Irrepressible spirit for the downcast...

Subscriber Identity Module (SIM)

He pocketed his hands as he made his way home. It was only 2pm. He did not look forward to the rest of the day. Nor the days to come. He did not even mind what lay ahead of his path. He just walked. He had placed not just his eggs, but an entire poultry in the basket of opportunity that today’s interview promised. Who could have thought they would ask an Agriculture graduate to provide the full meaning of SIM? Even if he had used the acronym every day since he got his first phone, it was not for him to know those three simple alphabets stood for some other words! They even went as far as asking what CDMA and UMTS meant. Why? WHY? The advert only said you needed to have any degree from a reputable university. They must have included these questions as a means to apply the condition that required each candidate to “…be willing to learn.” If he had known, if the information provided by the agency gave specific details, he rationalised, he would have done his homework. And maybe, a quick Google search before facing the interviewers. In his pockets, he clenched his fists. If he had been a cartoon character, smoke could have billowed from his ears. He was that livid.

He calmed down fast. That was something he had come to learn about himself recently. He was not always like this. Before the liquidation of his last employer’s media group, he fancied himself a pompous fellow. A bias for “due process” won him few friends. Not that he minded. If whatever had to be done was not done as and at when due, he made sure those responsible did it from scratch. No matter who was involved, he was a stickler! He saw the sneers that were directed at his back from colleagues who felt he took his tasks too far. They only made him more determined. If for nothing else, to get back at them, indirectly. He also refrained from using the terms “If I had known.” That, for him, was for losers. A category he did not qualify for. In addition, his reaction when angry left much to be desired. He could literally bring the roof down in ire such that his friends feared for his spleen. He was going to vent it sooner. He knew. And efforts on his part to bring it under control petered out without results. Not even the query and a week-long suspension without pay for raising his voice on the DGM helped to put a chill on his anger mis-management.

Then the media group’s income took a hit. The agricultural subsidiary where he earned a living fed off the profits of this group. They stood no chance. Their earnings had been cannibalised by the internet and free sources of news that had become prevalent. Only a very few still paid for news. What came from that could no longer sustain the group. They were vomited into the saturated labour market. That was three years ago. His pride had stayed with him at first. He picked and chose vacancies to attempt applying for employment. He went for interviews with an air of importance and “took no nonsense” in course of the interviews. In a few, his anger came to the fore, especially if he sensed the interviewer was picking on him in any manner. When no calls came with offers of employment, he shrugged. Their loss. He had stored up some cash. That was how to do things. He fell back on that. A job, the right job for him, was waiting for him. When the second jobless year began and the store was becoming hollow, he found himself alone. His pride had left him. Worse (or better), even his anger was no longer there for him. Whether he left it, or it left him, one thing only was clear. He was alone. No pride. No anger. No job. He could not remember where he read it at first, but he agreed: Misfortune humbles a man.

He looked up. A few paces in front of him was a newspaper vendor’s table. Four people stood over the table quite oblivious of anything happening around them. They were lost in the stories they were reading or the pictures that caught their attention from mainly the front page headlines and brief news articles of the main stories. He got there and joined in. A particular news item was ubiquitous. Madiba’s 95th. As the iconic leader stood his last ground against the tyranny of death, the rest of the world celebrated the anniversary of his birth. Only that the celebrant was engaged in a battle. And like every other front where he had fought, he stood resolute. Or maybe he laid. It made no difference. This man was a fighter. The type idolised by the underdog. He felt his spirits begin to lift. These types of thoughts were good for him. Yet, quite unlike the thoughts that were evoked by the life and times of this model of leadership, his mind turned to aspects of Mandela’s history similar to his.

At the Robben Island jail

It was not the same man sent to Robben Island that came back after 27 years behind bars. No. It could not be. That man died. The one who returned had become a symbol of humility. An icon of love. Hatred had been seared away from his heart by the intensity of the misfortune of having to spend all those years locked away. Maybe he must have been an angry demonstrator. His anger would have boiled over. He may have told himself that he would show this government a slice of his anger when he leaves this place. He may have laid out plans to deal with that regime’s excesses. How dare them imprison him? Then, five years would have come and gone. The next five years would see him calm some. He will realise that with the news filtering in from outside, he may be in for the long haul. He will come to terms with his circumstances. Some inner peace will begin to be cultivated. In the next five years, he will be the one calming down other inmates who come in with so much fiery passion and anger. Having attained some degree of inner peace, he will assume the unofficial in-house counsellor for freshly  minted enraged inmates, especially those who may be in it for a long long time. That was just 15 years.

