Yes, expectedly, you (in plural) here have called me out on my incessant upbraiding of the government of the day, asking that some of the mudslinging (if it's really so considered) should be hauled at the sponsors of terrorism and the terrorists themselves. I can identify with your pain (if such emotions truly exist) in how true some of the colours I've had to paint this administration in have come to light and have reflected poorly in your premises for being on the side of government. However, your penchant for dodging the real issues seems to be impervious of any curative measures. It seems you always need to be reminded of pertinent issues that no shouting match can silent. Well, here is more.
I remember what this same government you seem to be defending with all your might did when Jonathan's cousin was kidnapped in Bayelsa. The military personnel deployed evoked a Nigeria-at-war sentiment. The sheer number of Armoured Personnel Carriers engaged in trying to rescue one man was benumbing. They combed the entire area like fine hair and made sure that in no time the privileged cousin was back to the warm embrace of his family. Why was it so important then and not so now? Well, he was a close relative of the powers that be and as such, no expense was spared to get him and safely too.
But these girls? Who are they related to? Nobodies. Bloody civilians. They can roast for all this administration cares. Our military, given the right morale boosting, is worthy of great endeavours. But not when there is more politics at play than the fate of hapless children not priviledged enough to be from the political royalty. Not worthy enough to even have their parents consoled by the top echelon of political jobbers (until their hands were forced).
We did not elect Boko Haram for our welfare and safety. So, we don't point fingers at them. They are not answerable to us. So, we don't join issues with them. This government took upon itself that duty and responsibility and in so far as we play our part in paying their salaries and spending so much to make them comfortable enough to do their jobs (darn too much, more than enough), they pretty much must do it.
Underline the word MUST.
That is the social contract that binds us together and as clearly spelt out in the Constitution, the first priority of the government is the welfare of the citizenry. Don't let that escape your consideration.
(The YOUs know themselves)
Thursday, July 24, 2014
Tuesday, July 22, 2014
Best Laid Plans
Best Laid Plans
His heart was pounding. That was a close call. The sweat he felt under his own armpits was not just attributable to the humid conditions of the day. It was always hotter where he came from and he was used to that already. This heat was from the realisation of this brush with the netherworld. But for the need not to seem suspicious, he could have stopped, found somewhere to sit out this pounding of his heart before it ruptured something vital and consign him to what could have been his fate just now. No. He was not going to stop. He had to quickly leave town. Much earlier than scheduled. If only this rapid heartbeat will give him a break. It was already affecting his nerves and his fingers couldn’t be steadied however hard he tried. No one must notice, he cautioned himself.
He need not have worried. This was Lagos and in as much as there may have been a scene of pandemonium around the area from where he was beating a retreat, people around his current location had more on their minds than to take any cognizance of his hasty motion or the unsteady fingers he was battling to gain control over. If he had been confident enough to look around, he’d have seen it. No one cared to notice him.
But, he didn’t. The pang of a guilty conscience.
He tried to imagine how he got it wrong. But there must have been more blood pumping into his brain at the moment to allow for any rational engagement with the grey matter. It was when the okada man in front of him, who was impatient with the lost-looking soul before him, voiced his impatience that he came to. He’d walked (or ran-walked, if that was possible) all the way to the T-junction of the road he was on without any consciousness of that happening. He was still tongue-tied and quite incapable of any rational response when the okada man brushed him aside so that he did not obstruct other more vocal passengers with some idea of where they were headed. He quickly engaged his brain again and was fortunate to get a fragment of a response this time. He was going to take a bike to the expressway, head towards Berger and board a bus out of Lagos. Fast.
He was well on the way out of Lagos when a semblance of reality dawned. Things had not gone according to plan. All things considered, this mission should have run like clockwork. He’d rehearsed each aspect more times than he could remember. He could have done it with one arm tied behind him, both legs in shackles and a blindfold and he’d have pulled it off. That fact was why he was chosen to do it and why, when he demanded to do it alone, even with the associated risk, he was allowed. That was how highly he was thought of. And it was not unmerited. Comparatively, this was one of the easiest tasks he was assigned and the other two were in areas of higher risks and tighter security apparatuses. So, why? What went wrong.
