Burden of Service: Reminiscences of Nigeria's former Attorney-General

by Mohammed Bello Adoke

In 2011, the Nigerian government brokered a $1.3 billion deal between Royal Dutch Shell, Eni S.p.A. of Italy and Malabu Oil & Gas Ltd of Nigeria for one of Africa's richest oil fields ("OPL 245"). The transaction—finalised after thirteen years of mutual suspicion, bitter litigation, emotional blackmail and dirty intrigues—has caught global attention and attracted criminal proceedings. The middlemen are now in jail and officials of the international oil companies are facing trial in an Italian court over alleged corruption. Mohammed Bello Adoke was the Nigerian Attorney-General who gave the legal advice on the complicated transaction. He saved his country from an impending $2 billion award in favour of Shell by the International Centre for the Settlement of International Disputes (ICSID), an organ of the World Bank. But he has been hounded, victimised, scandalised and forced into exile for his service to his fatherland. In recounting his five-year experience in government, Bello Adoke reveals the details of the billion-dollar oil deal and unveils the web of local and international intrigues, deceit, lies and conspiracy around an avoidable scandal. 

282 pages, Kindle Edition

Published November 7, 2019

Reviews

[Miebara Jato · Rating 3 out of 5]

I read this book intently and took an unusual amount of notes. This is a memoir, my motivation, therefore, was to catch the author lying or detect an inconsistency. In reading Adoke's self-exculpating recounting of the infamous Malabu deal, I'm not sure if I should join to exonerate him or indict him. (Besides, the matter is in court and i wouldn't want to be prejudicial).

But the book lacks any shred of circumspection and I found that especially unagreeable. Also, there's copious name dropping and careless allegations that are in need of substantiating.

But let's rather focus on the crux of the book. Shall we?

In 2011, Mohammed Adoke as Attorney General of Nigeria brokered a $1.3 Billion settlement agreement between Royal Dutch Shell, Eni S.p.A. of Italy and Malabu Oil & Gas Ltd of Nigeria for the lucrative OPL 245. Malabu was allocated the OPL 245 by Gen. Sani Abacha in 1993.

Lacking financial and technical competence, Malabu Oil & Gas Ltd approached Shell in 2000 for a farm-in proposal to take-up 40% of the oilfield. In 2001, Shell agreed to Malabu's proposal. The oil giant setup Shell Ultra Deep Limited(SNUD) as a technical partner for OPL 245 and took up 40% participating interest in the venture.

Five weeks later, the administration of Olusegun Obasanjo revoked the prospecting license of Malabu. In 2002, the Obasanjo administration invited Exxon Mobil and Shell to bid for OPL 245 in a production sharing contract (PSC) with the NNPC. Shell won the contract eventually but ran into a conflict of interest due to its existing agreement between Malabu and SNUD, which is Shell's special vehicle for developing the OPL 245.

Malabu petitioned the House of Representatives for the revocation of the licence. The House after conducting investigations and public hearings, declared the Shell and NNPC agreement null and void and directed the oil block reallocated to Malabu. The federal government refused.

Malibu then too the case to court. When the case reached Appeal Court, the Government took a new turn and all agreed to settle out of court, which became a "consent of judgement of the Federal High Court, Abuja". The out-of-court agreement reads that "OPL 245 should be returned to Malabu, but that the company would then pay the revised signature bonus of $210 million". The Settlement Agreement was dated 30 November 2006. Unfortunately, the Agreement was not implemented until 2011.

Shell, however, was not satisfied with the agreement. It petitioned the Federal Government in 2009 at the Centre for the Settlement of Investment Disputes(ICSID), an organ of the World Bank in Washington, D.C., claiming $2 billion in compensation and damages.

In 2011, the Federal Government under Goodluck Jonathan returned the oil block to Malabu as stipulated in the 2006 out-of-court settlement through the "Block 245 Malabu Resolution Agreement".

After OPL 245 was returned Malabu, Agip-Eni S.p.A of Italy approached the Federal Government to broker a deal to buy the oil block with Shell as a partner. The federal government through the Office of the AGF brokered the deal and Malabu handed over its 100% stake in OFL 245 to Eni and SNEPco. An escrow account was opened in the name of the Federal Government in JP Morgan Chase with the sum of $1,092040,00 billion "for settling all existing claims".

