[Last Friday 13th February 2026 marked 50 years to the day and date of the attempted coup and assassination of General Murtala Muhammed, then Nigeria’s military Head of State. Claire Adelabu-Abdulrazak tells her own story of that day]
It is part of my history, my life story, and the names of the protagonists and heroes of that day will always be woven into the fabric of who I became. My own experience that morning is, in many ways, a reflection of big Aunty Rosaline’s story — a corroboration of the fear, confusion, and unexpected encounters that defined that day.
It was a Friday, though back then we rarely cared about dates. But I would never forget this one.
I had stubbornly refused to go to school, terrified of the cane that awaited me for some crime my teachers had conjured up. As punishment, my mother sent me to fetch water early, before the food vendors claimed every corner of the streets.
Our usual water source was right opposite our house, at the Ministry of Information and Public Enlightenment—or something like that, as it was called then. But that morning, as if the universe itself was sending a warning, the taps were dry.
That was my cue to wander.
Clad in nothing but a pair of rusty underwear that barely covered anything, I wandered through the cemetery and emerged on the other side, walking along the pavement of the Ministry of Labour until I reached the junction of Alagbon Close and Bank Road.
There, on the corner, stood a public tap where people gathered for water.
The morning sun was beginning to stretch its golden arms across the city. The workers’ hustle blended into the honking of cars along Second Avenue and Bank Road, speeding toward Obalende. Everything seemed normal.
And then — it happened.
A loud bang! Screams! People running as though the world was ending.
My bucket of water tumbled from my head. My feet carried me before my brain could catch up. I ran back toward BH, heart hammering.
By the time I returned, the atmosphere had shifted. Soldiers were everywhere, whispering tensely, moving in small groups, rifles gripped tighter than usual.
“De don kill am… they have killed a general,” whispered WO2 Okafor — my childhood friend Charity’s father. The words kept ringing in my ears.
Gunfire erupted. Panic. Chaos.
We bolted into our one-room zinc-roofed apartment. Mr. Okpara, the landlord, and other tenants abandoned their rooms and squeezed into ours. We hid under beds, behind wooden partitions, anywhere that felt safe. The thick oriental carpet on the floor — our only luxury — became our shield. No one cared about space; we all wanted to live.
How long we stayed there, I had no idea.
Then a voice cut through the chaos:
“All civilians should come out! All civilians should come out!”
The command was loud, unmistakable. No one hesitated. We ran.
We took the bush path behind the Army Signal Post, where stacks of old news bulletins lay discarded. Our destination: James George Street, home of Mr. and Mrs. Otaru, parents of the late broadcaster Uncle Gabriel Otaru.
And then I saw him.
A tall, lanky man in a white safari suit, bent over, struggling with a barbed-wire fence. There was something desperate, urgent, wrong about him.
I don’t know what made me call out, but I did:
“Oga, see wire oo!”
Did he hear me? Did he respond? I have no idea. Everything was a blur, and my legs had only one mission-keep running.
We reached the Otarus’ house, breathless, our chests rising and falling like drums beaten in panic. There they were-calm, seated on their corridor, blissfully unaware of the storm just behind them.
Then the tata-tata-tata of gunfire shattered the air. We took cover. We did not return home that night.
By morning, everything had changed. Whispers became conversations. News bulletins confirmed the reality: the man I had glimpsed in that fleeting moment – Dimka. Sukar Dimka. The same man who had just assassinated the Head of State, General Murtala Ramat Muhammad.
In that instant, I realized I had looked history in the eye and survived.
That was the first time I heard the word “coup.” But it wouldn’t be the last. Not in BH.
Claire Chikodinaka Adelabu-Abdulrazak is a media and public communication practitioner with special interest in institutional credibility and national stability.