He rehashed every step he took up to the point where the pandemonium broke and for the life of him, could not pinpoint where he erred and lost the goal of the mission. Hard as he tried, he only came up with blanks. That, together with other factors, sealed his fate. He never was one for suicides and seven virgins. He thought those fantasies were for illiterate fanatics who require such otherworldly pleasures to pursue a cause. For him, it was more of a duty borne out of a conviction that his spiritual leader gave him a mandate which was divinely ordained for him to perform. He was fortunate to have been the chosen one and took pride in doing them gratefully. He checked, double-checked and did it all over again like the divine assignment it was. But how he had failed beat him. The mission laid not only unaccomplished but for no reason. It was inconceivable that he’d return to report such overwhelming failure.
He caressed the ampoule that held the portion he knew was going to be his end. He’d alighted off the road not too far from the first town on the expressway. He did not allow his mind to wander into thoughts of both his wives and the children the family had been blessed with. That was only going to make leaving them behind simply more painful. Only fools suffer themselves that. The portion was little, a spoonful maybe. The size belied its potency. It was brought from the Amazon, he was told and contained venom from the reptiles that dot the vegetation. He recoiled in agony as the effect of the poison kicked in. His screams only worsened the pain as his lungs constricted making it too much effort to even draw breath. The heart that was pounding earlier began to stultify. That earlier pounding seemed such a long time ago now. He thrashed alone on the grass around the place he picked to end his sojourn here. The muscles around his face twitched as his entire frame was seized by sporadic spasms. Contractions occurred almost throughout his body and he wished it will just end. Did they not have easier ways to knock one’s self off? Why such tortuous finale? The pain was reaching levels that seemed impossible for the human body to endure and raising those levels ever higher. He prayed for the grim reaper, if he was even possible, to come quicker.
And like it is said, that things become clearer just before you go, he realized his error. The bomb was to be placed in the car, primed to go off at 9pm, when everyone will be home, at the residence of a critic of their movement and a pillar of the government in Lagos. It was to shock and awe, to let Lagosians know they are not safe in the embrace of their luxurious houses and posh environs, that the deaths in the North East was being brought to them in the comforts of their acclaimed centre of excellence, for if such highly-placed individuals can be targeted and successfully hit, who was safe? That was the mission and it was perfectly planned. He’d placed the device and latched the timer. It was all set at a quarter to 9 in the morning, so he parked some distance far from his niece’s house in Lagos and went to visit her. He did not want to draw attention to the car nor answer any questions. He was on his way back when the car exploded and pandemonium ensued. He realised now, that the timer must have interpreted the hour he set (9) as AM by default as he did not remember to change it to PM as planned. It was such a little detail but could have been more fatal if he had been inside. He felt now that had he realised the fault earlier, he may have been able to argue out his error and rectify it with a return mission that he will personally finance. But all that was history, he sighed as death finally arrived.
His last thought was that at least his group will claim responsibility for the act and place the Lagos government where they wanted them as they had succeeded to do in Abuja.
His heart was pounding. That was a close call. The sweat he felt under his own armpits was not just attributable to the humid conditions of the day. It was always hotter where he came from and he was used to that already. This heat was from the realisation of this brush with the netherworld. But for the need not to seem suspicious, he could have stopped, found somewhere to sit out this pounding of his heart before it ruptured something vital and consign him to what could have been his fate just now. No. He was not going to stop. He had to quickly leave town. Much earlier than scheduled. If only this rapid heartbeat will give him a break. It was already affecting his nerves and his fingers couldn’t be steadied however hard he tried. No one must notice, he cautioned himself.
He need not have worried. This was Lagos and in as much as there may have been a scene of pandemonium around the area from where he was beating a retreat, people around his current location had more on their minds than to take any cognizance of his hasty motion or the unsteady fingers he was battling to gain control over. If he had been confident enough to look around, he’d have seen it. No one cared to notice him.
But, he didn’t. The pang of a guilty conscience.
He tried to imagine how he got it wrong. But there must have been more blood pumping into his brain at the moment to allow for any rational engagement with the grey matter. It was when the okada man in front of him, who was impatient with the lost-looking soul before him, voiced his impatience that he came to. He’d walked (or ran-walked, if that was possible) all the way to the T-junction of the road he was on without any consciousness of that happening. He was still tongue-tied and quite incapable of any rational response when the okada man brushed him aside so that he did not obstruct other more vocal passengers with some idea of where they were headed. He quickly engaged his brain again and was fortunate to get a fragment of a response this time. He was going to take a bike to the expressway, head towards Berger and board a bus out of Lagos. Fast.