Occupying his thoughts for the next decade will be about leaving a legacy. What will I be remembered for when I go? He must have seen deaths in his time there. Some younger than himself. Maybe a few older. He must have come to accept that that grim reaper could sneak in on him too. His life’s goal at this point will be bequeathing something tangible to the next generation. Those thoughts in the initial prison years will be a distant fading memory, or less. Vengeance for these lost years will not even occur to him. Those sentiments will not belong in his consciousness anymore. Thoughts about moving the nation forward, bringing up better leaders, peace with one another, forgiveness and love must have suffused his entire being. These must have engaged his meetings with the government of the day in the three extra years leading to his release from prison. The misfortune he suffered at the hands of the government had humbled him. A new man was emerging from prison. His resolute stance on the freedom of his people may not have wavered. But it was a new man that came forth. His attempts at infusing the peace and love he felt within, in his people led to the creation of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. Its mission was clear: to heal the wounds of yesterday and see to some justice.

Nelson Madiba Mandela

A car’s horn sounded. He blinked and opened his eyes widely, just in time to see a child shrink back from the road as a Mercedes Benz swerved the corner, the driver cursing from the depth of his lungs. He looked from the disappearing car to the child. The child, of about 10 years, stood paralysed with fear. Her mum’s knock on her head swapped one emotion for another. Fear morphed into pain and her wailing only earned her another knock and a sermon of how many sermons she had heard about not playing too close to the roadside alone. Had her misfortune not humbled her? He let his thoughts return to Madiba. Yes, this man had gone through the crucible. He came out refined. When compared with the mere three years of his own unemployment, he found his situation a mere shadow. Maybe it was not all that bad after all. Maybe there was still something in it for him going forward. Something better than the recruitment agency that sent an Agric student to a Telcom interview. He was not the fighter Mandela remains, but with the example of Madiba still evergreen, he will brush the dust off his shoulder, keep his head up and forge ahead. His future lay ahead. He was going to march into it, not with slumped shoulders but with the confidence of a conqueror. For the first time since 2pm, he allowed himself smile. Happy birthday Madiba.

Al-Bashir? How Bizarre...

It got late too early these days, he thought as he unfastened the buttons of his shirt. It used to still be bright when he got back from work. Darkness often allowed him undress and begin the ritual of making supper before descending on the area. Could be the worsening traffic situation, he reasoned to himself. But it was not that bad today, was it? He killed the thought when the grumble in his stomach reminded him that the last time he fed it was before leaving the house for work in the morning. Most of what remained from that meal of beans and corn must have passed out to the nether regions when he used the conveniences in the office. He did not indulge in the gala and lacasera stomach-padding due largely to personal health concerns and the hole they pick in his finances. In his boxers and singlet, he stepped out of his living quarters. He would buy bread. At least there was some beans left. They go well together. He was already salivating.

Agege Bread

The convenience store where he bought groceries ran adjacent to the gate of the compound in which he resided. He considered it heaven-sent not having to cover many miles to get basic needs. The voice of a female newscaster could be heard from a radio in the store as he approached the gate. He could make out a story about some furore caused by the country's reception of the ICC-wanted leader of Sudan, Omar Al-Bashir for some crimes in the Darfur crises. He shrugged. Distant worries. He had not the time for those. His immediate concern was apprehension. Where there used to be some partially baked bromate-filled dough, also known as bread, there was, at present, only space. Void. His saliva dried up. His stomach rumbled this time. But why? There was always bread at this time. In fact, he had bought bread as late as 11pm in the past. He needed to have bread. There must be bread, he forced himself to believe. The storekeeper shook her head to answer the obvious question that was not yet asked. Yet he asked. No. The answer did not change. He felt like shouting at the newscaster to shut up. What was his business about Al-Bashir when he could not get his daily bread? But that would task his reserves. And would be of no consequence.

He learnt the storekeeper did not get her daily supply because the bakery had been cut off the electrical grid. That was typical of the area. But it did not stop anything. It did not mean businesses stopped functioning? Then came the extra news. Their generating set had be vandalised with functional parts missing. That was also typical. Double jeopardy. It meant there was not going to be bread for half a mile radius. The bakery supplied the shops around. The thought of eating only beans did not appeal to his appetite. He closed his eyes, sucked in air and exhaled to calm himself. The gears in his head spun as he tried to conjure up a menu of what possible alternatives there were. He came up with nothing. Then, the sudden general silence prompted him to open his eyes. Yes, that does it, he nodded. The holders of power had cut off electrical supply to the area. It perfectly mirrored his mood which darkened as the night wore on. Still standing in front of his gate, he realised it was not totally quiet. The newscaster was recapping news items over the radio. He could make out the words she was saying. It must have been on battery all the time.

