155 Days and Counting

If a fraction of what the Transformation Ambassadors of Nigeria (TAN) has expended on media campaigns alone (saying nothing of the signature-collecting megalomanic rallies organised across the geo-political zones), if a fraction was given to the efforts to #BringBackOurGirls, we'd have stopped counting the number of days our children have been in captivity in their own country. And said Transformers could've had a better platform on which to mislead the ignorant mass.

But the reelection of their chief, their Optimus Prime, who has neither merited such nor pronounced his bid (preferring to fret while his country burns) carries more weight than bringing an end to the moral bankruptcy of perpetuating the crass maladministration and puerile spineless inclination that has hallmarked the Jonathanian years.

How the country isn't in flames from protests demanding more than the governmentlessness we've been made to endure or an end to the stink that is the cesspool of GEJ's tenure points to a systemic failure and general culpability. How anyone can defend such an insensitive predisposition of the government of the day testifies to the exact reason why the country is the way it is.

Labelling it bestial would be an insult to beasts of every land and clime. Beasts aren't as inhumanely aloof when their kind are faced by grave peril. The irony!

155 days and counting...(and peace to our heroes, the common innocent nameless folk who have died needlessly as a consequence of the government's pussyfooting).

Respect The Contract

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)

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...