The fund was disbursed as agreed. The End!

The foregoing sounds all fair and legal, right? Adoke is saying he didn't do anything wrong; that no law was broken. Neither did he received a Kobo as a kickback for midwifing the deal.

Meanwhile, the middlemen that negotiated the deal are in jail and officials of the international oil companies are facing trial in Italian court over alleged corruption.

To be candid, the fact that the foreign negotiators and officials of the international oil companies involved in the deal are in jail or under corruption investigation is enough reason to raise eyebrows. It simply shows the deal, after all, didn't pass the test of due process.

But in saying that, I'm not approving the tactics of the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC) in pursuing the case. We see how politicized and one-sided its war on corruption is.

Needless to say that memoirs are generally one-sided and sometimes inevitable for the author to whitewash their own roles in events. Therefore, I'm withholding my judgement of Adoke's innocence or guilt.

An interesting and explosive book.

[Marvin Ma]

When he finally dropped us off at our hostel, all we got was a “thank you.” In fact, we had little to eat as other students who arrived at the Dining Hall before us had a head start on our supper. Not accustomed to farm work, we went to prep, and thereafter, to bed tired and hungry. We were late to the assembly ground the next morning. Naturally, we were handed over by the head boy to Balogun for punishment. He recognised us among the 15 boys who appeared before him.

“So, you boys went to the assembly late?” he demanded, rhetorically.

Everybody was quiet, awaiting the inevitable punishment with trepidation. I expected the older boys among us to raise an objection to a possible punishment from the same person who caused our lateness. Gathering courage, I raised my hand to speak. I knew my Dutch courage could worsen my situation, but not speaking up against the unjust punishment rankled with me.

“Sir, we were late not because we wanted to be late. We were late because we went to help you on your farm, and by the time we got back it was late. We barely could get a decent dinner to eat because other students had already started eating at the Dining Hall. With the hunger and tiredness, we couldn’t wake up early,” I blurted out.

Balogun took one long look at me. I had created a moral problem for him. He appeared a bit embarrassed but tried not to show it. He considered my application with approval, separating the six of us who went to his farm from the rest of 15 latecomers. Warning us sternly against future late-coming, he ordered us to return to our classrooms. But I was not done. Buoyed by the success of my application, I intervened on behalf of the remaining nine students who still stood to be punished.

“Sir, may I intercede on behalf of those who didn’t go to your farm? If you are going to punish them, then you should punish us all together, and if you are going to set us free, then you should set everyone free. In any case, you are not expected to take students to your farm, Sir.”

“Shut up!” he thundered from his seat, knocking a set of papers off his desk.

Meanwhile, my chest was getting constricted with nerves, making it difficult for me to catch my breath. I was that scared. Actually, I knew I had pushed my luck too far. I, however, had no regrets. I must have made an impression on him as he somewhat calmed down and dismissed us all, reiterating his warning against lateness. We thanked him and were about leaving his office when he called me back.

“This is the second time I am observing your sharpness and boldness,” he commented with a smile. “You this boy, you have courage.”

He went on to recall an earlier incident when a senior student had tried to bully me and I fought back. When we appeared before the Principal, I had argued that I fought back in self-defence. With this second experience, he demanded to know if I came from a family of lawyers. I said no. He then observed that with what had happened that day, and the other incident of self-defence, he was convinced that I would make a very good lawyer. He advised I consider looking to study Law.

In those days, not many teachers, much less principals, would be that proactive. Some others would have felt challenged and humiliated to have a young boy stand his ground against their authority. Not so with Balogun. His words planted the seed in my mind: I could someday become a lawyer. As we stepped out of his office, the other boys thanked and hugged me for saving them. We had all been discharged and acquitted. That was how I won my first case without speaking a single word of Latin and without being called to the Bar.

These were the knotty issues on the table when I advised the President. He agreed with the opinion, approved the implementation of the Settlement Agreement, and directed it to the Minister of Petroleum Resources, Mrs Diezani Alison-Madueke, and myself for implementation. Mrs Alison-Madueke then issued the licence to Malabu, directing it to pay the signature bonus of $210 million within a period of 180 days. Malabu began the search for technical partners. It was no longer willing to do business with Shell because of the apparent breakdown of trust between them following the revocation of the licence in 2002.

