HUGO IS DEAD (FIGURATIVELY). I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT KILLED HIM
February 12, 2015 | Facebook
If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. You see, I have known Hugo from my secondary school days, more than a decade ago. In those days, he was a young man with an exotic name-Hugo Davy. He walks in a measured manner and speaks French. For me, there was not a nobler man. Judge O ye gods how dearly I admired him.
Hugo is gifted with the pen. His ink is new every morning. He can weave a tale, gripping and racy. I have neither wits, nor words, nor utterance, nor the power of speech to stir men’s blood like he does. I am no orator, as Hugo is. I follow his blog and his writings like a morning devotion.
Then politics came. Make no mistake about this. Hugo is entitled to his choice. Now the problem isn’t that Hugo makes a swansong of his choice, making himself an Archbishop (maybe TB Joshua ordained him) and procuring for his use, a miter cap and a crosier staff for worship in the temple of APC.
The problem is that Hugo in a selective manner, plays down the deficiencies of his candidate, and in a very smart manner, makes those that haven’t joined the ‘change’ bandwagon feel like they are on the wrong side of history. Hugo accuses us of silence, of connivance, of blind support for the incumbent, and paints his intentions with the brush of patriotism. He calls it his ‘convictions’. But he, in a subtle manner, questions our own convictions.
Hugo Naijaman glorifies in the ‘anti corruption’ antecedents of his messiah who is to come. He calls him a disciplined man. Now lets put Hogo and his ilk right. Coup is a political armed robbery. It is the worst form of corruption. All coupists are usurpers of legitimacies that belong to the people. It is a travesty of language, a corruption of the purity of concepts, of the human civilization and dignity to call coupists incorruptible, no matter their intentions. They never owned the power they flaunted. They only possessed it. Every rookie lawyer knows the difference between ownership and possession. The logic of coups is that you are an animal, a pre-civilized being, and possess no right to own your life or fate.
So how on earth can a coup maker be disciplined? Or satan be saintly? Is it possible to practice ethics without morality? The next best thing Buhari should do before we grant him a baptism in the assembly of the faithful, ie humans, is to confront the demons of his past and show some remorse. He hasn’t shown any atom of remorse.Given the opportunity, he will do so again. Now that is sin against the holy spirit-obstinacy, and it is enough to deny him paradise.
Hugo makes a mountain of corruption allegations. I had expected him to push for restructuring of the power architecture in Nigeria which is the reason for corruption in the system. Corruption is wholly and entirely power, not a function of persons or countries. It is the system that co-opts or precipitously pushes persons into corruption. Assuming, without conceding, that Buhari is not corrupt, it is foolhardy to think that he will stamp out corruption because it is institutional. He was propped up by persons who are neck deep in the corruption game. The system makes it impossible for political eunuchs to achieve political erection. They can only be propped up by political godfathers, like Tinubu. They become vassals in the hands of their benefactors.
The answer remains with reconstituting the power architecture, decentralizing the enormous powers in Abuja. Will Buhari risk it? Will he dismantle a system he benefits from, as a Northerner, a system skewed to favour the imperialists, the feudal North, of which he is a member?
Hugo says he writes for posterity. But I haven’t read a work by Hugo on what is at stake in Lagos Gubernatorial election where he lives, earns his bread, and sometimes butter. Everybody knows that Lagos is tethered to the whims of one man, someone whose words are laws, whose wealth is so humongous he can buy the atlantic, who literally owns half of Lagos. I haven’t heard Hugo complain about the activities of touts in Lagos who are ostensibly given a State protection, who constitute themselves into terror groups of a more virulent strain. Hugo doesn’t want posterity to know about his home state Governor Rochas Okorocha who indulges in governance by billboards and deceives his people with wishy washy greetings nay ‘My people my people’. Maybe he doesn’t want posterity to remember that. O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts, and men have lost their reason. Bear with me.
Hugo’s pastime can be summed up in one word-HATE. It is not criticism. It is pure hate. That’s why he attacks any thing emanating from the Presidency, good or bad. Once it is Jonathan, it is bad, including attacking an innocent mistake on the President’s Facebook post, and comparing it with Buhari’s certificate scandal. It is akin to what the Republicans do to Obama, to the extent of questioning his citizenship. The objective is one thing, to ridicule his person and undermine his Presidency. To achieve that, they indulge in massive propaganda and sustain the tempo. Recently, they even accused the President of deploying Soldiers to Tinubu’s house. None of such happened. Hate is like stagnant water, and stagnant water becomes dirty, stinky, disease ridden and poisonous.
O how I missed Hugo’s write ups when he was objective, when he was alive. My heart is in the coffin with Hugo and I must pause till it comes back to me. Here was Hugo. When comes such another. He died leaving mums and kids behind. I have no idea what kiled him. In any case, it saddens me. Death is a bitch.
Retrieved 8:20AM February 13, 2015.
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Retrieved 8:20AM February 13, 2015.
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THE MEETING II
December 26, 2014 | Facebook
Talking about the art of pouring drinks to avoid a spill of such precious liquids, I learnt from Henry Onyeorisa, a master.
You see, Henry taught me that you pour the drink in the glass at about 45 degree angle. Then you slowly straighten up the glass towards the end. When properly poured, wine or beer produces aromas and flavours that can only be present at the right conditions, and with the agitation of a proper pour.
But that was before Henry met Christ. Or before Christ met him. Either way, there was a meeting.
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BEYOND BUHARI'S FABLED INCORRUPTIBILITY AND GRANITE INTEGRITY.
December 15, 2014 | Facebook
For some time now, proponents of Buhari's Presidency have invaded our public spaces and taken over our political discussions. The Sai Buhari and mai gaskia mantra seem to be selling more than Flavour's latest album.
Make no mistake about it. Everybody is entitled to his views. I only have issues with the fact that his apostles hinge his campaign on one over massaged quality of his- his anti corruption stance. Never mind his past human rights records which was lopsided and selective. One example of that was his locking up the then VP of Nigeria Sir Alex Ekwueme in prison where he developed a snowy white beard of Nebuchadnezzarean proportions while President Shehu Shagari was put under house arrest in a cozy apartment in Ikoyi (apologies to Tatalu Adamu). But those can be forgiven.
More importantly, the dangers of a campaign that is hinged on corruption alone is that it reduces the Nigerian question to the issue of corruption. Corruption is not the problem of Nigeria. It is only an effect, a symptom of a national malaise. It is a result of the structural misconfiguration of the nation right from colonial gestation.
The Nigerian system encourages it and rewards it. The system stifles creativity and rewards indolence. It sacrifices meritocracy on the altar of federal character. So it goes deeper than clamping people in prisons. A war against corruption that is guided towards financial mismanagement alone will exhaust its ammunition and record ephemeral success.
So instead of Buhari being sold as an anti corruption czar, I want to hear his plans for the restructuring of this nation to make it work. This alone will reduce corruption. I want to hear his plans to wean this country from oil now that oil prices have gone south and we are approaching a fiscal meltdown. I want to hear his plans to cede more powers to the States, make the States more viable and reduce the quest for Abuja and its vain glory. I want to hear his plans for unleashing the economic potentials of this nation. I want to hear his magic for turning around the deep wounds religion have inflicted on this nation. Those are the arguments I want to hear.
As I journey towards Damascus, like Apostle Paul, I expect Buhari's lieutenants to make the scales fall from my eyes, teach me the gospel according to St Buhari, baptise me and give me a new name, just like Apostle Paul. Trust me, I will carry the gospel to the ends of the earth.
They have less than six weeks to do that.
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TO RICHARD CORY AND TO THOSE HE REPRESENTS
November 10, 2014 | Facebook
I am an ardent apostle of the written word in any form. I cherish poems a lot, those lyrical lines, with meanings as deep as the Pacific Ocean and yet so concise. It is art in its purest form. They give me intellectual orgasm (Pardon the coinage).
One of the poems that have remained etched in my memory for a long time is Richard Cory, written by Edwin Arlington Robinson. According to the poet, whenever Richard Cory went down town, everybody admired him . ‘He was a gentleman from sole to crown’. Richard Cory was not only rich but richer than a king and ‘admirably schooled in every grace’. We thought he was an embodiment of everything a man should be-Handsome, rich, young, with a generous sense of humour and six pack albs to boot. He was a ladies man.Everybody wanted to be like him, to be his friend. We thought he had it all going for him. But one bright summer morning, Richard Cory went home and put a bullet through his head. Despite his near perfect lifestyle, he committed suicide.
You see, in our world today, the perfunctory question “How are you?” elicits the world’s biggest lie-“I am fine”. There is no bigger lie than ‘I am fine’. We live in an era of Facebook and Twitter, in an era where people try to paint a picture of a perfect lifestyle while taking pictures with Facebook in mind. We are inundated with pictures of fine guys with chiseled cheek bones and aquiline nose, who never had pimples, and pretty ladies pouting their lips and raising one of their legs like a hen that came into a new territory. We attempt to present our lives as bliss just to impress people we have never met, people we may never meet or to keep up with the Joneses, as if we are in a competition. We see life like a music video, with flashy cars and fleshy girls. We want to be like Richard Cory, but he killed himself. So his life is not bliss after all.
It is that way because the world has no patience with failures, or rather with diamonds in the rough. Everybody wants already made diamonds. And so when we paint such pictures of our ‘perfect lives’, we secretly hope that people will click the ‘like’ button. It gives us acceptance, a psychological fillip, a feel of being in the league of those who are doing well. Most of the times, pictures taken in foreign lands seem to attract more likes. I wonder what some of us who have only been to Nkwo Nnewi, Emeka Offor Plaza in Onitsha and perhaps Bar Beach in Lagos will do. But I digress.