Al-Bashir, in a photo captured in 2009

This time he allowed himself to concentrate. The ICC wanted Omar Al-Bashir to answer for crimes committed under his watch in the Sudan crises. The AU indicated its unwillingness to surrender him to the ICC. He remembered seeing Wole Soyinka's condemnation of the Darfur crises way back in a newspaper report. Al-Bashir's crimes must have been heinous. By now, the same newscaster was entertaining calls from listeners to discuss the very same issue. As he listened, he reasoned out the case. His leveraged on his knowledge of current affairs and what little background he had in politics. Ordinarily, the views of the majority of the callers could have been plausible. That our country was a sovereign nation. That she had to respect her position as continental leader and provide examples of sisterhood to other African nations. That you could not hand in a serving leader of another sovereign nation. That the ICC has shown itself partial to African leaders. That it was simply neo-colonialism masquerading as pro-democratic pursuits. After all, America will not allow any of its citizens to face trial under the ICC.

He did not think much of their opinions. Much of them were entirely sentimental. The rest, quite uninformed. The issue of sovereignty of nations could not be entirely realistic. The international system presented that as a front, assuaging the bloated egos of some third world countries. There were enough examples of recent history (invasions of some sovereign countries, covert and overt) to prove that sovereignty had been sacrificed on the altar of National Interests long ago. Countries today are deemed sovereign as it pleased the interests that are involved. The position of continental leader was disputable. Apart from population advantage, there was not much to be pompous about the country. Years of gutter politiking and rudderless groping about in the international arena had wiped out any respect the country had previously. The dearth of leadership had even conspired to turn the advantage of population to a minus. A bloated viral plague. The effects were only being seen with peripheral vision. Internally, it stayed infecting everything positive.

United Nations Security Council

He shook his head. He thought whoever advised the president to welcome Al-Bashir was an Enemy of State. You do not strut your stuff to the vexation of the UN-backed ICC while you vie for a permanent seat on the UN Security Council. Especially when you know you are not the most favourite candidate for that position. When you know that there are some waiting for you to slip, to capitalise on your capitulation. When you know you depend on the goodwill of others. In the international system of today, national interests are the priority in the pecking order. In the scale of preference. What serves the nation’s goals? What furthers her interests? Those come into consideration first. Exactly what South Africa (this nation’s stiffest competitor for the seat on the UNSC) must have reckoned with when they denied the same Sudanese leader entry into the Rainbow nation. How do this country’s leaders think? Do they even think? What advantage did having him here bring the country? What did it add to the meeting of African leaders?

And what? Someone said neo-colonialism? He allowed himself smile. Indeed. Of course, it was either that or something close. But who was to blame? The president was all too happy to sell out to the Chinese recently, as some alluded, to snub Obama in return for snubbing his government’s efforts at bringing the country out of the doldrums. But who was he deceiving? Recent Snowden-inspired leaks prove that they know more of governments around the world than these governments know of themselves. They must know how widespread corruption is here. Heck, they might agree that they could be infected by just accepting a handshake from this country’s leaders. That is the recipe for colonialism. It worked extremely well in the past. Why not now? Everything is for sale to the corrupt leader. Even their entire country. So, yes. Neo-colonialism is real. Whether is it couched in pro-democratic ideals or preached by economic incentives. It exists in real life. It dances with wolves in international politics. It is fed by the avarice of debauched leadership. This is not entirely replicated in North America. Their politicking wears a human face and has a human feeling to it over there. That is perhaps why their citizens are not sacrificed to appease any political divinities. After all, they consider themselves demi-gods. Furthermore, it is ultimately not in their interests since they are always on the lookout for subsequent election victories and would do everything possible to win over their people’s confidence and votes when that time comes.

Besides, for a country to wield such clout as some of those callers were apportioning to this country, its place in the international arena should be rock steady. It should not be requesting for a seat in the UNSC. Its position should be indubitable. A given. Not even a happenstance. It should have a voice that is not only strong but is sought for. It must be a nuclear power. A world power. And unless there is something akin to that, they can only waste their little credit calling in on radio programmes to express views not backed by the facts on the ground. Then, it hit him.

Where art thou, NEPA?

