Boko Haram: Holding Brief for the Dead

Again, I am back on the barricade of reasoning. I am back because you have called me names, because you have discarded my constructive suggestions with a wave of hand and because you have heeded the voice of your anointed advisers without considering mine. I’m back to rant. My rants this time are my resurrected frustrations that were initially buried in the pit of my stomach. So I am back on the threshold of logic, on the rhetoric of our continued survival as a people, on the question of a nation in tears, on the pains of a future under siege, on the fear of our existence arrested by a sect and on the will of our drivers who have been stripped naked by the mere resolute of a few simpletons.

But before somebody journeys into the pursuance of his haunting course and crippling brownnosing, the totality of which has put the country on a staggering tripod-stand of ruse, I am quick to signpost a caveat that I am not holding brief for anybody, but for the dead. On this note, I am dragging you to people’s court. You should be happy, because these people are your voters. They fell for your pranks against my persuasions. You made them licked your boot by deceit. You told them you were like them and that shoes were not within your reach. They went gaga, dancing to your tune while their emotions reigned supreme. They did this with one hope. That once you have shoes, you would also give them shoes to wear, even if you would throw the shoes at them. They have waited for Godot, for more than 18 months. Instead of shoes, they have thrown them suicide bombs on your behalf. For perspective, your wife has not spared them of her subsidized verbal bombs. As if that is not enough for a people confronted with grandiose regret of voting you, for a people that once fell in love with your noxious humbleness, for a people battered by a bleak future, for a people whose life is hung on uncertainties, for a people now in tune with the music of bomb, they are now being threatened by the ravaging debate of your fuel subsidy imbroglio. When you deceived them with N18,000 minimum wage to win their votes, they never knew you had a plan to take it back from them in double folds through the killing of fuel subsidy.

It may also interest you that the same people you climbed to get to the top of the ladder are the same people volunteering as witnesses against you in this court. They are testifying against you while I am busy castigating them for their naivety at the polls in April. So in the long run, I won’t blame you, but them. However, this will be pretty difficult for them as I am holding brief for the dead. Hence I have to give you a share of their pains. For Mr. Williams Dike who died with three children in Madalla, his wife sent me on this journey when she asked me: “Williams, ebee K’ ino din. Darling, ebee K’ ino din?” For a bereaved to have spoken in her local dialect, the depth of pain is endless.

Before now, your voters have told me to shut up. They said I never saw anything exemplary in you. They argued that I was a twitter and facebook protestant, that I could only make mouth on social media. They advised that I should recognize a man with his weaknesses. I complained about your political will, they said it was a weakness. I winked at your leadership readiness; they told me to keep shut, suggesting that it was a weakness. I challenged your decisions; they defended you that I was just an arm-chair critic, positing that it was a weakness. I batted an eyelid at your diplomatic charisma; they fumed at me, saying that it was a weakness. I raised an eyebrow at your humbleness during the campaigns; they laughed at me, adding that it was a weakness. I murmured at your dream team; they said I was suffering from I-too-know, arguing that it was a weakness. After Madalla, I posed a question to them, that they should mention just the strength you have demonstrated over 18 months, just to mention the strength. I did get an answer. They said you have amassed the strength to trample upon them by removing the peanut they have been enjoying since the days of your godfather. Your voters have turned against you. They are now using facebook and twitter to shoot you. They have joined me.

Now I am vindicated. I am holding brief for some of your voters that were murdered. Mrs Dike said I should ask if you have the strength to help her get Mr Williams Dike back to life. I told her that you were not God. But she posited that you should have the strength to hunt her husband’s killers and wipe them from earth. Now I dare you, do you have the strength? I doubt it. Not that I don’t believe in you, but I am perplexed by the avalanche of weaknesses they said you have. Boko Haram (BH) is made up of a resolute people, people who can sacrifice themselves for their crude course. They are people who are ready to die to press forward. They attack by also killing themselves. This is a rare strength of resolution. It is only an equal but opposing strength that can neutralize them. For Christians, Jesus sacrificed himself before his people were able to win the war over sins. The war was even deadlier than ours. It was a self war, a war between flesh and spirit. Ours is less deadly, a war between flesh and flesh, so you don’t need to die. I am not saying you should donate yourself to bomb; you only need to have a tactical strength that is garnished with political will. You have not demonstrated that you have this strength. Instead, you told us to bear the burden of bombings. You told Mrs. Dike to shut her mouth and bear the burden of her pains. We will bear our burden if only you are ready to share in our pains. We will wait when a bomb will also be played like music at your backyard. When we see how tearful you are, then we will start bearing the burden in unison till bomb do us part.