So here is to everyone who is broken but tries to put up a mask, who sees the crack in the mirror but tries so hard to cover the reflection, who tries to smile despite the urge to cry, who has so much bottled up inside, who prays and it seems God is so far away, or near but His silence is so loud and deafening, who has, like Richard Cory, once contemplated pulling the trigger and ending it all. You are not alone. I may be unable to unbreak your hearts, to fix the repairs. But I understand how you feel. I am a human being myself, with my own fair and sometimes unfair share of challenges. Joy comes in the morning. So says the holy book. Let's continue to say 'I am fine'. Maybe someday, we will really be fine and our lives will resemble what we paint it to be. Hold on. Hold out.
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THIS HOUSE MUST NOT FALL
October 08, 2014 | Facebook
It was on Tuesday night. I was savouring the sallah break with the song 'Wake up' by the Ikwokrikwor crooner Flavour N'abania. Remember that song patterned after Makossa- You throw your right foot forward as if you are about to break into a run, return it to its position, bend your head like a freshly beheaded chicken and then with your two legs gyrate to the music in rhythmic successions.
Then all of a sudden, a news flash appeared on the television- Peter Obi has formally joined PDP. It is not really a surprise. I am not. It just ended months of speculation. He has never missed an opportunity to identify with the Umbrella and he has his right to freedom of association. He is an honourable man you know.
You see, All Progressive Grand Alliance APGA was formed as a platform for primarily the Igbos. It is not just a political party. It is a brand, an identity, a symbol, a rallying point for a people crying for release. It was formed for the purpose of giving a political voice to a people subjected to the political wilderness for donkey years because they lost a war. They dared to fight instead of laying down their heads for slaughter. It was expected to transmute into a strong political voice, a bargaining chip, capable of influencing, as a race. It was meant to reawaken the political consciousness of a people who seemed to have forgotten that when one trades his political power for economic power, he soon loses both. It was an epiphany. It was an antidote for a people taunted for being incapable of speaking with one voice.
The fact that Igbos are the next largest race outside Igbo land immediately after the indigenes of the place makes the prospects of APGA huge. What is needed is to tap into the emotions and harness it as well as develop a regional economic blueprint that will enhance integration.
The persona of Odimmegwu Ojukwu helped to put APGA on a strong footing and the greatest beneficiary of this vision was Peter Obi. He rose on Ojukwu's coattails to power and he came in with a lot of promise. Even when his second term ambition was shaky, the sick and almost blind Ojukwu defied his frail and fragile frame to campaign for him, asking Anambrarians to grant him one last wish-voting Peter again. We obliged him and he won again. He is an honourable man.
Make no mistake about this-Peter weathered political adversities and institutional roadblocks. He fought a hard battle to reclaim his mandate, fought again to get back his seat after being impeached and with his landmark case against INEC, altered the electoral calendar in Nigeria. He restored sanity to governance, and posted a brilliant performance. But with his position, history thrust on his shoulders the role of being the 'General' commanding the APGA troops to secure the territorial ambition of the party. Peter shied away from this responsibility. Now we know why. It is all about personal interest, never a collective one. APGA was just a vehicle to his personal ambition. Peter doesn't love APGA less. Peter only loves Peter more. Yet he is an honourable man.
Peter said he joined PDP so as to remain competitive in national affairs. He is wise and has no doubt provided us with reasons. I speak not to disprove what he has said. I only want to chip in that sometimes, fate and history conspires to entrust on someone a higher calling, a personal sacrifice for a collective advancement. Peter was well positioned by fate and history for this role. With Peter's performance in office and his immense goodwill which stretches across the length and breadth of Nigeria, he would have done marvelously in building on the gains of APGA. History beckoned on him to become a god. He chose to be a man, full of vain ambition. Ojukwu became a myth because of the sacrifice for his people. Like the biblical Simon Peter, Peter Obi was given the key to 'the kingdom' by Ojukwu before he ascended to a higher plane in chariots of fire. I don't know what has happened to that key. But I do know that Peter Obi is an honourable man.
Governor Obiano, Peter's successor has now been orphaned politically while trying to deal with teething problems in governance. If he chooses to jump ship in order to survive, that will finally sound a death knell for APGA, the spirit and essence of a people. May they never be a perfunctory requiem mass for that party, or rather that idea, for it transcends a party. THIS HOUSE MUST NOT FALL
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FRIDAYS!
September 16, 2014 | Facebook
I love Fridays!
Sometimes I wonder why it takes so long to come.
It is a day I take time to touch the portrait of this world, melt into its beauty, and be a part of its soul. I know its darkness, its pain. Maybe a word, a thought of mine could push it through those long, dark tunnels, and maybe I could give it the strength to stop falling apart. Or maybe I can’t, but I can’t give up.
That Friday, the night was promising. Cool, crisp winds beckoned for arrival. The moon shivered with anticipation. Whispers rustled through trees, ready for the rampage. Soft crunches of dirt told that they were coming, and bright lights broke the stars that shined with dreams. There would be no sleep tonight. So I told myself.
I was headed to my favourite corner, a place I hide away sometimes and just breathe. Occasionally too, I take what Chimamanda Adichie beautifully described as ‘a bottle of liquid peace’. Noah Sweat, Jr., a young lawmaker from the U.S. State of Mississippi described it as “the oil of conversation, the philosophic wine, the ale that is consumed when good fellows get together, that puts a song in their hearts and laughter on their lips, and the warm glow of contentment in their eyes”.
The generous company of Obinna Obidiegwu makes it more enriching, himself an accomplished banker. I have a permanent chair. Not those plastic stuffs. It is actually a wooden chair, beautifully crafted. I touch it, close my eyes and feel the spirit of a carpenter who loved his work.
He approached me with a tray containing some bunches of bananas. For one, his clothes were too big. I didn't see his face clearly because it was night. It looked like he was swimming in them rather than wearing them. He should be about 11 years. Maybe 12.
“Brother, please follow me buy banana. My Mama need am to pay my school fees”. He told me, with pity in his eyes.
I love bananas but wasn’t keen on taking some that night.
“Please brother, Please”. He said repeatedly.
“How much is this bunch”? I said, pointing at one.
“N300”. He said.
“I don’t really want to have some. But I will give you N100 to encourage your education. You can keep the bananas and sell to another person.” I told him.
“No Brother. Don’t just give me money. I want to sell. Buy my banana”.
That statement stuck me. It captured one of the flaws of modern Africa. That kid needed trade not aid. But Africa keeps scrambling for aids from western nations instead of asking for equal opportunities in the global market without knowing that there are no free lunch anywhere in the world. Not even in Freetown. They send the aids and they dictate how Africa should be run. It is purely political.
The truth about aids from western nations to Africa is that it comes with a lot of strings attached. It is a vicious cycle of dependency that leaves Africa gasping for more aid and stifles creativity. But with more trade, Africa can earn her dignity instead of perpetually becoming a white man’s burden. You see, work is redemptive and work equals trade. It is a better and more sustainable way of lifting Africa from the throes of poverty.
I kept on wondering the wisdom of this kid, hidden from the ‘learned and the clever’. It is not rocket science after all.
I eventually patronized him and his face lit up with smile while he was thanking me profusely. But I do know that I didn’t change his fortune. He changed mine.
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LET THERE BE LIGHT. AND THERE WAS DARKNESS
September 08, 2014 | Facebook
If you want to recite the alphabet, you start with ABC. If you want to sing, you start with do re mi. Now let’s go back to the beginning.
How did we start recording mass failure in WAEC? How did this thickening fog that is casting benighting crass patina of ignorance across the land start?
When the colonialists landed on our shores, they had two major challenges- language barrier and shortage of manpower. So they set up schools that was essentialist by orientation. They formulated education policies that viewed education as a central body of essential knowledge that must be transmitted to all who came to school.
The colonial education was aimed at creating a small class of skilled technical and administrative functionaries. The emphasis was on reading, writing, arithmetic and religion. The new education prepared the recipient for job opportunities as teachers, church evangelists, clerks and interpreters so that they can occupy posts of responsibility which were at the time filed by Europeans at great cost.
Instead of imaginative approach which uses different techniques that stimulate and ginger the curiosity of the learner, probes into the personal contributions and factors the originality of the child into the learning process, the traditional method of teaching was adopted. In the imaginative approach, the teacher is a coordinator rather than the repository of knowledge. In the traditional method, the teacher is the repertoire of knowledge. The bottom line of imagination is to be able to use one’s inner eyes to hypothesize, propound and develop an uncommon or new feat. It encourages thinking which is a cognitive activity-something which goes on in the mind and which requires the use of rational powers and faculties. But the traditional method is confined to the structure of the expressed thoughts, to the outcomes of thinking rather than thinking itself. The traditional method just transmits verbal knowledge or develops basic motor and perceptual skills.
The colonial education therefore created a black elite to succeed it and perpetuate its political and economic interests in the post-independence period. The Europeans wanted it that way. They don’t want to empower the locals so much for them to start asking questions.
While they were leaving, they did a greater harm. They chose Alhaji Abubakar Tafawa Balewa, a primary school teacher as Prime Minister instead of the highly cerebral Nnamdi Azikiwe. They needed someone who is pliable and who doesn’t understand the powerful forces that now rule men’s mind. So while we were basking in the euphoria of independence, we were actually being ruled from No. 10 Downing Street, London. The independent Africa was just wallowing in tasteless ideological soup, devoid of salt. Some Presidents who showed some flashes of intellectual robustness were overthrown or killed with the help of the West-Kwame Nkruma in Ghana, Thomas Sankara of Burkina Faso etc.