He was well on the way out of Lagos when a semblance of reality dawned. Things had not gone according to plan. All things considered, this mission should have run like clockwork. He’d rehearsed each aspect more times than he could remember. He could have done it with one arm tied behind him, both legs in shackles and a blindfold and he’d have pulled it off. That fact was why he was chosen to do it and why, when he demanded to do it alone, even with the associated risk, he was allowed. That was how highly he was thought of. And it was not unmerited. Comparatively, this was one of the easiest tasks he was assigned and the other two were in areas of higher risks and tighter security apparatuses. So, why? What went wrong.
He rehashed every step he took up to the point where the pandemonium broke and for the life of him, could not pinpoint where he erred and lost the goal of the mission. Hard as he tried, he only came up with blanks. That, together with other factors, sealed his fate. He never was one for suicides and seven virgins. He thought those fantasies were for illiterate fanatics who require such otherworldly pleasures to pursue a cause. For him, it was more of a duty borne out of a conviction that his spiritual leader gave him a mandate which was divinely ordained for him to perform. He was fortunate to have been the chosen one and took pride in doing them gratefully. He checked, double-checked and did it all over again like the divine assignment it was. But how he had failed beat him. The mission laid not only unaccomplished but for no reason. It was inconceivable that he’d return to report such overwhelming failure.
He caressed the ampoule that held the portion he knew was going to be his end. He’d alighted off the road not too far from the first town on the expressway. He did not allow his mind to wander into thoughts of both his wives and the children the family had been blessed with. That was only going to make leaving them behind simply more painful. Only fools suffer themselves that. The portion was little, a spoonful maybe. The size belied its potency. It was brought from the Amazon, he was told and contained venom from the reptiles that dot the vegetation. He recoiled in agony as the effect of the poison kicked in. His screams only worsened the pain as his lungs constricted making it too much effort to even draw breath. The heart that was pounding earlier began to stultify. That earlier pounding seemed such a long time ago now. He thrashed alone on the grass around the place he picked to end his sojourn here. The muscles around his face twitched as his entire frame was seized by sporadic spasms. Contractions occurred almost throughout his body and he wished it will just end. Did they not have easier ways to knock one’s self off? Why such tortuous finale? The pain was reaching levels that seemed impossible for the human body to endure and raising those levels ever higher. He prayed for the grim reaper, if he was even possible, to come quicker.
And like it is said, that things become clearer just before you go, he realized his error. The bomb was to be placed in the car, primed to go off at 9pm, when everyone will be home, at the residence of a critic of their movement and a pillar of the government in Lagos. It was to shock and awe, to let Lagosians know they are not safe in the embrace of their luxurious houses and posh environs, that the deaths in the North East was being brought to them in the comforts of their acclaimed centre of excellence, for if such highly-placed individuals can be targeted and successfully hit, who was safe? That was the mission and it was perfectly planned. He’d placed the device and latched the timer. It was all set at a quarter to 9 in the morning, so he parked some distance far from his niece’s house in Lagos and went to visit her. He did not want to draw attention to the car nor answer any questions. He was on his way back when the car exploded and pandemonium ensued. He realised now, that the timer must have interpreted the hour he set (9) as AM by default as he did not remember to change it to PM as planned. It was such a little detail but could have been more fatal if he had been inside. He felt now that had he realised the fault earlier, he may have been able to argue out his error and rectify it with a return mission that he will personally finance. But all that was history, he sighed as death finally arrived.
His last thought was that at least his group will claim responsibility for the act and place the Lagos government where they wanted them as they had succeeded to do in Abuja.
Friday, July 18, 2014
The Religious Opiate
The jingoism of religious worship today plays a terribly effectual role in the lackadaisical sentiment of the common Nigerian, who'd rather build a hole in the wall and relive his wailing there when pushed to the extreme than raise a finger to fight back. Our brothers and sisters are perpetually misled right from the duplicity of the titles for which the several conventions and crusades and vigils are convoked or publicised to the interpretation of the holy texts from whence they are re-indoctrinated.