BH has taken the fight to the church. They have declared the war open. They have dared the continued existence of this country as a nation. They have shown you how to lead people, be daring! They have spoken the language of war. They have challenged your tactical reprisal strategy. They care less about the security beef up you are doing at your security head quarters, churches and mosques. After all, the security in other places is loose. They know that these places are open for them to bomb, so they are coming. They know that your security intelligence cannot cover all the corners of the country. They are fully aware that you are worrisomely reactive, not proactive. They know that you lack the will to prepare for their coming. They know that you only make noise after they have wrecked havoc. They are less concerned on how much noise you make. All they want is that we must all become illiterate like them. So I ask you: do you want all of us to become illiterate like them? But this is what they are calling for. If we are not ready to be like them, then you must lead us to get rid of them, for they have desecrated the land.

When Rudolf Okonkwo predicted that by next year, we would be confronted with the eluding question of: “to be or not to be,” I took an opposing stance. This may interest you. As for me, we would forever be confronted with the question of: “how to sustain our continued existence,” provided you can develop, within the shortest time, the strength I am craving for. Rudolf’s prediction might have been based on his calculated assumption that such strength might keep eluding you, which I don’t doubt. Your voters are now suggesting that it is better they start living as independent friends than being united in fears and hatred. They are also saying that you are a butterfly, and butterfly does not belong to the tribe of birds. They are hopeless that you would be lucky enough to locate the strength. They said you are carrying a country that is heavier that what your neck can carry. I’m from Kogi, meaning I’m from the north. I’m scared because I don’t want to go through the hassles of getting a work permit before I can work under the tutelage of Tope Ogunfayo and Bimbo Yoade in the West. I don’t want to apply for passport before I can facilitate peace-building sessions with Biodun Awosusi and Oluwaseyi Olaobaju in the West. I don’t want to go through the hassles of rigorous airport security checks before I can take a walk of life with Victor Agbagu in the East. I hate to hear Arewa Republic. I am not down with hearing Biafra Republic. And I get nauseated hearing Oodua Republic. I’m pained that I may be forced to hear these words often if you fail to prove Rudolf wrong.

Prior to Madalla bombing, I have been attacked by your voters about what I have been doing on my street to right the wrought of wrong in the country. With Tolerance Academy, I have been mentoring a movement of thinkers, those who are poised to disengage the country from negativity. Because they see things differently, they have started building voices at the grassroots. Their voices are becoming stronger. They are teaming up, they are forming strategic alliances, they are moving with panache, they are not retreating because of bombs and they are not making noise after bomb blast. From grassroots, they are immersed in building a society that would someday, be immune to life claiming crises. But they are worried by how you have been managing crises in the country. They are worried because you have thrown their suggestion into the bin. Like BH, they are also resolute in marching forward. So I told your voters to go and start something on their streets too, no matter how little. Great things start small. For those of them who have started something, I told them to continue. However, all these little things will manifest into big deal if only you search your inner man for the strength I’m yearning for. They are waiting for you.

As I am holding brief for the dead, the onus is on you to win the war for the dead. Otherwise, your frustrated voters will seek justice by themselves. They will move the barricade from facebook and twitter to the streets. They will march you with stones and confront BH with equally assorted bombs. It will be fatal. It will be a war between a friend versus a friend, a friend versus an enemy and an enemy versus an enemy. For the avoidance of doubt, I will rephrase what Rudolf coined out from the movie, The American President, when people are thirsty for genuine leadership, “they will crawl through the dessert toward a mirage, and when they discover there is no water they will drink the sand.”

I am beating the gong loud for you to hear. I am not saying dance along, but you can reason along. After all, ours is democracy. In your subsequent actions, you can take note that the colour of fire is beautiful, but when you enter it, your body will tell a different story.

A Writer's Road To Babylon

I set out that day with one mission. It was the mission of a loner, the mission of the one who got missing in his own warren of thoughts, the thoughts connecting his past with his future. That day, I decided to continue living my life outside Babylon. I did not have any inkling that my trouser’s back pocket was Babylonian in content.

My thoughts were heavy; I felt an increase in the weight of my skull as my neck could measure. I was not bothered. My thoughts crept out in chapters, forming up plot, inventing characters, setting location and evolving a theme. I felt a thud on my chest, the inkling came, I could write a story. Perhaps, as I assumed, I might be on my way to becoming a writer. I brought out my pen and began to make a skeletal layout from the repository of my thoughts. Perhaps too, the artistic mastery might come like manna. I had hoped.