It wasn’t long before problems sprouted up. The Europeans knew it will surely happen. The military entered the stage. For the khaki boys to succeed, there was a need to stifle dissent and establish a reign of conformity. The evisceration of the right of dissent creates an atmosphere of groupthink. In the military fashion, it is ‘obey before complain’. They needed robots. The only way the military boys can achieve this was to undermine the education sector because education makes men’s mind difficult to enslave. And so they set out to deconstruct the education sector, cutting down the funding drastically. It was a protracted kulturkamf. Schools established by the missionaries were taken over forcefully by the government after the war. The little success built on what the colonialists left for us was reversed. Since then, it has been a progressive regression.
That was how we ended up with knowledgeable people without an iota of intelligence, people whose method of thinking is one way traffic, who have closed minds and cannot tolerate new ideas. That’s how we got to the era of smart phones and dumb people. That’s how we got to believe the saltine solution as an ebola cure. That’s how we got to the stage of being told to join the Amen chorus on facebook in order to get miracles, without knowing that for every chorus of amen we join, we kill a bulb of independence.
Ever wondered why a Mark Zuckerberg or a Steve Jobs cannot come from this shores?
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FREE MADNESS
August 18, 2014 | Facebook
Don't know how this will fly.
It is evening. Not too cold or windy. Exactly the way I like it. Except the usual hellish traffic. Horns blaring. Tires screeching. Curses being exchanged between drivers. Smokes from exhaust pipes rising to the heavens, like a burnt sacrifice.
I look up at the sky, and the sun was getting shy, leaving the scene. I can see the clouds trying to chase it away. From the various imposing blocks of offices opposite me, sounds drift out of open windows; a jumble of styles and themes. Noisy sounds, soothing sounds, cool sounds. I hear a particularly annoying deep beat that hammers my heart within my chest, and it makes me wish I could just go up there and wreak havoc.
A group of girls walk past me in shoes and sandals and I chuckle at the sight. The sound of their heels, however, in addition to their bird-like chatter, makes me want to grind their heads on a stone, one by one. Can’t they see that I need some quiet in this place, even if it is just for once?
Aaarch!
Another guy was asking a girl nearby her age. She frowned her face, as if he asked for her menstrual chart or the combination of a safe. But that is none of my business.
I am just waiting for Prisca to come downstairs from her office so we can head home, my merry little world. I look behind me. Nothing but stationary cars in the car park. I turn back to look at the office, and I spy Prisca coming back. I get up and walk briskly towards the office. She sees me and smiles, and then opens the door for me to enter. She looks tired, but then we all are, most of all me. Doing nothing all day will do that to you. And right now, I feel so lazy. I just want to crawl into my bed and sleep, but I can’t do that right now.
Ben is oblivious to us both for the moment; he has his headphones on, and I can hear someone screaming in a tinny voice. I swear, he’s going to go deaf someday, if his ear drums don’t burst first. And he’s just staring at his phone screen, motionless. He detests seeing Prisca pamper and cuddle me. He doesn't understand why she loves me so much.
Prisca sits down and turns on the telly when we got home,then rummages in her desk for something as it comes to life. Then she selects a cartoon which I love very much, even though it is very old, most definitely older than me. Tom and Jerry. My favourite. As Prisca lowers her arms, I make my way to her, sidestepping the cardboard boxes and files on the floor, and I sit on her lap. She hugs me, and I snuggle in close, nestling into her warmth as I settle down to watch my best cartoon.
My name is Bingo
I am a dog.
***
RAINY JULY; AUGUST BREAK.
August 02, 2014 | Facebook
It's been a rainy July, almost like a ritual. Every day rain. In other to navigate some places in Lagos, you don't just need a car. Sometimes, you need a boat.
That Thursday afternoon, the day had been beautiful and the sky was like a dome of plasma blue. All of a sudden, it became a pitter-patter. Puddles began plinking as the rainfall became heavier. I could hear the murmuring of the rain. It sounded like the buzzing of angry bees . The rainfall became more intense, the sound blurred into a long whirring noise, reminding me of the rotor blades of a helicopter. Eventually, the noise lessened and the drops faded into a musical chime, like an orchestra.
We all stood there, under the awning, just inside the door of a shopping mall. We waited, some patiently, others irritated because nature messed up their hurried day.
I am always mesmerized by rainfall. I got lost in the sound and sight of the heavens washing away the dirt and dust of the world.
I was still lost in my world when this angelic voice brought me back. She must have been 6yrs old or thereabout. Her little voice was so sweet as it broke the hypnotic trance we were all caught in, ‘Mom let’s run through the rain,’ She said.
‘What?’ Mom asked.
‘Let’s run through the rain!’ She repeated.
‘No, honey. We’ll wait until it slows down a bit,’ Mom replied.
This young child waited a minute and repeated: ‘Mom, let’s run through the rain..’
‘We’ll get soaked if we do,’ Mom said.
‘No, we won’t, Mom. That’s not what you said this morning,’ the young girl said as she tugged at her Mom’s arm.
‘This morning? When did I say we could run through the rain and not get wet?’
‘Don’t you remember? When you were talking to Daddy about his cancer, you said, ‘ If God allows us to be beaten by the rain, maybe we needed some washing! ‘
The entire crowd stopped dead silent.. I swear you couldn’t hear anything but the rain…we all stood silently. No one left. Mom paused and thought for a moment about what she would say.
Now some would laugh it off and scold her for being silly. Some might even ignore what was said. But this was a moment of affirmation in a young child’s life. A time when innocent trust can be nurtured so that it will bloom into faith.
‘Honey, you are absolutely right. Let’s run through the rain. If GOD let’s us get wet, well maybe we just need washing,’ Mom said.
The lady broke into uncontrollable tears after saying that. Her once well made face turned into a magnificent ruin. She has a husband who is down with cancer. She has the fears of an unknown tomorrow, the fear of raising her kids alone, the grim reality of that vow she took on her wedding day-for better for worse.
I don't trust people easily, especially folks who drink beer with the help of a straw. But I was moved to soothe the soul of this woman, to offer her some words of encouragement.
I got my own problems, a litany of them. I got my own dreams and financial aspirations amongst others - a posh apartment in Ikoyi, a Mercedes Benz G Wagon (I am specific these days, don't want to end up like that young man who wanted a big vehicle with lots of girls in it and ended up becoming a bus driver in a girls school. He got what he wanted, I guess), first class trips to exotic holiday destinations like Cayman Islands etc.
But all those were put on hold for this woman, to lift her up and let her see the beauty in life.
When she got herself back, she ran into the rain with her little girl. We all stood watching as they darted past the cars and yes, through the puddles. They got soaked.
They were followed by a few who screamed and laughed like children all the way to their cars. And yes, I did. Despite my suit and my shinny black shoe, I ran into the rain too. I got wet. That little girl was right. I needed washing too.
Some of us have mountains of problems in this turbulent sea called life. But maybe we need some washing too. I only hope that by the washing, we may rediscover and reinvent ourselves, for history has shown that some of the world's greatest were people who learnt how to dance in the rain and in the process reinvented themselves.
I won't tell you to type Amen so that all problems will disappear, like some people do in Facebook. I possess no such faculty. I'm not Harry Potter, the magician. I only wish that this month of August may bring you good tidings and that by dancing in ur rains, you may be healed of ur problems and be made whole, for to be healed is one thing, to be made whole is another.
New month greetings from me to you and your kin.
***
TO THE SAGGING YOUNG MAN I RAN INTO THIS MORNING
July 30, 2014 | Facebook
Let me be frank with you: I have no desire to see your underwear.
Unfortunately, this may come as a surprise to you. I blame this on the freak who recently decided that a man's waistline is six inches lower than it should be.
I saw you in front of the First Bank building in CMS. You were about my height, about my colour, with a strip T-shirt and a jean, and an iPad in your right hand.
See, I just don’t get it. It beats my mind and my imagination put together. You took your bath in the morning, put on a nice shirt, belt, trousers, sprays a nice perfume, get into a cute pair of shoes, then you look at the mirror and say to yourself….”hmmmmm..something is missing” ………You then pull your trouser down below your waist to your buttocks, revealing your underwear. Now you look at the mirror again and you are good to go.
Ooh! Maybe men’s underwear are becoming very expensive these days that it will be a mere waste of money to buy underwear and cover it with trousers after dressing up. You have to show off your expensive and designer boxers, singlet and pants.
Maybe you were not truly aware that your trousers are sagging .You had so much to think about. You have the problem of the world on your shoulders, perhaps trying to figure out a cure for the deadly Ebola virus. Albert Einstein you know. Or maybe you are trying to figure out the best military strategy to get back the Chibok girls since Madam President has informed us that there is God due to the blood “they are sharing in Borno”. Napoleon Bonaparte and Julius Ceasar put together.
I have to wonder what your motives can possibly be. Can you only afford trousers that are too short and therefore have to be pulled down to alarming depths? Are you so proud of your lucky pair of underpants that you feel obligated to put them on display? Or are you simply trying to make my eyes bleed?
Here's the good news: If you're going for the third option above, you have succeeded and can resume covering yourself.
Trust me. I am not that type of Bible carrying (the size of Oxford Advanced Learners Dictionary), bell clinging type of Christian. But I am a staunch Christian still. I just don’t shove it down people’s throat. I say these things because I love decency and a regard for other people’s perception of things even if I disagree with them. That is why I am not telling you that “My Bible told me”. You may be a Moslem after all.
How can it possibly be comfortable to have a belt around the middle of your thigh. It's just unattractive when your shorts almost reach your ankles.