On the other hand, Shell had used its dominant position in the oil industry to issue a caveat to other IOCs that it had an interest in OPL 245. This prevented other IOCs from pursuing any interest in the oil block or entering into a working relationship with Malabu. Effectively, Malabu could not move forward. Neither could Shell. It was a case of who would blink first.

After OPL 245 was returned to Malabu through the “Block 245 Malabu Resolution Agreement” dated 29 April 2011, Agip-Eni S.p.A. of Italy began to show interest in partnering with the Nigerian company. Eni approached the government to confirm if the allocation to Malabu was genuine. This was confirmed. Eni then approached Shell with a proposal to partner and jointly acquire the oil block from Malabu. The Italian company came back with Shell and informed the Federal Government that although they wanted to jointly acquire OPL 245 from Malabu, the crisis of confidence between Malabu and Shell made it inescapable that a third party was needed to help broker the deal.

But in August 2011, my attention was drawn to the fact that Malabu had problems with two companies: Energy Ventures Partners Limited, a British Virgin Island Company, and International Legal Consulting Limited, a Russian Company. Energy Ventures had sued Malabu for $200 million together with costs of $15 million in a British court. The Russian company had also sued Malabu for $75 million in England. Both companies claimed to have been consultants or middlemen to Malabu in the transaction and were demanding their fees.

Under Decree No. 53 made during the administration of Gen. Abdulsalami Abubakar, the Abachas were made to disclose all their assets and liabilities and forfeit them to the Federal Government. They were supposed to be transparent about that. In other words, they were in violation of that decree by not declaring their interest in OPL 245. It was unfortunate that I was not aware of it until the settlement had been completed. Since I refused to accede to their request, the Abachas set off an avalanche of attacks on the OPL 245 settlements – true to their threats – just to tarnish my reputation. They also orchestrated bogus public hearings and all manner of sponsored articles in pursuit of their quest.

In a rather soft but stern tone, he cautioned me that I should leave Nigeria before 29 May because, according to him, ‘they’ were coming for me. I reflected on what had happened in the last five years while I was in office, and as far as I was concerned, there was nothing I had done in office that could not be defended, and so I decided to dismiss the caution at that time. I did not think that the incoming government of President Buhari that had promised ‘change’ would try to do anything that would undermine the rule of law. However, the security agent returned to me with the same message, reiterating the need for me to leave the country latest by 28 May.

On the morning of 28 May, I was back to the Presidential Villa. The same operative drew me to a corner and begged me to run for my life. He desperately pleaded with me to leave the country that day. To allay his fears, I assured him that I had already booked my flight. I could tell he was not convinced. The disappointment on his face was plain. Indeed, in the evening, I was again at the Villa for the dissolution of FEC. The operative saw me again and declared in alarm: “Oga, you’ve not left?” He dismissed my attempted excuse and stubbornly insisted that I leave the country by 29 May.

On the morning of 29 May, I went to the Nnamdi Azikiwe International Airport in the company of the National Security Adviser, retired Col. Sambo Dasuki, to await the arrival of President Jonathan. Vice-President Namadi Sambo joined us shortly before the arrival of the President. While waiting for him, I noticed that some mischief was afoot. First, the holding room, where the President usually sat pre-departure, was locked up. That was patently out of place.

President Jonathan was supposed to get to the airport after the handover ceremony and was scheduled to use that waiting room before his flight. But by the time he arrived, the official that was supposed to open the place had disappeared. The environment was hostile. And we weren’t even up to three hours out of office, at the maximum! I was very downcast. That experience sent some shivers down my spine and for the first time, tears dropped from my eyes. I went to my residence after Jonathan’s departure.

After running into the same security officer for the umpteenth time, I was forced to think that, perhaps, God was the one speaking to me through him. “I beg of you,” he pleaded, becoming quite emotional, “please leave tonight.”

Picking up my bag, I went to the Nnamdi Azikiwe International Airport, Abuja, and bought a Lufthansa ticket and left Nigeria. It was supposed to be for a few weeks, but it turned into months and years.

The desire to humiliate me knew no bounds. One day, at the library of the International Court of Justice in The Hague, I instinctively felt an urge to go home. I usually took two tram rides. During my first ride, I suddenly became conscious of the fact that someone was trailing me. Indeed, there was a young man that appeared to stick to my peripheral vision. I became alert. The second tram stop was right in front of my house. When I got off and noticed that the suspicious young man remained on board, I thought perhaps I was becoming paranoid.

