Contenders for GEJ's Consensus Spot Arise

Good morning Panel of Judges, co-debaters, accurate time-keeper, ladies and gentlemen.

Allow me to argue against the motion which states that "Allowing Other Candidates Pick Presidential Forms to Contest Against the Consensus Candidate of PDP is Democratic and the Candidates Have a Chance"

The points of those favouring the motion are beautifully expressed and quite impressive. But were these other candidates not thought of when the hierarchy of the party were junketing across the country in their heavily publicised signature-gathering in all the zonal rallies of different opportunistic groups for support for their "Best President Nigeria Ever Had"?

2. Where were these other contenders at the time? I'm not going to aver that they were in the contingent of these cross-country travellers. It's likely, but...

3. Were they not aware of the party's decision to stick with a "winning formula" in the person of GEJ and his acolytes in power?

4. Did they not notice how N98.1m was purportedly raised by governors and other "well-intentioned" individuals (whose names were later listed) in a bid to "help" the once "shoeless" Otuoke son buy a N20m presidential form?

5. Can they claim to have been oblivious of the fact that having gathered signatures and provided the funds for the form, the party stooped to their most recent low to beg the incumbent "messiah" to contest so as to consolidate on his "good luck" to Nigeria?

6. Is their ignorance so massive that it missed all the media time purchased by a coterie of managed and tele-guided groupings to remind amnesic and senile Nigerians of the amazing "transformation" that has been Nigeria's lot since he took the reins of power as president, even though this (indirectly, if you like) flew in the face of the country's electoral law?

7. Have they forgotten that he is the incumbent with the blessing of the current party "leaders" and the faith family consisting of the biggest pastors in the world from this country?

8. Is it beyond them to witness the strides being made to secure the release of the girls abducted by Haramites and acquire for the country an unprecedented ceasefire with blood-thirsty extremists? The first of its kind anywhere in the world? Instantly making the incumbent the international celebrity model of terrorist dealings?

9. Do they not note how the incumbent singlehandedly fought Ebola to a halt, thereby acquiring a cult-like following internationally as the WHO gave the country a clean bill of health?

10. Haven't they noticed how Mama Peace, Dame Patience has become kingmaker across the South South, only needing to raise the hand of the "handpicked" candidate for the next election for said person to have the best chance of becoming the party's flagbearer? Such power only comes with longstanding and obese patience.

So, my ladies and gentlemen, with these few points of mine, it is hoped that you have become convinced beyond rational doubt that their attempts at democratising the process is a ruse and that some more observant of the populace see beyond the smokescreen. You don't democratise by giving one of the contenders an unfair advantage. For 2015, there is, as Adewumi Noah Adeniyi said, "only one Usain Bolt in the race" for Aso Rock in PDP.

Thank you.

Mothers, Fathers and Sons

His father’s voice was rising. Ron knew the sequence of events so well. This was an early warning signal to the complete loss of control. Ron also knew that to prevent anything physical, this was the best time to stop arguing. As much as he wanted his father to see reason with him about his explanations, it was risky to persist. He drew a long breath, heaved a sigh, turned around and walked towards the door.

“Don’t you dare walk out on me, Ron,” his father threatened, his voice dropping a few decibels and sounding particularly ominous. It was made more dramatic by the low rumble of thunder in the distance.

Ron did not turn around. And just before he closed the door leading outside his father’s house, he said, “Goodnight dad.”

Outside, a cold draft wafted past. He could feel the rain coming in the chill of the air. He heard a door slam somewhere inside the house. He shrugged. Pocketing his palms, not so much from the cold but for thinking, he crossed the street of the house and began to make his way home.

Long after he was undressed and nestled in bed at home, he still mulled over the same thought that preoccupied his mind all the way home. He knew his father’s proclivity for overreaction but could not have thought that he was not going to be allowed to defend himself. It was the last thing on his mind when he got to his father’s house – a fight with his dad.

He was just beginning to break the news of his new job at the medical facility and what it entailed to his grand mum when his dad had come into the sitting room.

“Did you just say medical facility?” his father had interrupted. A call came in for his grandma and she left to answer it.

“Oh sure, dad. That new big hospital at the junction leading to the Church,” Ron excitedly answered, mistaking the urgency in his father’s voice for shared happiness. This was because of how difficult it had been to get a job for someone with a degree in Public Relations.