He also wanted to buy some MTN credit. But, the radio had been silenced. He turned around. While he was busy engaging in all these thoughts, the storeowner had closed shop. The power outage must have caused that. He looked down the street. Light from varied other sources shone out from a few windows. He knew that the closest vendor was some distance away. He was still thinking of that when the sudden lurch in his stomach confirmed his resemblance to his country. He had left what should have been the highest in his scale of preference to worsen while engaging in less important matters. He still did not have what to eat. There was still no power supply. With his neighbour’s son exiting the gate with an empty bucket, he knew they had also run out of water supply. A mosquito buzzed about his ear, reminding him that his Mortein had run out last night. And he had replaced it yet. He was entering a battle with mosquitoes tonight. It had been a hot day too with no rain. His room conserves heat during the day and distributes freely at night. It was going to be a terrible night. And he still did not know what to eat. His health senses triggered off to warn him not to attempt beans so late.

If he had known. He would have let the ICC, the UN, the AU and those radio people deal with their issues themselves and catered for himself oo. Which one concern agbero with Al-Bashir? Mstchewww!

See you in HELL, C-in-C

In the short time from when she laid on her bed and when sleep came calling, she always allowed her mind to wander. This night, it was a similar night years back, which left an indelible impression on her young mind, that flooded her consciousness. That year, she was on holidays with her father's brother and his family after her last exams in primary 3. A little before bedtime, her favourite uncle joined her in her room clutching a colourful storybook. He read her a story. It was of a woman who came to the country many years ago. Due to the woman's efforts, the inhumane practice of killing twins because of some superstitiously promoted beliefs ended. He concluded by saying that had it not been for this woman, the girl's father and himself may have been killed at birth. Bright and starry-eyed, the little girl consumed every word he spoke. Her vivid imagination was entranced in a way only children can be by tales under the moonlight. As she retired to bed this night, it took an unusually long time for sleep to set in. The words of her uncle that night yet coursed through her dreams: YOU TOO CAN BECOME A WOMAN OF WHOM TALES WILL BE TOLD.

WORDS CAN INSPIRE. The aspirations of this young girl proved it. Though she lost her parents before writing her Junior Secondary School exams, she remained undeterred in making a name for herself. She was promptly adopted by her uncle who made sure she remained happy. Having been encouraged to stand out and reach for the stars and beyond, she disallowed the negative social environment from hedging in her potentials. However, it was not long before her uncle's economic situation dwindled, and she began to face obstacles. She met with financial drawbacks as his large family made demands on depleting resources. She experienced pangs of despair. With eyes fixed on her goal of excellence, however, she braved the odds; scrimping and scratching her way to her penultimate year of secondary education. Fortune then smiled on her.

A policy to promote education in her state began just as desperation was setting in on how she was going to afford the fees that lie ahead of rounding up her secondary school education, especially the final exams. Talk less of going to the University. She was co-opted into the programme and her appreciably good grades stood in her favour. She completed her studies in the sciences from secondary school and was determined more than ever to pick up a medical profession. Try as she did to question her attraction to medicine and to ensure that it was unrelated to that story under the moonlight, she could not shake it off nor could she imagine herself in any other profession. Finally, she put it down to her desire to work with children. But, an education in the medical profession came at a premium. A huge premium.

As one whom the odds favoured, she emerged the best female student in the university's pre-registration tests and was granted scholarship for her medical programme. This scholarship was under the auspices of a foundation founded by a noteworthy female scientist from her area to encourage one young and aspiring girl child every year for the entirety of any university degree programme. She put her nose to the grind and dedicated herself to study. It did not take long for her professors to identify her sterling profundity. The ease with which she excelled in her medical programme masked the sleepless nights she devoted to her studies. Her achievements were dwarfed by her humility. Those who met her admired the humanness of her personality and were even more endearing on learning of her academic excellence.

The thesis she submitted at the twilight of her programme bore testament to her motivating force. She argued, based on research, that exposure to certain electromagnetic radiation around hospitals, especially maternity wards and harmful ultra-violet rays from the sun (due to climate change and global warming) were partly responsible for the prevailing anomaly of cancerous growths in infants and children. She was so passionate about this discovery that she wrote to the national medical association and the national legislature to make it anathema for hospital maternity wards to possess any scanners or equipment that give off harmful levels of
radiation. She attached her research to answer the WHY question. The publicity of her work resonated beyond the country's shores. Fame followed.

