniversary of his thwarted inauguration with an uncharacteristically audacious pronouncement: he declared himself President. Within a fortnight, he was arrested, charged with treason and thrown in jail. Since then, his power has only increased. Last Friday, when a high court in the capital ordered Abiola to be released on ! condition that he do nothing to undermine the government, the businessman turned politician rejected the offer. He said he would accept only unconditional freedom and vowed to carry on his campaign from prison.

Faced with a political cause celebre that has galvanized the disgruntled population into demands for democracy, the government now seems to have only two alternatives: to continue its repressive tactics -- and risk further erosion of its support -- or to come to some sort of power-sharing agreement with Abiola. The most pessimistic analysis holds that failing to reach a compromise risks fracturing Nigeria along its ethnic fault lines, pushing it toward the sort of conflict not seen since the Biafran civil war, which claimed nearly 2 million lives during the late 1960s.

That chilling prospect was not lost on the Rev. Jesse Jackson, who was dispatched to Lagos by President Bill Clinton two weeks ago in hopes of defusing the crisis. Jackson stayed two days, then flew back to the U.S., warning that he saw little hope. Civil war in Nigeria, he suggested, would send shock waves throughout West Africa and make the ethnic conflagration that has engulfed Rwanda look like "child's play."

With reporting by Marguerite Michaels/Nairobi, Cindy Shiner/Lagos and Ann M. Simmons/Washington