That was why his father’s frown and next question, “How come?” came as a shock. His trying to quickly recover from that was not fast enough because his father’s followed it with, “So, you’re not aware of the medical crisis in the country and how people are trying to avoid anything medical that you want to go and kill yourself working in the hospital?”

Not waiting for the words Ron was searching for to formulate a reply, he went on, “Or because the hospital is new, you think Ebola will excuse it and say, ‘Oya, lemme allow you to get old small before I will come back?’ eh?”

It was not a question meant to be answered because he only paused for the dramatic impact of his words. Then his voice lowered as he went in for the kill, “Look, let me tell you, we didn’t send you to school so that you will come and die at your first place of work. Lai lai, God forbid. I will not fold my hands and watch you make that kind of mistake. Not when I can stop it.”

Ron had never felt more dumbfounded. He was going to be at the administrative segment of the hospital, handling customer-hospital paperwork, liaising between patients and hospital via social media and phone calls. Even at that, the hospital had gone far to emphasise personal and environmental hygiene in and around his office and went to great lengths to provide all they needed to maintain a decent working condition. Therefore, he was in more danger from contacting Ebola outside the office than he ever was inside.

He searched for words to capture these thoughts and convey them to his father but like wispy phantoms, they eluded his grasp when he reached for them. Hard as he tried, he could only afford a moronic stare.

Somewhere in the house, he heard his grandmother’s voice, in spurts, meaning she was still on the phone. He surmised that it may be one of their relations abroad. He wished she were here to buy him time to conjure a fitting defence. If it really was an international call, then he would have no help from her anytime soon. He was in dire straits.

Believing the matter settled and wanting closure, his father coughed to get his attention and asked, “Have you heard?” It was Ron’s cue, if ever he was going to defend anything.
“Excuse me, sir,” he began. “But…”

“But?” his father blurted not allowing him go any farther. “But? But what?” Again, these were only rhetorical. “You want to say you didn’t hear anything I said?” He shook his head giving himself time to catch his breath. “If you want to kill yourself, are there no better ways?” he clicked his tongue to emphasise the sarcasm. “Just say Ebola is hungrying you and we’d understand. How can anyone with half a brain be going to get a hospital job at such a time. We send you go school go read medicine? What the meaning of all these, eh? Where’s your sense sef?”

Yes. The voice had gone up. Nothing could bring it down until he could return to calmer thoughts himself, usually after physically bringing about a restoration of the recalcitrant to sensible reasoning along the line of what he considered sensible. That was how he raised his children. It was the rod unspared to bring the child up as he or she should grow. And that was the point where Ron knew he had one move left. To leave. Quickly.

Another low thunder rumbled across, bringing Ron back to the four walls of his chamber. In his reverie, the power supply had been cut in anticipation of a heavy downpour. He welcomed the thought of rain. At least, It will drench the foul mood he was in. He still felt bad not being allowed to talk. How wrong he was believing that being all grown up, his father would begin to appreciate the fact that he was responsible enough to be treated maturedly. But old habits die hard. To his father, he was always “Ron, my boy.”

He could appreciate his father’s concern but would have loved for nothing more than to be appreciated in return. He believed his father cared and that is what drove him to vehemently demand that Ron left the job. But as usual, even from back in Ron’s secondary school days, Ron just wished his father listened and it pained him tonight that even at his age, nothing had changed.

He said his night prayers. The argument, if it was not too one-sided to be so referred, had occupied his mind for too long and he was not going to let it steal his sleep as well. Lightening streaked across his window, illuminating his room in a flash. Another one followed in quick succession, casting shadows across the adjacent wall from the stems of a giant tree in front of his room. He closed his eyes. But no matter how many sheep he counted or how many times he tossed about, sleep just was not budging. He gave up. He got up, dressed and left the house. He was going to go back and have that talk with his dad. Come what may.

Twice he turned to go back into his room and twice, he decided against it. Standing next to the tree, he steeled himself. He stung his right knuckles with a punch to the tree’s bark and made his way to his father’s.