Maybe you're sagging as a way of rebelling, to show that you "don't conform to dress standards" or something. Honestly, though, if you need to sag to prove you're a rebel... you're not a rebel. You're just getting a little desperate. Maybe you are doing it because Wizkid and Davido do same. Please don’t tell me those are your models. You are even older than they are.
You are damn handsome. Why don’t you leave something to the imagination?
I know I shouldn't judge a book by its cover, but when your pants are hanging around your derriere, I can see the first two chapters. You may disagree with me. But if you insist on sagging your trousers, please don’t sag your brain.
I’m outta here.
***
A LUNCH WITH TWO LOVEY-DOVES
July 19, 2014 | Facebook
As I sat there feeling the warm vapor from my plate of rice caressing my face, I saw them walk in. There could not have been older than 25 and were completely oblivious of the world around them. He had a mohawk hairstyle. I think he spends a generous amount of time every morning trimming his moustache. The hairs were neat and majestic, like an army platoon in a morning parade. She had her hair arranged into a pony tail, with a little makeup.
They quietly sat down on a booth near my table as I took a spoonful of rice and watched them. They laughed and laughed. His eyes danced with hers in graceful steps to a melody only they could hear. There was no doubt in my mind that it was a beautiful music. His lips kept kissing her hand as he whispered sweet nonsense in her ear, making her giggle. They murmured things back and forth to each other, interrupted only by their laughter.
I keenly observed them from my table, as if loneliness knows me by my name. It was visible through the smallest gestures, the smallest of words whispered in the softest of voices, the mildest of caresses given in stolen moments. The heavens all of a sudden opened up its bowel. It was an abundance of rain, as if the skies had conspired with the two young hearts.
They stood up and he held her, looked into eyes, eyes that looked like they were melting, nose that sweated a bit. He opened his mouth to utter a word. Just then, the song from the speaker mounted on the wall of the restaurant came to his aid. It was the classic "Don't cry for me Argentina". The singer's voice slowly ascends from a little above a whisper to spine tingling crescendo and as if consulting every syllable, the singer extracts a swirl of emotions.
Then came that part where the singer said,"Have I said too much? There is nothing left I can think of to say to you. But all you have to do is to look at me to know that every word is true". He closed his mouth. There is really nothing else to say. The song has said it all.
They walked to the door, and before stepping out, he covered her with his jacket. He walked beside her in the rain, still smiling.
I immediately reached for my breast pocket and fished out a sheet and a pen. I wrote down a title "A Lunch With Two Lovey-Doves. Just then, I realized that my lunch was getting cold.
***
FOR THE LOVE OF EASE
July 12, 2014 | Facebook
I detest Lagos.
Well, not exactly. But for the love of ease, I detest Lagos hellish traffic. You see, this city has a lot of attractions- the boisterousness of the spirit of its people, the optimism in the face of daunting challenges, the love of life, the incredible opportunities here by the virtue of being the former capital territory and the commercial headquarters of Nigeria, the humongous population translating into a huge market, the festive parties, the carnivals, the sunny beaches, the aquatic splendor, the aroma of roasted corn , fish & plantain, the bubbling soups from the bukas, the spices from sizzling suya, the delicious cow flesh which we call “kpomo”, the stench of the stagnant gutters, the choking fumes from the “Okadas” and “Danfos”, and even the heavy din of music that emanates from speakers by the roadside which can reset one’s ear drum. In this part of the world, being normal is crazy.
But there is one factor that makes life a torture, a drama of pain, a harvest of agony for its people. It is the Lagos traffic. In recent times, I am yet to experience something as worse as being confined in a space for hours unending in the name of traffic, being forced to die by instalments simply because you want to get to the place where you earn your bread or you want to go home to the warmth of your family and the comfort of your bed.
Woe betide you if you mistakenly dent the car of a military officer while negotiating your way in a traffic. Your name will become a “bloody civilian”. And after the encounter, you may start telling “stories that touch”. Those military guys can do to you what they cannot replicate in Sambisa forest.
In areas around Apapa, sometimes, movement is not just restricted. It is forbidden. You can get stuck in traffic for the whole day. Most times caused by Tanker drivers.
Pray! Which sane Country still transports liquids as inflammable as petroleum products in tankers from Lagos to Maiduguri? Or a container from Apapa wharf to Enugu? Russia has gas pipelines crisscrossing the length and breadth of Europe. Needless to talk about the avoidable human carnage these tanker drivers have caused and still cause in our high ways which we often times attribute to the will of God. Our rail lines are dead. Our waterways are undeveloped. So everybody has a Car. Everybody gets on the road. Everybody gets stuck in traffic. Everybody complains.
Adapting Robert Kiyosaki’s quote, the problem with the rat race is that even if you win, you are still a rat.
***
THE MEETING I
June 21, 2014 | Facebook
I saw you on the CMS bound Bus ride at Ikeja
I was wearing a blue-striped t-shirt and a black jacket. You were wearing a vintage red skirt and a smart white blouse. We both wore glasses.
You got on at the park and sat across from me and we made eye contact, briefly. I fell in love with you a little bit, in that stupid way where you completely make up a fictional version of the person you're looking at and fall in love with that person. But still I think there was something there.
Several times we looked at each other and then looked away. I tried to think of something to say to you -- maybe pretend I didn't know where I was going and ask you for directions or say something nice about your boot-shaped earrings, or just say, "Hot day."
At one point, I caught you staring at me and you immediately averted your eyes. You pulled a book out of your bag and started reading it -- a biography of Nelson Mandela -- but I noticed you never once turned a page.
My stop was CMS but at CMS, I decided to stay on, rationalizing that I could just as easily transfer to TBS, but then I didn't get off at TBS either. You must have missed your stop as well, because when we got all the way to TBS, we both just sat there in the bus, waiting.
I cocked my head at you inquisitively. You shrugged and held up your book as if that was the reason.
Still I said nothing.
We took the bus all the way to Obalende. And when we got to Obalende, I knew I had to say something.
Still I said nothing.
I'll talk to her before CMS; I'll talk to her before TBS. The longer I waited, the harder it got. Maybe if I could go back to the first time you came into the bus, I could have said, "Well, this bus is inconvenient," but I couldn't very well say it now, could I? I would kick myself for days after every time you sneezed -- why hadn't I said "Bless You"? That tiny gesture could have been enough to pivot us into a conversation, but here in stupid silence still we sat.
There were times when we were the only two souls in the bus, I think from TBS to Obalende, and even then I felt self-conscious about bothering you. She's reading her book, I thought, she doesn't want to talk to me. Still, there were moments when I felt a connection. Someone would shout something crazy about Jesus and we'd immediately look at each other to register our reactions. A couple of teenagers would exit, holding hands, and we'd both think: Young Love.
For 30 minutes, we sat in that bus, just barely pretending not to notice each other. I got to know you so well, if only peripherally. I memorized the folds of your body, the contours of your face, the patterns of your breath. I saw you frown your pretty face once after you'd glanced at a neighbor's newspaper. I wondered if it is about something specific, or just the general passage of time, so unnoticeable until suddenly noticeable. I wanted to comfort you, wrap my arms around you, assure you I knew everything would be fine, but it felt too familiar; I stayed glued to my seat.
At Obalende, holding onto the seats, you managed to get yourself to the door. You hesitated briefly there, perhaps waiting for me to say something, giving me one last chance to stop you, but rather than spit out a lifetime of suppressed almost-conversations I said nothing, and I watched you slip out between the closing sliding doors.
It took me a few more stops before I realized you were really gone. I kept waiting for you to reenter the bus.
I was afraid of a NO, of failing to convince you, of making mistakes. I was afraid of being afraid. My courage failed me. But I have realized that NO doesn't kill. It rather builds my courage, confidence and makes me stronger. Despite the world's obsession with success, most of the successful started off as failures. There is magic in starting. I kept on thinking that if I get a YES answer the second time, it may be because I have gotten a NO answer the first time and persisted.
As I finally left that bus, I kept on thinking about the opportunity I have left to slip by for want of courage. Will it happen to me again? I choose.
***
GOD HAS DAUGHTERS TOO
June 15, 2014 | Facebook
I have a confession. The title of this piece is not exactly original. It is the title of a book by Abidemi Sanusi. But the borrowing ends with the title.
Last Friday, I was rushing out in the morning to beat the hellish Lagos traffic. The early morning Sun was still shy, still preening from the sky. Early morning preachers were having their day, piercing the silence of the previous night with their megaphones. Just by the roadside, a man and a young lady were involved in a fisticuff. The man gave the lady a generous slap on the face. I was in a rush. But it was not the slap that touched me. It was what the man said afterwards. He said, 'If you talk again, I will slap you again. You can do nothing. You are a woman'. That statement kept repeating in my ear. She can do nothing because she is a woman.
A couple of years ago, MTN had an advert. A man called the mother to tell her that his wife has put to bed. 'Mama, its a boy o', he said. The mother erupted with joy at the news. If the man had said 'Its a girl', maybe the joy wouldn't have been that much.
We live in a society that has long standing inhibitions against the female folks due to our cultural experience. A young lady prays to be married to a Governor or that her husband becomes the President. She is not hoping to be Governor. She only wants to be a first lady. We tell them to dream but not to dream too much.
A young lady who desires to get herself an accommodation has probably gone 'wild'. If she buys a car when she is not yet married, she has become 'uncontrollable'. Even when she worked for the car. In our type of society, the ultimate aim of every lady is to get married. It is because we have set a standard, telling them that it is the only way they can be complete. And so they besiege the churches, asking God for a husband. And when they eventually do, they change their prayer intention, asking for a male child. It gives them some validity, some psychological fillip, some acceptability. Our culture made it so. They only have to conform.
