Nigeria's Orphan

By FARAI CHIDEYA

It should have been one of the most joyous weeks of her life. Hafsat Abiola, an accomplished Harvard senior with a semester of studies left to go, planned to attend the 1996 graduation with her class. The best part was that her mother Kudirat--whom she hadn't seen in an entire year--would be flying in for a visit.

Then Hafsat got a phone call demanding she fly to Washington to meet with family friends. When she arrived, they sat her down and told her that her mother had been gunned down in Lagos.

Kudirat Abiola was no ordinary mother. For the two years before her death, she campaigned tirelessly for the release of her husband Chief Moshood Abiola from solitary confinement in a Nigerian prison. His crime: declaring himself Nigeria's President in 1994 after leading the vote in the June 1993 elections. Instead, the country's military leader, General Sani Abacha, who had seized power shortly after the nullified elections, imprisoned Abiola and, quite possibly, ordered Kudirat's execution.

Luckily for supporters of Nigerian democracy, Hafsat Abiola is no ordinary daughter. With delicate microbraids that frame her high cheekbones, she is strikingly beautiful--and almost painfully soft-spoken. But when the 23-year-old takes to stages around the U.S., she transforms herself into a firebrand for African democracy. In the past month alone, she's spoken at the Mobil shareholders' meeting, lectured to black church leaders and led a vigil in front of the White House--all with the aim of raising U.S. support for the Nigerian pro-democracy movement. She's even struggling to fund her own foundation, the Kudirat Institute for Nigerian Democracy. With the unexpected death of Abacha last week, Abiola believes her message is more urgent than ever. "The military is weak," she says. "Now is the time for the international community to speak clearly for democracy."

Abiola would like nothing better than to devote herself full time to shaping her homeland's future. But she has other responsibilities as well. Though she grew up as part of the Yoruba elite, her family's mansion filled with servants and visitors, she was effectively orphaned after her mother's death. Now, having graduated from Harvard, she heads a household of five in a suburb near the U.S. capital. Her two teenage sisters are in college, and she sends her two younger brothers to public schools. With most of her family's assets frozen, she works full time to support them.

Whether she is at work or at home, Abiola's thoughts are always with Nigeria. For all but 10 of the 38 years since the nation gained independence from Britain, the country has been under military rule. And despite Nigeria's oil wealth, most of the citizens remain in poverty. By the estimates of a 1991 government audit, $12 billion in oil revenues is simply unaccounted for--probably doled out to military leaders and elites. For his part, Abacha routinely imprisoned or executed his political opposition, including the writer and minority-rights activist Ken Saro-Wiwa, who was hanged in November 1995. Now Abacha has been replaced by another military leader, Major General Abdusalam Abubakar. It is still too early to know whether Abubakar is another dictator or a bridge between Abacha and democracy.

The young activist realizes that her homeland, with over 250 ethnic groups and historical tensions stretching back centuries, is largely a victim of internal strife. But Abiola criticizes the U.S. government and international corporations that have continued their oil operations for failing to speak strongly against human-rights abuses. "The U.S. has always made vague statements about wanting democracy in Nigeria," she says. "But what does that mean? At the very least, the U.S. government has to demand the release of the political prisoners." Foremost among them, of course, is her father. She hasn't seen him in nearly four years, but she hopes that when he is released he will be installed as President. A wealthy man who was criticized by some for being too cozy with business interests, Moshood Abiola has undoubtedly grown as a leader, his daughter believes. "For him, seeing how power has been abused in Nigeria, he's going to be a lot more sensitive to how it's deployed in Nigeria."

Nigeria's suffering seems far away from the home Hafsat shares with her siblings. It's furnished sparely, but with artistic flair. The living room holds futons with patterned slipcovers; and the walls have awards given posthumously to their mother. Each night Hafsat quizzes Hadi, 11, and Mumuni, 13, about whether they've done their homework. Khafila, a witty and irreverent 19-year-old, is studying to be an opera singer at Catholic University; and Moriam, who just turned 18, is at home for the summer from Connecticut College. Hafsat's daily routine is more stable than anyone could have imagined at the time of her mother's death, but this hard-won American life is not enough for her. "I see myself returning, without question," she says. "I just want to help be a part of getting us to a place where we feel proud."