They flock to these like bees to a comb. And why shouldn't they? It's the opium they need to numb the pain of their inured oppression and to evoke in them a high that temporarily relegates their worries to the shadows making them sated in the orgies of hallelujahs and amens. That'll do, until it's effects peter out, their issues crawl out of those shadows like ants from a disturbed woodwork and they need another infusion.
The cycle is self-sustaining. Your shouting yourself hoarse can't penetrate the spiritual coating nor the biblical defences erected by the preachments delivered to them ahead of time in expectations of your gratuitous assistance. It then reaches the point where you are called the name your intervention in their spirituality deserves. You are the devil.
If you don't give up then, you deserves what happens next to you as well.
Thursday, July 17, 2014
As The Darkness Thickens...
Gradually, the times when it used to be fun to be awake, when it was like punishment to be made to sleep, when all you wanted was to be with your mattress from school and share times of excitement; those times were fading from memory. Fast. Becoming nothing but a pale, distant recollection.
How long ago was it when she'd begged to be allowed to visit her school friend on the pretext of having to do a take-home assignment together? All in a bid to be away from home and to be in the company of friends outside the house? Or the other time that she was caught trying to leave the house quietly by the back door and was flogged? She remembered how she'd thought her family evil for being so mean and the thoughts of running away from home that occurred to her at that time.
Oh, but what will she give to be in the warm embrace of that very same family now? How she'd want for nothing more but to stay indoors for as long as is humanly possible right from this very moment. What a welcome relief it will be if someone, anyone will punish her by keeping her at home now. She'd give up everything for that singular comfort. Anything. No price was too dear for that now. But from whence will that come? She'd had fantasies of being whisked away home by some force beyond description in the early days but even those comforting idyllic surrealisms had been extinguished by the passage of time and the dawning of the realistic eventuality of her plight.
In the ramshackly matchbox of a house where she'd woken up recently, the conditions were not as decrepit as it was in those early days when she'd had nothing to ward off the elements of hot sweaty days and cold uncomfortable nights. As unthinkable as it may seem, she was grateful for little favours like the roof that kept some of the heat, a sizeable volume of the rare rainfall, and that remained warmer than the terrible outdoors at night of those early days.
As she say down on the floor, she winced at the pain that shot through her back like a bolt from the pits of hell. She muffled a scream that struggle to gain freedom from her and bit down hard on her lips that it drew blood. But that was a lot more bearable than what consequences she'd have had to endure had the scream successfully come out. She remembered in crystal terms the cruel torture that had greeted her when she wailed in pain as her body can in contact with a hot kettle. The burn from the kettle and effects of the torture her cry caused were still too fresh to merit more.
The blood from her lips was warmly sliding down her oesophagus as she adjusted her body to minimise the back pain caused by her sitting position. She forced herself not to puke from the cocktail of odours wafting across the floor. Conjoined with her own bodily smells, as a result of irregular personal hygiene (if any), this olfactory mix could knock out a horse. How she continued to live was a daily miracle all by itself. She'd learnt to conserve her energies thinking less of others and even lesser of herself. It helped.
Thoughts of her family and their anguish over her situation, thoughts of a better tomorrow away from all these, thoughts of those she used to see before at first but no longer, thoughts of the despicable acts that she'd been put through more times than she could count by a coterie of inhuman ruffians, enervated her. So, from experience, she learnt to think only of the now. It kept her wits about her and though it was harder, she tried to stop crying altogether. It didn't help much.
As she sat, without much knowledge of the passage of time, only focused on living for the moment, she remained aware, differently. Aware only of her fears, that she may die from the ill health she was enduring in silence because to speak of it was to incur consequences. Aware of her uncertainty of what the next second held. Aware of the darkness that had become her daily outlook in life. Aware of the desecration of everything she possessed as private. Aware of the abuse of her childhood which she was never going to relive. There, she'd never have known of how international Chibok had become, how global Sambisa forest had grown and how the hashtag #BringBackOurGirls has snowballed into a celebrity rigmarole and social media frenzy. These held no meaning for her as she sat and stared into void. Hers has become a daily dose of fear, uncertainty, doubt, darkness and silence.
She laid down, tried to stomach the pain and closed her eyes to sleep, wishing they'd never open again. But she knew better. She'd wake up later and this horror story will continue.
She didn't even know it was 94 days. It'll be 95 tomorrow, and so on...
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