There, the first thing he saw shocked him. He found his father alone at the front porch. Although Ron knew it was one of his favourite pastimes, he never recalled seeing him there any time later than 7pm when Ron knew he would get up, eat supper while watching the Network News before going in for the night. But it was now past 9pm. Indeed way past what he considered his old man’s bedtime. Quickly recovering from his shock, he was happy he was not going to ask that his dad be woken up as planned. Now, he quickly began his prepared speech.

“Please dad, allow me to explain to you the details…”

“Aren’t you going to even greet your father again?”

And for the second time that day, his father knocked out the air from his lungs. The tone was not bellicose. Amicable, almost. Another bout of moronic staring was beginning when he quickly checked himself with a stammered “Go--oood ev---eening, sir.” Ron could not even imagine why he had not greeted him at first as was his custom.

“Ehen, good evening Ron, my boy.”

Huh? Where did this come from? He shook his head to clear the cobwebs of confusion beginning to becloud his senses. Just then, the door to the front porch opened and his grandma walked out.

“Won’t you…,” she began before she noticed him and with an “Oh, Ron,” she folded him in a warm embrace but quickly recoiled in horror.

“How come you’re still in such wet clothes? Did you have to come in the rain? And shouldn’t you have got out of the clothes the moment you got here? Take them off immediately.”

Not pausing for a breath, she turned on Jon, Ron’s father. “Tell me you didn’t notice him come in the rain. You see what you’ve caused? Did you have to tell him to come tonight? I hope you’ve apologised?”

As Ron stood there in his briefs, he understood the turn of events. His father had not called him but his chastised façade meant he had gone through the sequence of his anger and was now sombre. Ron guessed his grandma’s influence was responsible. When she had gone in with his wet clothes after giving him warmer replacements from Jon’s wardrobe, she left them to discuss.

Later that night, when Ron laid down to sleep, he blessed the memory of his mother whom his father had admitted missing during their chat. And just before he closed his eyes, Ron recalled the look on his dad’s face and laughed at the fact that his dad remained a child to his grandmother as he to his father.

In the morning, with dad’s blessings and grandma’s love, he went to work in the “new big hospital at the junction leading to the Church.”

Politics That We Like

I shared the text of Fashola's independence speech where he criticised those who were taking the glory of Nigeria's containment of the Ebola Virus Disease for themselves. He proceeded to mention the names of those who really "saw Ebola". Then, from out of left side, he's being accused of being political. Oh, is that now a sin?

I will not rule out any political undertone from any speech delivered by any politician. That's who they are: POLITICIANs. It's what they do: POLITICS. However, the people are rational enough to look at the content of what they say. What does it purpose to serve? This here statement, for example, serves to give honour to whom it is due. It brings to the fore those who made heroic sacrifices, people who, if a person of Fashola status didn't mention, would have largely remained anonymous. People that, in other climes, will be publicly celebrated so that other Nigerians will be encouraged to want to selflessly serve the fatherland.

We have no sense of patriotism because not only have we grown to understand that there's no glory in being selfless and that no one should care for anyone but himself, we also have not seen the public adulation and  recognition of those who have placed country first, even at the cost of their lives, whether they be uniformed women and men or bloody civilians.

That was why I thought it wise to post the full text with names and their acts of service in the dangerous battle to make sure those of us far removed from the danger, those of us ignorantly criticising medical workers for going on strike so that government can improve the health climate and working environment for all our good, can survive and be proud enough to "gloat" that Nigeria survived the EVD.

Let this kind of politics continue, if it yields similar results.

To Gloat or Naah?

For someone considered ultimately anti-government and unpatriotic, it was somewhat refreshing to be embraced yesterday by "governmenters" and vilified for gloating by travellers on the other path. Anyone who took seriously to heart my "patriotic" gloating over Nigeria's need to give Americans a taste of their own pills by extremely screening them before they are allowed into the country, needs a refresher course on "The Person of Jude Obafemi".

Let it be clear: I kid (or better still, "was kidding").

How Nigeria wan do am na? Let us imagine for a second that there even was the will on the part of the government to even try it. I know, I know, it's farfetched, but let's allow that conjecture, the structure of international politics no go gree. Real politick, which is politics in terms of national interests, without fancy idealism or ethics - lies in favour of the US. The implication is that it wouldn't be in our national interests to want to be seen ostracising Uncle Sam. Yimu all you like, Nigeria is in no position to call the shots where America is concerned. As the PhD presido had earlier remarked, "America will know."