A lady who checks into a hotel alone is probably a call girl. She should be accompanied by a man. When we refer to virginity, it should be for ladies. Even the Bible recorded that Christ fed five thousand men excluding women and children. It does not reduce the potency of the word of God. It only shows that it was written in a particular culture similar to ours.
For the past one week, tributes are pouring out for Dora Akunyili. Beyond her steely visage, her fiery eyes, her uncommon spirit, her courage and her priceless contributions to this country, methinks that her greatest legacy is forcing us to have another look on those inhibitions imposed on women. She is a spirit who is not given to the conventional 'Thou shall nots'. She wasn't praying to be the first lady. She wanted to be a Governor herself. She sure merits it. The husband can be the first man. Whatever that means.
I am sure the host of heaven will be excited to meet the lady whose fame competed with theirs. She did what man can do and she did it better. And she left in a blazing glory, in a chariot of fire.
Despite the strong cultural influences that has over the centuries moulded this attitude, we can at least start a debate on how to tinker with it. We are not all sons of God. God has daughters too.
A beautiful Sunday to you friend.
***
TRUTH TIME
May 15, 2014 | Facebook
I am about to ruffle some feathers, to piss off some folks. Unfortunately, I have no apologies. Just like Rick Warren said and rightly so, our culture has accepted two huge lies. The first is that if you disagree with someone's lifestyle, you must fear or hate them. The second is that to love someone means you agree with every thing they believe or do. Both are nonsense. You don't have to compromise convictions to be compassionate. If this dictum makes no sense to you, kindly unfriend me. We must not always agree.
A Kenyan Pastor by name Pastor Njohi recently made news headlines round the world when he told his female congregation to come to Church without their underwears. According to him, the females need to be "free in body and soul so that God can enter them easily".
Someone tagged me in a video where TB Joshua purportedly delivered a man who claimed to be sent by the boko haram sect to bomb the church. The young man was effusive with praise to God. Great things He hath done. No questions asked. Case closed. Now, make no mistake about this. I am a christian by birth. Then by conviction, and now by love. I believe in miracles. But it becomes a problem when Christianity is used as a siege on our mental skies. It becomes a problem when young people trade their ability to reason for easy conclusions and absolute 'truths'.
The so called bomber was 'overpowered by the spirit'. And he confessed in the full glare of the public. Was the Police involved? How about the bomb purportedly procured by him to commit murder on a horrific scale? Was the bomb exhibited to make his testimony credible? Just before that incident, some other person has been arrested by the 'holy spirit' in the same church while trying to bomb the church. Why did this person go to the same church? Maybe he wants to be arrested by the 'holy spirit' too. Is that the only church in Lagos?
For sometime now, we have consistently eroded the foundation of civilization, the only thing that makes us different from beasts, the reason we are called homo sapiens- the thinking being. Civilization is a fractional distillation of the founding of the primary truths. It is created by the works of intellection, of thinking men.
Our generation now luxuriate in the prophylactic essences of TB Joshua's prophecies. The theory of use and disuse has set in with regards to our brain. The Malaysian Aircraft crashed into the Indian Ocean. Not because of the empirical evidence provided by those working on the search. But because TB Joshua said so. The world cup is weeks away from now, in Brazil. While other nations prepare their team, we look towards Synagogue Church to to hear prophecies on how far we will go in the tournament. We have abandoned our fate to the whims of one man.
I have no problems with him personally. Neither will I have problems with any of his followers. I believe that religion is strictly personal. It doesn't matter to me if someone ties a white cloth across a tree and calls it Ekwueme. But I have issues when young people abandon the life devoted to the method of the mind for mental atrophy.
Let the truth be told. This, more than book haram, is an urgent problem.
***
RETHINKING OUR SECURITY APPARATUS
May 10, 2014 | Facebook
Now is not a good time to be a Nigerian. We have always been in the news for wrong reasons. But it is worse now. We have added another tag to our previous tag of corruption. Terrorism. From America to Europe. From Michelle Obama to Angelina Jollie. Everybody the world over , every news network talks about us, not because of a groundbreaking invention that will make better the life of man. But for a senseless group who will rather have their 70 virgins here than wait to have them in Paradise. Maybe the Paradise have run out of virgins.
But beyond all these hashtag Bring Back Our Girls campaign, beyond the "There is God" comic relief, history beckons on us to rebuild this house. Sometimes, you need to destroy in order to build.
The primary aim of every government is security of lives and property. Every other human right is built on this. And the underlying factor in this embarrassing crisis is security. We have tried the federal police structure and so far, it has been a disaster. Its time to turn the page. My thoughts. Its time for State police.
It makes no sense for someone from Sokoto to police Anambra. Or for someone from Adamawa to police Lagos. He doesn't understand the language. He has no stake in the community because his family is not there. He doesn't understand the terrain.
The Nigerian Police as it is constituted today is too centralized. The command structure is riddled with bureaucracy. Talking about corruption is akin to asking whether I have ever had the Hero beer.
Nigeria is underpoliced. A population of 170m people with less than 400,000 policemen. Their tactics remain a combination of force, torture and guesswork. The Governor is called the Chief Security Officer of his State but the Commissioner of Police must clear with the IG of Police in Abuja before he can take instructions from the Governor.
Making Governors fully in charge of the security of their States will break the curse of uniformity and unleash competition in modern policing. It will enhance specialization in many aspects of modern policing and make them closer to the people.
People oppose this concept for fear that the Governors will abuse it. But the status quo is already being abused by people who are close to the powers that be in Abuja. From a wealthy man in Oraifite Anambra State to Rivers State. The center shouldn't have a monoploy of abuse.
We can rather have discussions on how to insulate them from partisan politics, on how they can be institutions of State instead of an appendage of the person in power.
Or we can choose to continue with the status quo like the members of the National Conference have done already. We can choose to treat the symptoms instead of the disease. We can choose to treat the effect and ignore the cause. The Chibok saga is only an effect of a cause. Whatever choice we make, we will leave with it while we invite America to breach our sovereignty and help us find some missing girls.
***
THE TRAGEDY OF A POWERFUL COWARD.
April 15, 2014 | Facebook
(I first wrote this in 2012. Here is a remix).
I don’t envy Pontius Pilate. Nobody should. He had the unpopular job of judging God. And because of his judgment, Christians all over the world recite in their creed , ‘suffered under Pontius Pilate’. The sin of Pilate is not that he exercised his powers but that he abandoned his judgment, washed his hands and let the angry mob have have its way. He abandoned his prerogative to decide. He simply said, ‘You tell me what you like’. That’s the paradox of the powerful coward. He is another word for ambivalence. He has enough psychological acuity to realize that jealousy drives the accusation against Jesus. There were three main charges which the Jews brought against Jesus. “We have found this man,” they claimed “perverting our nation, and forbidding the payment of taxes to Caesar and saying that he is Christ the king” (Luke 23:2). .
I don’t envy Pontius Pilate. Nobody should. He had the unpopular job of judging God. And because of his judgment, Christians all over the world recite in their creed , ‘suffered under Pontius Pilate’. The sin of Pilate is not that he exercised his powers but that he abandoned his judgment, washed his hands and let the angry mob have have its way. He abandoned his prerogative to decide. He simply said, ‘You tell me what you like’. That’s the paradox of the powerful coward. He is another word for ambivalence. He has enough psychological acuity to realize that jealousy drives the accusation against Jesus. There were three main charges which the Jews brought against Jesus. “We have found this man,” they claimed “perverting our nation, and forbidding the payment of taxes to Caesar and saying that he is Christ the king” (Luke 23:2). .
Tragically, at Jesus’ trial, Pilate seems to recognize that a gross injustice is being done, yet he doesn’t use his power as the Roman governor of Judea to stop it. According to the Gospel of Matthew, three times Pilate asks the crowd, “What shall I do with Jesus who is called the Messiah?” He seems to hope they will say, “Release him!” But they don’t. Instead, the crowd insists that Pilate have Jesus crucified. So the governor famously washes his hands, claims he is “innocent of this man’s blood” (Matthew 27:24), flogs Jesus and then hands him over to the soldiers who led him to his death. And in an act that suggests recognition of his terrible error, Pilate himself supplies the nameplate for the cross: “Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews.”
His was a choice between rightness and expediency, between reality and perception. He took some right decisions, one of which is allowing Joseph Arimathea to have the body of Christ for burial. Unfortunately, Pontius Pilate was a coward, lacking the courage to back his convictions with his actions. The result for Pilate was not fame, but infamy: forever to be remembered not for all of the many right decisions he may have made, but for a single wrong one.
We play Pilate when we allow the crowd to shape our actions, to appeal to the crowd at the expense of the rightness of our actions. We play Pilate when we become indifferent to the needs of another. Indifference is a gangrene, a paralysis of the soul. Of course, it can be tempting and seductive. It is so much easier to avoid such rude interruptions to our work, our dreams, our hopes. But indifference reduces a suffering to a mere abstraction. Martin Niemoller, a protestant pastor who survived Hitler’s concentration camps said, “They came for Socialists. But I did not speak out because I am not a Socialist. They came for Trade Unionists. But I did not speak out because I am not a Trade Unionist. They came for Jews. But I did not speak out because I am not a Jew. Then they came for me. And there was no one left to speak for me”.