The zooming of the car jerked me off my trance. From Ibadan, Lagos was so close. I imagined the road was shortened. The driver must have taken a short cut. I struck out the first thought. The second thought looked like it. Two reasons might have made the second one real. First, if there was heavy traffic. Second, if there were armed robbers on the road. I did ask my co passengers. Their responses were unanimous. None of my reasons was right. They told me I slept off. I held my breath when I was told that my head was dangling in space for almost one hour. It must have been a serious siesta.

I reconnected back with my story almost immediately. Now I was on the road with my legs. There was no way to scribble. So I decided to write with my thoughts. One disadvantage of this was that it was volatile. I exercised my brain for about 30 minutes, ramming my thoughts into my cerebrum. My head seemed heavier. But I didn’t mind. I joined a bus to Obalende. Then I took a bike to the American Embassy. My mission that day was to get a United States visa seamlessly. I was not going to buy my way through. On the flipside, I was on another journey with my thoughts, forming up what has not happened to present them as fictive short stories. As far as I was and I’m still concerned, fictional writers are liars, reporting what has not happened, painting it real, calling it fictive story. That is the kind of writer I want to be. I want to be a liar. Is anybody thinking about Chris Abani? That is not the case here.

Hungry looking dudes besieged me as I marched carefully along the walkway to the pavilion where visa applicants with invitation letters were caged. Their genuflections made no sense to me. My gaze was fixed at the security man at the gate of the cage. I approached him. He has a stern look. But I knew what to do to soften his face, I didn’t do it. At least, it was American embassy. Such should not be encouraged. The embassy itself was a mini America. The alluring flowers, the structures, the security checks, the orderliness, you wouldn’t think you were in Nigeria. I relished the serenity. The cage was carefully designed at the edge of the Atlantic Ocean. Since that was my first time at the embassy, I was unconnected with the rules. It was a field day for the harsh looking dude. He said before he could allow me for a check at the inner desk, I have to keep my phones with him. I handed my three phones over to him. If that was the rule, I needed to obey, it was American Embassy. I needed to spice him up with some level of camaraderie. I winked at him, expecting his body approval for me to enter for the inner check. He wrinkled his forehead. He said with an accustomed Igbo accent, ‘‘each phone is 1000 naira. So u go pay 3000 naira’’. I hesitated; he looked away and called on the next person. He called another person, but I stood aside. His looks suggested he has forgotten my presence and it was just five minutes before the inner check would be closed for the morning invitees. At this point, I was the only one left. What I did observe was the way other invitees squeezed ‘something’ in his hand, even without anything to keep with him. They apparently understood the game play with the gate keeper. They must have been regular customers. I was not going to do the wrong thing. I don’t give bribe/kickback/tease or whatever name. I felt I should not break my pledge at the American Embassy. I looked at him with pleading posture. He sternly looked away. I had about two minutes left. I was helpless. I wrinkled my forehead; sympathy took root on my face. His look came back to my face again. This time, he gave in.

The guy at the table stretched forth his hands with no single word. I interpreted it. I handed over my invitation letter. It was not the usual official letter printed from the embassy’s website. It was an email print-out. I never knew I have gotten a special letter. With no exchange of pleasantries, even when I tried to initiate one, he rejected by his frustrated appearance, he handed over my documents to me and used his forefinger to direct me to have my seat on the queue. No single word. I murmured in response. Something got me thinking while on the queue – the frustration on the guy’s face. He checks visa documents, but his dream still eludes him. Countless travel trances must have haunted him for long. As the last person on the queue, I took time to understudy the security checks since I was a first timer. The first big error I committed was the back bag I had with me, albeit without my laptop. I had many gadgets tucked in the bag. But I was sure my modem, flash drive, USB cables and hard drive would not be show stoppers. So it was my turn. The first check was my bag. It was a unanimous decision. I was sent back to take care of my gadgets.