But as I made my way through the electric gate of my residence into the common area, I heard a quiet: “Excuse me.” The man flashed his badge. He was from the Fiscal Information and Investigation Service (FIOD), the Dutch anti-fraud agency. Before I could take that in, two more persons had joined him, seemingly out of nowhere. They were detailed to search my house. That was the first Gestapo-like experience of my life. I let them into my house. They refused to let me answer my phone when it rang. They requested that I switch it off.

“Can I call my embassy?” I asked.
“Not at the moment,” they responded.
“Can I call my lawyer?” I made a second request.
“No,” they responded.

There, they had made the first tactical mistake, but then I kept mum about it. I wasn’t going to argue with them about the fact that it was my fundamental right to call a lawyer. They took my laptops and my iPad which I was using for my academic work. After some time, an Italian investigator joined them, followed by some Dutchmen. Finally, the young man that was in the tram showed up. I was psychologically destabilised.

“What exactly are you looking for?” I summoned the courage to ask.
Money laundering and corruption investigation, they claimed.

I kept quiet but I could feel my blood pressure shoot up. I was allowed to take my drugs. I could even eat if I wanted, they said. They were very patient.
“What are you waiting for?” I asked.
They were waiting for the judge.
“What is the matter?” I then asked pointedly.
They said they were investigating OPL 245.

Then the judge arrived. Her opening comment was to the effect that she was sure I had been informed about why they were in my house. She asked me if I had any money or documents at home.
“Yes, I have plenty money and documents,” I told her.

The excitement on their faces was discernible! They were about to make a catch! The EFCC had informed them that I stole millions of dollars and, therefore, had a lot of money! The EFCC had put their media troops on standby, waiting to break the news that an operation was going on in my house in The Hague and that they were about to catch a corrupt former public officer with huge sums of money. I took the investigators to the cloak room and showed them my coin box. In it was roughly €60 in coins.

“That’s the money,” I told them.
“No, no, no, not this kind of money,” they protested. I told them that was all I had at home.
Then I said: “You are looking for documents on OPL 245? Then come with me.”

I took them upstairs. I still had three bundles left from the 12 bundles I had prepared and distributed earlier to various agencies and individuals. They were going to take away the three bundles, but I protested. The reason they found any bundle with me was because the others didn’t collect everything. The judge advised that they should collect only one bundle. But they refused. It took the intervention of my lawyers before the two other bundles were later returned to me.

It turned out that the Dutch authorities had been misinformed by the Nigerian Government that I owned the house. That was a most unfair lie. The Embassy was aware that I had rented the property, and with their assistance too. In fact, the Embassy introduced me to the housing agent from whom I leased the accommodation. The investigators were shocked when they saw the lease agreement and discovered that it was a rented accommodation.

They took my credit cards, screened them immediately and returned them to me immediately. The cards had saved my life. If it hadn’t been for them, I was sure I would have died of hunger in The Hague. Yet, by EFCC propaganda, I was supposed to have corruptly enriched myself to the tune of about $800 million, or $1.1 billion, or $2.2 million, depending on the version of the story that caught the tale-bearer’s fancy.

The investigators stripped the house clean and found nothing. They said I should sign that they took some documents. They took my bank statement, which showed that I had about €18,000 in my account. Of the €18,000, the school had transferred €15,000 to me. For the Dutch to issue you a student visa, you must show evidence that you have transferred your maintenance allowance for the duration of your studies to the school that offered you admission. The school will then transfer the money back to you once you have opened an account in the Netherlands.

The experience of the search left me traumatised for days. I was glad the EFCC media troops were disappointed, and in my view, disgraced.

[J. A. · Rating 5 out of 5]

Burden lifted

I commend the author for writing this book and correcting the negative perception out there. He did a lot of service to Nigeria and this book has revealed a lot of truths about his exceptional hard work and achievements in office. It is a good book for history.

[Afolabi Adekaiyaoja · Rating 2 out of 5]

A look into some of the more unknown norms and practices that takes place in the corridors of power. Most Nigerian autobiographies are attempts at rewriting history, and this is safely nestled in that group, but it does a good job at attempting to show nuance and perspective