Again, Pontius Pilate did one other cowardly thing. He failed to accept the responsibility for his own actions. Washing his hands in front of the crowd, he told them, “I am innocent of this man’s blood; I find no fault in him; it is your responsibility if we kill him.” But then, of course, it was not their responsibility; for it could not be. On that fatal day, only one man had the authority to order the crucifixion of Jesus, to say “Let him go” or “String him up.” Only one man could overrule the mob and do that which in his own heart he knew was right, and that was Pontius Pilate. Thus, just as no one else had the power to crucify Jesus, so Pilate could not deny his responsibility afterward. Adam did same mistake, denying responsibility after eating the forbidden fruit. Adam was in charge. Adam was God’s right-hand man, the one to whom He had given dominion, power and authority. Adam was responsible. He could have owned up right there and then. Even if the outcome would have been the same, it would have been the mature thing to do. But he blamed it on the woman. “Then the man said, “the woman whom you gave to be with me, she gave me of the tree and I ate”. (Gen 3:12) Adam blamed the woman and blamed God for giving him the woman. “It wasn’t me. She made me do it”. Sounds like a kid. Maybe we would have still been in the garden of Eden now, still naked If he had accepted responsibility. If Adam and Eve were Chinese, maybe they would have eaten the serpent instead of the apple. Maybe. But I digress.
Oftentimes, we shy away from our responsibilities when things go awry. We indulge in the blame game. The ‘It wasn’t me” attitude. The Minister of the Interior blamed the death of the job seekers during the Immigration Service job test on the unruliness of the dead. He refused to take responsibility. But if the exercise had turned out successful, he would have taken the praises.
This Easter, may we find the courage to do what is right not what is easy, regardless of the tyranny of the crowd, and to accept responsibilities for our actions.
His was a choice between rightness and expediency, between reality and perception. He took some right decisions, one of which is allowing Joseph Arimathea to have the body of Christ for burial. Unfortunately, Pontius Pilate was a coward, lacking the courage to back his convictions with his actions. The result for Pilate was not fame, but infamy: forever to be remembered not for all of the many right decisions he may have made, but for a single wrong one.
We play Pilate when we allow the crowd to shape our actions, to appeal to the crowd at the expense of the rightness of our actions. We play Pilate when we become indifferent to the needs of another. Indifference is a gangrene, a paralysis of the soul. Of course, it can be tempting and seductive. It is so much easier to avoid such rude interruptions to our work, our dreams, our hopes. But indifference reduces a suffering to a mere abstraction. Martin Niemoller, a protestant pastor who survived Hitler’s concentration camps said, “They came for Socialists. But I did not speak out because I am not a Socialist. They came for Trade Unionists. But I did not speak out because I am not a Trade Unionist. They came for Jews. But I did not speak out because I am not a Jew. Then they came for me. And there was no one left to speak for me”.
Again, Pontius Pilate did one other cowardly thing. He failed to accept the responsibility for his own actions. Washing his hands in front of the crowd, he told them, “I am innocent of this man’s blood; I find no fault in him; it is your responsibility if we kill him.” But then, of course, it was not their responsibility; for it could not be. On that fatal day, only one man had the authority to order the crucifixion of Jesus, to say “Let him go” or “String him up.” Only one man could overrule the mob and do that which in his own heart he knew was right, and that was Pontius Pilate. Thus, just as no one else had the power to crucify Jesus, so Pilate could not deny his responsibility afterward. Adam did same mistake, denying responsibility after eating the forbidden fruit. Adam was in charge. Adam was God’s right-hand man, the one to whom He had given dominion, power and authority. Adam was responsible. He could have owned up right there and then. Even if the outcome would have been the same, it would have been the mature thing to do. But he blamed it on the woman. “Then the man said, “the woman whom you gave to be with me, she gave me of the tree and I ate”. (Gen 3:12) Adam blamed the woman and blamed God for giving him the woman. “It wasn’t me. She made me do it”. Sounds like a kid. Maybe we would have still been in the garden of Eden now, still naked If he had accepted responsibility. If Adam and Eve were Chinese, maybe they would have eaten the serpent instead of the apple. Maybe. But I digress.
Oftentimes, we shy away from our responsibilities when things go awry. We indulge in the blame game. The ‘It wasn’t me” attitude. The Minister of the Interior blamed the death of the job seekers during the Immigration Service job test on the unruliness of the dead. He refused to take responsibility. But if the exercise had turned out successful, he would have taken the praises.
This Easter, may we find the courage to do what is right not what is easy, regardless of the tyranny of the crowd, and to accept responsibilities for our actions.
And may those who lost their lives in the senseless orgy of violence in Nyanya Abuja find peace with the crucified Christ.
Happy Easter.
Happy Easter.
***
THIS IS LAGOS
March 27, 2014 | Facebook
Approaching Ojota, a statue of three men greets you. Just beneath their feet is an inscription- THIS IS LAGOS. It is not a welcome message. It is a warning.
Lagos is divided into three unequal parts- Island, Mainland and Land.
Lagos is divided into three unequal parts- Island, Mainland and Land.
This is how you know that you are on the Mainland or Land: the sound of the muezzin at 5AM, from a nearby mosque, the call to repentance by an early morning preacher and the noise from the flight route above the roof.
On the Island of the affluent in Lagos, you rarely hear aircraft buzzing in the sky, except the posh helicopters of the busy rich. The airport and flight noise doesn’t affect the airspace, it devalues the land. The rich doesn't deserve such disturbances to their ear drums. The people on the island go to the mainland only to fly.
The rich in the Island pretend to pray. Infact, they rarely do. And when they do, they worship God with swag, using electronic means to pay their tithe and using bible apps to study the scriptures.
God is on the Mainland; land on the Island is too expensive to build too many worship centres. Counting the number of worship centres in the mainland is an exercise in futility. Same thing goes for reading all the crusade posters. You may see a crusade poster that invites you for "A nite of flogging the devil with koboko".
The Island was not built for beer. It’s the hub of champagne, spirits, and wine. Beer is for the road, an appetiser, bottled on the mainland. You don't to for an Island club asking for a bottle of beer. You may be considered a security threat.
Life on the Island has no friends, everything is cash or waka. The roads are expensively tolled, the schools are paid for in US Dollars, and a smile might cost some naira.
A typical Lagos bus conductor is uneducated, violence-prone, abusive, dirty and unkempt. But what he lacks in finesse, he makes up for it in vulgarity. Characteristically, a Lagos bus conductor has at least a missing tooth. The tooth could have been lost to street fights, some other kind of violence or police brutality. That gives him street credibility.
In Lagos, anyone in a uniform is an officer. It does not matter the colour or make of the uniform. They come with different names like LASTMA, KAI, VIO, Yellow Fever, Police, Army, Prison Warders, Man O’War, National Union, and Private Security. Just name them, they are called officers. The thing they have in common is that they ‘have’ the right to hitch a ride at any time without paying the fare. They can also make an arrest if they see you crossing the road, talking along the streets or even making a phone call.
Sex is cheap in Allen Avenue and costly on the streets of the Victoria Island depending on the time of the night and the demand. (I only read it in newspapers, not talking from experience. Neither do I have the intention of confirming the veracity).
Despite the pockets of poverty that strains the mind's ability to comprehend in some parts of the mainland and land and even in some parts of lower island like Obalende, Lagos continues to attract folks with its dynamic culture, the spirit of its people and the excitement of its raucous streets, parties and commerce.
The real draw is the sense that anything is possible -- a strong, passionate hope and drive to succeed that persists even among many of its most downtrodden citizens.
I have come to love this city that never sleeps despite its beautiful imperfections and contradictions. Whenever the sun goes into hiding and the moon smiles seductively from the sky, Lagos is where I make my bed now. I'm a Lagosian.
May the weather be kind to you. Do have splendid weekend friend.
On the Island of the affluent in Lagos, you rarely hear aircraft buzzing in the sky, except the posh helicopters of the busy rich. The airport and flight noise doesn’t affect the airspace, it devalues the land. The rich doesn't deserve such disturbances to their ear drums. The people on the island go to the mainland only to fly.
The rich in the Island pretend to pray. Infact, they rarely do. And when they do, they worship God with swag, using electronic means to pay their tithe and using bible apps to study the scriptures.
God is on the Mainland; land on the Island is too expensive to build too many worship centres. Counting the number of worship centres in the mainland is an exercise in futility. Same thing goes for reading all the crusade posters. You may see a crusade poster that invites you for "A nite of flogging the devil with koboko".
The Island was not built for beer. It’s the hub of champagne, spirits, and wine. Beer is for the road, an appetiser, bottled on the mainland. You don't to for an Island club asking for a bottle of beer. You may be considered a security threat.
Life on the Island has no friends, everything is cash or waka. The roads are expensively tolled, the schools are paid for in US Dollars, and a smile might cost some naira.
A typical Lagos bus conductor is uneducated, violence-prone, abusive, dirty and unkempt. But what he lacks in finesse, he makes up for it in vulgarity. Characteristically, a Lagos bus conductor has at least a missing tooth. The tooth could have been lost to street fights, some other kind of violence or police brutality. That gives him street credibility.
In Lagos, anyone in a uniform is an officer. It does not matter the colour or make of the uniform. They come with different names like LASTMA, KAI, VIO, Yellow Fever, Police, Army, Prison Warders, Man O’War, National Union, and Private Security. Just name them, they are called officers. The thing they have in common is that they ‘have’ the right to hitch a ride at any time without paying the fare. They can also make an arrest if they see you crossing the road, talking along the streets or even making a phone call.
Sex is cheap in Allen Avenue and costly on the streets of the Victoria Island depending on the time of the night and the demand. (I only read it in newspapers, not talking from experience. Neither do I have the intention of confirming the veracity).
Despite the pockets of poverty that strains the mind's ability to comprehend in some parts of the mainland and land and even in some parts of lower island like Obalende, Lagos continues to attract folks with its dynamic culture, the spirit of its people and the excitement of its raucous streets, parties and commerce.
The real draw is the sense that anything is possible -- a strong, passionate hope and drive to succeed that persists even among many of its most downtrodden citizens.