Many thoughts rented my heart. I thought of going back to the security dude, but killed it. In my warren of thought, I whistle jerked me off. I looked up and saw him. He waved at me to come. I stepped forward and he also moved closer. He stretched his hands for my bag. I handed it over. He became my saving grace. So I went back to the check. As a fiercely looking security woman moved the metal detector around my body, a loud noise came out from the machine. It has detected something. She instructed that I should personally search myself. I did. It was my back pocket housing it. But it was not a metallic item. My confusion doubled. I could not afford to bring the item out. Goose bumps took over my skin. I started quivering. I did not want to be perceived as if I was carrying a dangerous item. So I managed to murder my fear. She noticed my perspiration. She decided to help out. “Bring it out,” she said. I hesitated at first. I was wondering how I would explain it. How did it get to my pocket? Would she believe my true story? That I was not the author and finisher of the item? That it was the leftover of a demonstrative outreach programme? That I came directly to the embassy from a youth road walk campaign against HIV/AIDS? These questions jostled to be picked. “Bring it out,” she reiterated. Would this be the end of my visa application? What would happen to the competition I was going to the US for? How would I explain my visa failure to the organizers of the competition? Would the item cost me this whole part of my existence? “Move closer,” she instructed.

At this point, we have created a scene. Two other security men were watching, the frustrated guy was also on standby. The drama was about to explode. Perhaps, CNN would have a field day reporting a fundamentalist who was out to infiltrate the US embassy in Nigeria, the reverse of the news. Perhaps too, I would become popular; my road to stardom had come. I took a step closer to her. I looked around; it was as if the whole world was watching. What was about to be unveiled might throw the world off balance. It was a bomb that would be detonated by a microsecond. As I took another step closer to her, I looked straight. I saw the security man who was with my bag. I saw fear written boldly on his face, the fear of being arrested as an informant to the suspected terrorist. A line crept into my senses; I will be ‘deported’ from the embassy.

I was right standing before her. I suspended my hands in the air. She rolled the machine over me again, the warning sound was louder. She adjusted her hand gloves and dipped her hand into my pocket. Spectators moved closer to see what was standing in between me and New York. There was an emotional siege as she hesitated to display the item. Apprehension was high. I was waiting for the judgment. Suddenly she beamed a smile and suspended the item with the tips of the thumb and forefinger of her left hand. It was a Babylonian, GOLD CIRCLE. There was uproar of laughter. Everybody eased off the stress of the day by the drama.

During my stay in New York City, the city that never sleeps, I told this story in various programmes I attended. It elicited laughter the way it did at the embassy.

Culture, Learning and the Young Mind

Of all issues that are generating intellectually engaging discourses in the socio-political front, corporate front, economic front, cultural front and in the academia, the issues hovering around the continued existence of the Nigeria youth have gained much currency. Any discerning follower of youth’s involvement in the political and corporate governance of Nigeria would accede to the fact that the much needed vocal, voluble and viable voices in the ginormous and gnarly hall of Nigerian landscape are yet to be given gaps to fill. Not because their voices are inconsequential, but because their voices may serve as threats. Consequently, their voices are not respected-often discarded with a wave of hand. Nigerian youth have been described with different nomenclatures, ranging from being tagged as bunch of sheer opportunists, people suffering from intellectual ulcer, half-baked graduates, to quarter-baked job seekers. Wole Soyinka in his shrewd understanding, described the present day Nigerian youth as wasted generation. These nomenclatures did not come by accident. They are products of well thought out views that are devoid of some trappings of mediocrity.

It is almost becoming a truism that Nigerian youth are not well cultured in the arts of learning. No finicky observers would agree less with my grim inference that the above dead-pan is the source of the problems with the intellectual outputs of Nigerian youth. With the ability to learn, relearn to unlearn in order to learn again, cultural preservation will be of less worries. But this is miles away from where the Nigerian youth are, where they are wallowing in cerebral paucity in which their cluttered minds are neither disciplined nor are their brains engaged in productive thinking. This again bespeaks the kind of retrogressive education they have happily and unhappily acquired through the rigours of industrial strike actions that are embellished with intriguing, suspense-filled prologues and heartbreaking epilogues. In my understanding, learning and culture should be a Siamese twin, in which both are dependent on each other for survival.

Flipside, like professional doctors, the Nigerian system has succeeded in separating the Siamese twin of learning and culture. Before the influx of the colonial masters, learning and culture have played consequential roles in the making of Nigeria. There are variegated types of cultures but happenings and happenstances that have shaped the inexhaustible vortex of human existence, have in one way or the other, made it appeared as if it is only the traditional cultures that have been consigned into oblivion. Few facts will suffice.