In the years after the publication of her research, she had to dig deep to find the reserves of energy to keep with the demands on her time. When she was not attending conferences around the world to discuss her findings and further the conversation on child cancers, she was needed in the wards for her expertise with children. This was conjoined with juggling meetings with pharmaceutical establishments requiring her input in planned child medications, regular hospital meetings with the think-tank from government parastatals, saying nothing of some personal time for herself. One thing brought her consolation. She had come to terms with the voice of her late uncle: YOU TOO CAN BECOME A WOMAN OF WHOM TALES WILL BE TOLD. She had allowed it to inspire her and she was living her dreams. Especially as she read the letter of invitation from the United Nations Committee on Child Welfare on the conferment of an award on her for her work with children suffering with cancers. She closed her eyes. A sigh of contentment escaped her being.

Then, everything blanked out! In a swoosh of reality, she was yanked back to consciousness by the coarse voice of her bunk mate, her closest friend in the hostel. She was being drawn back, much as she tried to rivet her attention to what she felt was the present, the drag was unremitting. She shut her eyes tight. Yet, the bright slivers of sunlight from the windows slithered in, flush over her eyelids as her friend pulled back the drapes. Inevitably, she opened her eyes. Reality. It was the same room. Only back in time. The time after she fell asleep with her uncle's voice flashing through her subconscious. She blinked, willing the substance to fade back to her medical career. But even those shadows had begun to vanish into fantastical oblivion. Her friend wondering why she was taking forever to get up, hurried away to get ready for school.

She bit her lip. Resolute to make that dream real, she picked herself up and in self conscious steps, walked into the hostel corridor. In front of the mirror, she spoke into her future staring straight into her own eyes. I will be a doctor and save countless children. Steeled of will and resolve, she got to school and mentally became more challenged than ever to progress along the path she intended for herself. In bright flashes throughout that day, highlights of her dream played back in her mind and she caught herself smiling, melodramatically. It stayed with her all day. Even sleep failed to come at night. She tossed and turned and when that did not help, she sat up on her bed. Subconsciously, she willed the fantasy to continue. But her nighttime reverie was about to take a turn for the worse. Screams from around her hostel jolted her, and for the second time in as many days, she had to come back to reality imagining the worse.

It was broken to the rest of the country the reason for those screams later that day. The news exploded on the social media and was strewn across the world even before it got to her uncle in the evening. Her school had been the focus of an attack by UNKNOWN GUNMEN. These men had rounded up teachers and school children, gathered them into a hostel bathed with fuel. And had opened fire. In an attack executed in less than a quarter of an hour, they had brought to an end several promising lifetimes. The assets that the victims could have become to their respective domains went up in smokes, leaving unrecognisable charred remains. The uncle, when he heard, sat transfixed. In the dark recesses of his mind, he saw her eyes stare at him as he regaled her with his story that night. He imagined what could have been. The sacrifices that had been made on her behalf.

He always prided himself a man, suffused with African masculine virility, averse to any effeminate qualities. But not today. For the first time in his life, he wept. Not just because of the death alone, which he accepted in its fatality, but because of an innate sense of helplessness. There was nothing he could do about it. Except to cry and he did. A broken man, he emptied himself of cryable tears. Then, feeling more helpless, he did the only thing he had to power to do. He cursed her executioners. With his blood.

The one with the powers to do more than her uncle, did less. He declared, in the voice of his spokesperson, that the executioners deserved a place in hell. WORDS CAN INSPIRE. Indeed. But they can also conspire. And when the girl's uncle heard that all the Commander-in-Chief was going to do was wax spiritual, he included him in his list of the accursed. He felt that by omission or commission, by action or inaction, the C-in-C had conspiratorially been an accessory in the death of his little girl.

Last night, he jerked up from sleep, drenched in sweat. He had subconsciously dragged himself  from sleep than see out the end of the nightmare that troubled his sleep. The images were discombobulating. He was in the hostel. Her once lovely eyes were filled with fear as she huddled close together with two friends of hers, both of whom were screaming hysterically. He had looked around and seen teachers trying to comfort the children though themselves riddled with fear. All were praying who could. He peered from the windows and saw the dark silhouettes of the attackers and heard the audible swish of liquid being emptied from cans. Fuel. He had read the stories and knew what was to follow. Desperation set his adrenaline pumping. He turned, intending to run away with his niece but realised he could not move. She was looking at him with frightful countenance and she started crying. As the whooosh! of fuel-spirited inferno rang out, he jerked up from sleep. That was hell. That was what he now wished for the C-in-C.