I have come to love this city that never sleeps despite its beautiful imperfections and contradictions. Whenever the sun goes into hiding and the moon smiles seductively from the sky, Lagos is where I make my bed now. I'm a Lagosian.
May the weather be kind to you. Do have splendid weekend friend.
***
LETS TALK ABOUT US
March 11, 2014 | Facebook
The problem with stereotypes, said Chimamanda Adichie, is not that they are untrue but that they are incomplete. And when a people are classified together, the master story teller of blessed memory Chinua Achebe added , it makes it seem like they are incapable of individual assessment.
You see, I am Igbo, not just because I enjoy Onugbu soup and okporoko. I am Igbo because I am Chigozie. And I am Chigozie before I became Michael.
For long, the Igbos have been classified with some irritating characteristics and generalized assertions. The real danger isn’t that they are untrue. The danger lies in the fact that even the Igbos themselves are beginning to accept it as a definition of who they are, as a construction of their persona as a people. And when people begin to believe it, they begin to act it. The worst subjugation of a people is a conquest of their minds. Ask Adolf Hitler.
Let’s attempt an xray of some of those generalized assertions.
1. Igbos are selfish and individualistic: Before the coming of the white man, Igbo society practices a republican system of government. Our worldview is that even if you are the best, you are not granted kingship or leadership. The cosmogony insist on your being at best, only one of the lords of the clan. The clan must be ruled by all adult free men. In Igbo worldview, there must be many Ogbuefi and it must be open ended. So when Achebe writes, “Okonkwo, who had risen so suddenly from great poverty and misfortune to be one of the lords of the clan”, he is being the recorder and the preserver of our collective subconscious, of our unique metaphysics. The community must be ruled by an open-ended committee of free-standing lords, and not a lord, or a closed conclave of them. That was democracy long before Abraham Lincoln gave a definition of it.
Perhaps, this Independence of spirit is what people mistake for individualism. The assertion that the Igbos are selfish stands truth on its head. After the war, in a bid to catch up with the rest of the country economically, we invented the apprenticeship business model. People took their relatives with them to the cities to serve them for a tenure. At the expiration of the tenure, those apprentices were settled to start their own businesses. They themselves go for another set of people who will serve them. It was a business model that has produced several Igbo millionaires and even billionaires today. That was how we lifted millions out of poverty. Does that in us seem selfish and individualistic? Hahunhunhunha. I laugh in Chinese. Sure, there were abuses of that model by some persons. But you cannot throw away the baby with the bath water.
In my own community, we took community development to another level in the face of government neglect. We built roads, equipped our schools, provided electricity and water amidst other things long before govt came to our aid. Before the introduction of rice as a staple food, we were not eating goat dung.
No doubt, there has been instances of selfishness portrayed by some Igbos in several occasions but as Lawyers say, each case must be treated on its merits.Fallacy of generalization is what it is - A FALLACY.
Subsequently, I will xray the followings assertions - Igbos have an inordinate love for money, Igbos are incapable of speaking with one voice, the how where there are instances of such and the why.
***
THE DECONSTRUCTION OF SANUSI
March 02, 2014 | Facebook
Mallam Sanusi Lamido Sanusi took the Federal Govt to court, asking among other things, a reinstatement to his former position and a declaration that his purported suspension is illegal, null and void. Prince Ikechukwu Nwafuru,
Mazi Mike Amakeze and Nonso Kainene represented the Federal Govt. Sanusi entered the witness box to testify.
The following took place between the hours of 9am and 12noon. Events occur in real time.
Defendant's Counsel: Mallam, in your witness statement on oath, you claimed that the reason the President suspended you from office is because you opened a can of worms on the operations of the NNPC and how the corporation rips off the
Nation.
Sanusi: That's right.
Defendant's Counsel: And that the President lacks powers to remove you unilaterally without the approval of the two third majority of the Senate.
Sanusi: Section 11 of the CBN Act is clear in that regard. It is unequivocal.
Defendant's Counsel: Are you aware of the copious infractions of law levelled against you as the reason for your suspension?
Sanusi: Those allegations hold no water. There are meant to divert people's attention to the issues at hand which is the missing $20bn NNPC failed to remit into the federation account.
Defendant's Counsel: I will come back to the missing money. Let's look at those allegations against you critically. The provisions of Section 15(1)(a) of the Public Procurement Act are expected to apply to all procurement of goods, works and services carried out by the Federal Govt and all procurement entities. The information available indicates that the CBN has over the years engaged in procurement of goods n works and services worth billions of naira each year without complying with the express provisions of the Act. The unacceptable high level of financial recklessness displayed by the leadership of CBN is typified by the execution of intervention projects across the Country.
Sanusi: Such interventions are for educational purposes. It is part of our corporate social responsibility.
Defendant's counsel: By the way, why is 90percent of the projects located in the North?
Plaintiff's Counsel: Objection my Lord
Judge: Witness, disregard the question.
Defendant's Counsel: It is inexcusable and patently unlawful for any agency of govt to deploy huge sums of money as the CBN has done in this case, without appropriation and outside the CBN's statutory mandate.
Defendant's Counsel: Mallam, Section(34)(b) of the CBN Act 2007 provides that the CBN shall not purchase the shares of any corporation or company unless an entity set up by the Federal govt. In 2010, the CBN acquired 7percent shares of International Islamic Liquidity Management Corporation of Malaysia to the tune of #0.743bn.
Sanusi: The President gave his approval for that.
Defendant's Counsel: Was the International Islamic Liquidity Management Corporation of Malaysia set up with the approval of the Federal Govt?
Sanusi: What I can tell you is that the President authorised the transaction.
Defendant's Counsel: Mallam, the CBN account under you read like a pure fiction. You didn't just spend few thousands whimsically. You claimed that you spent #3.086bn on promotional activities in 2012 from #1. 084bn in 2011. Who are you competing with to warrant such humongous expenditure?
Sanusi: The CBN embarked on some policies like the cashless policy and there was need to carry out awareness campaigns.
Defendant's Counsel: There is a difference between promotional activities and awareness campaigns. Promotional activities presupposes that you are in competition with other banks.
Defendant's Counsel: You claimed that you paid 20bn as professional and legal fees to some law firms?
Sanusi: Some banks were taken over by the CBN and there was need to employ the services of legal practitioners to effect some changes in the system
Defendant's Counsel: CBN took over some banks in 2010 not in 2011. And shortly after that, AMCON came into being to inherit the liabilities of the affected banks.
Defendant's Counsel: You wrote off NGN40bn loans of Banks for some of your friends. One of such benefiaries happens to be Senator Bukola Saraki.
Sanusi: It is not a personal decision. The CBN board approved it.
Defendant's Counsel: How can the board refuse such application when you are both the CBN Governor and the Board Chairman.
Defendant's Counsel: Mallam, you spent NGN1bn to construct a car park in your private residence. What sort of cars are parked there? Are they imported from the moon? Or manufactured by some Aliens in Mars?
Plaintiff's Counsel: Objection my Lord
Judge: Objection overruled. Witness, answer the question.
Sanusi: That allegation is baseless. It is a tissue of lies.
Defendant's Counsel: And you paid Emirates Airlines for charter services in Nigeria when the Airline does not run such services here
Sanusi: There is a difference between Emirates Airlines and Emirates Touch Airlines.
Defendant's Counsel: How about the #1bn paid Associated Airlines when the Airline was almost dormant for the year in question?
Sanusi: Records show that they were in operation. It is a lie. The real truth which we should be talking about is the missing $20bn. That the money is missing is a truth.
Defendant's Counsel: Mallam, this is not a court of truth. It is a court of law. Truth is relative. Law is constant. You will agree with me that you have a proud, highfalutin carriage, strutting about in flowing garments with a heavy turban, like an Emir. We hear that you want to be an Emir, even when the incumbent Emir of Kano, Alhaji Ado Bayero is still alive, hale and hearty.
Plaintiff's Counsel: Objection my Lord. My learned friend is going beyond his scope.
Judge: Objection sustained. Counsel, mind your language.
Defendant's Counsel: Thank you my Lord. Mallam, in saner climes, once you discover that you harbour fundamental disagreement and irreconciliable difference with the government you serve, you resign. You don't transform into an opposition politician spokesman while still in office.
Sanusi: Nobody can remove me except two third of the Senate concurs.
Defendant's Counsel: Section 11(2)(c) of the CBN Act says you can be removed for serious misconduct. He who hires can fire. The CBN Act did not specifically talk about suspension. It did not prohibit it either. Dismissal, which must be endorsed by the Senate has to be first preceded by suspension which does not require Senate approval. The law is that what is not prohibited or forbidden is allowed.
Sanusi: That is left for the Court to decide. That is why I am here, to deepen our jurisprudence.
Defendant's Counsel: With the way you were always looking for the nearest microphone, running riot with your mouth, your soapbox speeches and theatrics, your rampant strident condemnation of a govt you form part of and your overt contempt and disdain for your appointor, the President, are you saying that not to have suspended you by the President is tantamount to creating a sacred cow, a frankenstein monster out of a non conforming govt employee with an overbloated ego who fights his own govt with eclat and joy?
Plaintiff's Counsel: Objection my Lord. That is a leading question.
Judge: sustained. Witness, ignore the question.
Defendant's counsel: Mallam, let's talk about the $20bn. As the CBN Gov, your words has implications for financial market volatility. Your kind of office comes with some conservatism. You must rarely speak, and when you do, it must be with confidence and precision. Ask Alan Greenspan, Ben Benarke and the current President of the US Federal Reserve Bank Janet L Yellen, our own equivalent of CBN. You first told us that $49bn is missing. Then you came down to $12bn, then to $10bn and back to $20bn. You have been in this job for 4yrs. What sort of voodoo statistics are you dishing out? I put it to you that you are not fit to manage a Microfinance Bank.