Unfortunately, the advent of inverted civilisation in Nigeria which was as a result of the imposed British learning approach has sent us all on an errand in search of our cultural identity. Today, the story remains the same especially among the Nigerian youth. Nigerian cultural heritage has been serially committed into the possessive bowel of oblivion as a result of increase in Nigerian Christians and Muslims. It is now a prevalent understanding among the youth that cultural festivals are laced with demonic content, citing FESTAC ’77 as a case study. It is spine-tingling; Nigerians often curse their skin colour. For the white man, it is an accomplished mission. The white man is often joyous to see us. He came to our land with his Missionary, he brainwashed us, or sometimes forced us to accept his culture, he made our mother tongues appeared archaic, he embedded inferiority chromosomes in our mental structures, and he freely preached the gospel of his superiority. Today, it appears as if the Blacks are ugly, satanic and refugees on the planet earth. The Kenyan-born novelist, Ngugi wa Thiong’o posits that the Christian mission is a destroyer of African culture. He says,

The European Missionary had attacked the primitive rites of our people, had condemned our beautiful African dances, the images of our gods, recoiling from their suggestion of satanic sensuality.

The bodily and mentally robust publisher of consequential renown, Chief Dele Momodu is optimistic about Nigeria cultural heritage. He argues,

We have not lost it totally, we are coming back to it. There is this new page of cultural renaissance. Our music, our movies and literature are staging the come-back measures.

In her shrewd understanding, the entrepreneurially beautiful business mogul blessed with heavenly gaits, Mrs. Ibukun Awosika suggests that the cultures of people determine their values. She posits,

There are good parts of culture and there are bad parts. We must endeavor to evaluate culture in the light of how it affects the country.

Lucidly put, there is an inverse relationship between our culture and the learning process bequeathed to us by our colonial mongers. Ademola Adesola, a social writer of penetrating outpourings, elucidates this in his graphical reportage titled, Eyo Festival: Between Scorn and Tolerance (2009). According to him,

Since the famed contact of the African people with the seemingly superior white people, things for the former have taken a sorry turn in many respects and a good dimension in a few others. For instance, when the white colonial masters forayed into the continent with their Christian mission in tow, they expressed the most virulent form of intolerance against the religious and cultural practices of the people, joyously classifying them as demonic.

On the flipside, I want to echo Dele Momodu that we are going back. With the resurgence of book reading events, young Nigerians taking the centre stage in authoring culturally inspired fictional books, the coast seems clear, we are journeying back.

The full piece was originally published in Pendulum Magazine, ACJ, OAU.

Stampede at the graveyard

The dead didn’t die equal
Death, a trickster it was
In the peregrination that beckoned
Death came so close
The jugular armed with tubercular headache
To him, the time was still green
Death defied daunting guts
A war without blood
Fought with pains and thoughts
A thud landed on the rusty roof
The taker of life stamped its foot
The door betrayed trust
As it flung open for the vector of sorrow
He died, but death did cry
His time was still green

The dead didn’t die equal
But the dead still lives
In the dead silence of the dead den
His full fledge flung him up
He spoke through the waves
Obedience crowned the messenger of his voice
The air
The whistling trees bowed
To his odyssey in the graveyard
Signposting his existence
Julius’s ears sprung up
The voice pierced, he cried
Through him Lekan lives, he must live
Through the small gods Lekan lives

Now, the war of wits
A stampede at the graveyard beckons
Death must be buried
In the antiseptic bowel of its den
So Lekan lives, death dies.


Dedicated to the late Olalekan Obadimu

The goddess in his dream

Fagged and hungry, I returned from a lecture on ‘Industrial Safety’ to my room, which was next to the world head quarters of Kegites Club. History had it that the club started in the university before its tentacles grew across borders. Every year, members of this club would gather in Obafemi Awolowo University from different parts of the world. Delegates would come with variegated attires showcasing their heritage in terms of culture and traditional beliefs. Chiefo, the world chief of the club would use a crown-like head cap, his wrists and neck adorned with beads, with a traditional green wear emblazoned with a map of Africa growing out of a gourd, depicting their notion that the soul of Africa is in the gourd, the warehouse of palmwine. During their annual rituals, they would pop palmwine, drink palmwine to stupor, bath with palmwine, exchange banters about palmwine, urinate palmwine and even excrete palmwine from their anuses. The general belief among the members was that bathing with palmwine would help secure good grades in academics. This myth was once argued heavily among the students of the university. Some students believed that the claim was a ruse. Another group of students opined that such myth was typical of African tradition and as such the club should not be weathered by tongues, while others, the religious ones, were hell-bent that the claim was a strategy to win more souls into the earthy club.
Read the full fiction here as first published on Hack Writers