Plaintiff's counsel: Objection my Lord. That is a vexatious question.
Judge: Objection overruled. Witness, answer the question. It is material.
Sanusi: You cannot question my capability. I was an Executive Director in UBA, and then First Bank before coming to CBN. I have won several awards due to my stellar performances and my courage in cleaning the augean stable left behind by my predeccessor.
Plaintiff's Counsel: You were suspended while you were in Niger Republic. Instead of coming back to Abuja where you took off from, you flew into Lagos, the stronghold of the opposition. In your usual characteristic of hobnobbing with the opposition, a key opposition figure, El Rufai came to the airport and welcomed you. Do you think that Fashola will stay in Office for an extra day if he engages in a shouting match with Tinubu, his benefactor and godfather?
Plaintiff's Counsel: Objection my Lord. That is wide off the mark. My learned friend here is going too far. The question is immaterial to the facts before your Lordship.
Judge: Witness, ignore the question. Counsel, continue.
Defendant's Counsel: Nothing further my Lord.
Judge: Witness, you may step aside. This Court will adjourn for 10mins.
***
MY POT OF BEANS
February 14, 2014 | Facebook
One thing I have learnt when I was a student was never to underestimate the power of those little brown fried groundnuts gracefully floating on the surface of water. When you combine it with sugar, it is a 3-course meal. Garri + sugar+ groundnut- complete recipe. Balanced diet. Milk is a luxury you can't always afford. It has saved many lives and should be added to the contents of a first aid box.
That said, let me continue. The worst thing that can happen to you when you are very hungry is to have your stomach hit by "foreign bodies". I was done with my predegree exams and was squatting in a friend's hostel, awaiting the result and my admission. I was running very low on my finances, having depleted my "excess crude account". On this particular day, I was rushing home to eat. A fat greasy man sitting in front of me in a bus had just farted. No one needed to tell me. I just knew it. After wolfing down two gala sausages, two boiled guinea fowl eggs and a bottle of kunu, what are the odds that he wouldn't gas up the whole place.
I looked around at the other fellow passengers. To my dismay, they all maintained straight faces, pretending they had perceived nothung. I was too terrified to breath and enraged by the fat dude's audacity. It worsened the bites of hunger.
Getting home, I realized that my stock of garri and groundnut was finished. I only had few grains of beans remaining. So I rushed to the kitchen to do the preparation. I guessed I added all the condiments immediately. Some minutes later, I went back to check whether it is done. I lifted the lid of the pot. I quick check revealed that it is almost done. I can't wait to pounce on the food. I used to be very generous. I even had a sticker on my door that reads "Givers never lack". But I was prepared to discard the sticker. I wasn't ready to share that meal with anybody. It was my last pending the time the next "allocation" from home will come.
So I took time to survey the whole hostel. Everywhere was quiet. Satisfied that nobody was around, I rushed to my room to get a napkin which will enable me "transport" the pot to my cupboard because it was very hot. While I was rushing, I kept throwing furtive glances to ensure no one else goes to that kitchen.
Armed with a napkin, I went back to the kitchen. Holy Moses! Three guys surrounded my hot pot of beans and were wolfing it down as though their tongues were unsusceptible to the heat. One of them was Chidi, a heavily built guy, with ripped albs. His voice alone sends shivers down my spine. A sudden surge of adrenalin seared through me like a hot knife through butter.
"How can you...?" I muttered, taking threatening steps forward. Chidi looked at me with my hot beans in his mouth and heaved his chest like a wrestler in WWE. That was enough warning. I opened my mouth. The words refused to come out.
With an unfazed look, one of them handed me a spoon and asked, "You wan chop?" That was my own food for God's sake. O jerusalem, my happy home!.
I looked from the spoon extended to me to the beans that was rapidly diminishing. Then, with a sigh, I collected the spoon and joined them.
To you my dear friend, thanks for being part of my life, for being a gift that keeps giving, for your continous inspiration. For those I may have wronged, knowingly or unknowlingly, I sincerely apologize. I was raised in a generation where broken things are fixed not replaced. May that day never come, when we will all cease to be friends.
For those I have helped, I wish I did more.
For those who helped me, thank you so much. If i have thanked you before, it is because I have been grateful in the past.
Someday, we shall call the sky our home.
Happy valentine.
I LOVE YOU
***
ONE BRIGHT MONDAY MORNING
January 24, 2014 | Facebook
Any time I board a bus for a journey, the last thing on my mind is being regaled by Pastors with stories of how God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten son or being forced by medicine men to buy concoctions that cure several ailments ranging from improvement of sexual prowess to curing HIV. It irritates me to no end.
It was a bright monday morning. I needed to find my way to the Federal High Court,Ikoyi. I was waiting for the bus to get filled up when a fat woman appeared from a distance. She was approaching the bus with meassured steps. Looking at her from afar, I knew I cannot "hus this band". She is endowed with so much booty that the creator originally designed for three individual women. Needless to say that she occupied half of a seat meant for four persons.
Immediately the bus took off,"Praiseeeeeee the Lord" rented the air. It was a Pastor with a Bible so big it can pass for an encyclopaedia. He held the Bible close to his mouth to serve as a wedge for his saliva.
When he was done with his trade, a medicine man took over. With his claims, the only thing impossible for his medicine to achieve is to turn a man into a woman. The Lagos traffic didn't help matters.
I thought we are done with the noise after the medicine man delivered his epilogue. I was wrong. The driver raised the volume of his music playing in the bus. The high decibel sound emanating from the speakers was uncomfortable for my ears. It seemed like we were in a mobile studio. The speakers kept on reeling songs from "Looking for Caro" by Wizkid to "Chop my money" by PSquare. I wasn't looking for Caro. Certainly not on a monday morning. Neither am I forcing her to "chop" my money.
When we got to a certain junction,I peered out through the window and was greeted by the sight of a gangly ruffian (agbero), with platted hair. He had only burberry shorts with the glistening sweat highlighting his torso. He wanted to collect his "tax" but the driver will have none of it. He grabbed the wiper of the vehicle and proceeded to twist and bend it in bid to break it. He succeeded in mangling the poor rod. He then moved over to the side of the vehicle, grabbed the side mirror in his massive paws and proceeded to mete out the same punishment to the object.
While this was going on, I saw an arm snake through the window and reach the ruffian. It was the fat woman. She grabbed his braids in a surprisingly strong grip and jerked it forcefully backwards while at the same time hurling colourful insults at him. Women have always been good at multitasking:physical and verbal insults simultaneously executed. The conductor of the vehicle seized the moment to deal with the ruffian. Me thinks it was in complete disregard to the WWE's warning that says"Please don't try this at home"
When the journey eventually continued, rivulets of sweat all over my face, it was a cacophony of voices discussing the incident. Everybody wanted to be heard. One will need a pair of healthy lungs to join the discussion.
In saner climes, people read in public buses, in the bus station, in the departure lounge waiting to board a flight. Such moments are meant for communicating with the inner man, for reading and expanding the human horizon, enriching the mind and feeding the soul, for silence. It is only when you are silent that you can be here and be there at the same time.
As I alighted from the bus, I made a firm resolution to pay a visit to Coscharis Motors showroom. Any one with the address?
***
TO THE "FRIEND" THAT I MISS
January 10, 2014 | Facebook
I had a happy childhood,free from care. I have had some bumpy ride along the way while growing up.I have made mistakes. I have learnt.I have grown stronger. I lay no claim to infallibility. Like the man in the arena, I have known success. I have known failure. I have moved on. I have met interesting people and made wonderful memories.
I met people in my primary school days, same in secondary school. But in the University, I thought I had my room alone to myself. I was wrong. I had a roommate who never paid rent. It was Tom,the rat. Tom is a version of the devil made rat. I used to believe that the devil is in hell. I was mistaken. The devil is Tom.
I first noticed the presence of my roommate on a day when a white shirt I took time to iron for my lectures was stained. I woke up in the morning to see a map of the mediterreanian sea on the shirt . Or was it a map of Nigeria. I think Tom is patriotic. It was the Nigerian map.
I remember there was a time a friend, Sixtus Onu,visited me from another school. Sixtus is fair and huge, with an aquiline nose. And so we went on a binge drinking with another friend of mine, Henry Onyeorisa. That was before Henry found Christ. Or before Christ found him. Either way.
In the morning,I realized that Tom, the rat has left a big hole on my new jean trousers while sparing that of Sixtus. I concluded that Tom is a racist. How else could I explain that?. Sixtus is fair. I am dark. Forget about my profile picture. I took that with facebook in mind. But I digress.
After that incident, I made up my mind to deal decisively with Tom. I bought a large chunk of meat and a rat poison. That night,I couldn't bring myself to colour the whole meat with the rat poison. How can I be so generous to a rat? I ate a greater part of the meat and used a little chunk as a trap for Tom. I didn't know that Tom was watching me and in fact,got angry with me for eating the meat. It was then that I realized that Tom had some education. When I went to bed,Tom ignored the little chunk I left for him and went for my class assignment instead. It was a beautiful assignment I wrote with my old fountain pen,so familiar that it nestles like a warm sixth finger in my hands,its chip slightly shaky with overuse. Tom left a gaping hole where my name and matriculation number used to be and another hole at the centre of the assignment.
I eventually moved into another house, leaving Tom behind. By now, he should be probably retired,earning some pension for his active service and maybe playing the game of squash or its equivalent in the animal world.
I miss Tom. But I certainly don't want him back
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