Thus, singling out Americans for screening because of the rarity in Texas is as foolhardy as going to look for our crashed satellite in Space using a keke Napep refurbished for space travel by the Directorate of National Planning. Safe journey.

Yea. That was to bring those who sent me messages congratulating me for gloating back down to earth. Now, to attend to those about to gloat that America is sending a team to study Nigeria's containment of the Ebola virus, leggo!

It is highly commendable that Nigeria, with the assistance of the international community and the uncharacteristic efficiency shown by the Ministry of Health and Lagos State government plus the personal heroic sacrifices of a few, contained the virus. The briefings that more than helped to calm public panic from the Minister of Health was a breath of fresh air unlike any we've experienced from government. To call it unprecedented would be stating the bloody obvious. It rekindled the hope of a better tomorrow, if things are done as should be. America took notice. That's how interesting it was. That's where the interesting bit stops.

Let's take a breather and see why. Pause to consider the response of two different mindsets here. The country that pulled it off doesn't stop for a while to ponder how it did it so that it can document it for posterity. It rather sees it as an opportunity to raise it's shoulders like the cock preparatory to mount the hen; an opportunity to walk around the block telling anyone with a listening ear that they beat the bully of the neighborhood black and blue and must nowtofore be greeted as Lord of the Mayor and Master.

On the other hand however is America, always intent to improve, to learn, to be better at it's best and to leave no chance unexplored in it's quest for excellence. It has witnessed a country contain the virus and wants to add the knowledge of how it happened to it's already acquired body of work in that area, so it doesn't just do as well as Nigeria but better. Hence, it chooses to learn and improve upon that which it will discover, if any.

No point saying who'd be better off tomorrow. It's black and white. And you can keep your gloating at home.

So, congratulations Nigeria. Welcome America.

(Note that all conspiratorial inferences about the EVD were kept off this piece on purpose?)

The InSALT of Ill Literates

It was one of those nights. He had just come back to his room from a rough day. For the most part, he’d thought of what he was about to do. He opened the folder where he kept his important papers. They were few. The one he sought was just there on top of everything else in the folder. He sat down on the mattress on the floor and just stared at the paper allowing his mind to wander. Absent to everything around. He shook his head intermittently. As though there were mosquitoes buzzing about his head. But, even if there were, he mightn’t have known. He was now outside that frame of consciousness.

It was his sister that woke him up this morning with a phone call. Knowing her penchant for the dramatic and having lost count of the number of times she’d called him up for the most mundane affairs, it took only one glance and a vexed sigh for him to hit the button that silenced the ringtone. It was just 4 am for all that was holy. Sleepy-eyed, he waited for the buzzer to end. He then switched the phone to “silent mode”, tossed about the bed to the other side that was colder and engaged his gears to “re-establish sleep mode”.

There were 35 calls and 13 text messages waiting for him when he roused himself from sleep to prepare for the day. Alarm bells went off everywhere in his head. Could something untoward have happened? He jumped from the bed. The fingers that struggled to open his phone’s call log were nervy. What ordinarily took him less than 4 seconds lasted about a minute. Most of the calls were from his sister as he feared. Then, he saw his mum had tried to reach him and two of his neighbours. He glanced around his room, ran outside, looking in both directions. Nothing seemed amiss. He dialled his mum. Just as the call began connecting, he remembered the text messages and quickly cut it.

He was vexed when he found out what the brouhaha was all about. SALT. Salt? Now, why should anyone think that this was going to be so important as to be so intent on reaching him before 5 am? His sister, mum, two friends and 3 others whose numbers were not saved on his phone all sent him messages similar only in the advice they gave the recipient. He or she were to bathe in warm water flavoured with salt to prevent the “bather” from the Ebola Virus Disease. It was also suggested that the recipient ingested some of the salt as well and for extra precaution, to rub it all over the body. How extreme! As he went inside the house to dress up for the day, he shook his head aggressively. What utter rubbish.

From the little he’d heard of the virus, they day before, it was not possible that salt could help much. He was eavesdropping the conversation of two passengers that boarded his bus. They seemed quite knowledgeable and everything they said about the virus was confirmed by the report he’d listened to on the radio just before he left the motor park for home. The medical professionals interviewed on radio had said they were working in concert with scientists at home and abroad to get any medication that will help those infected and save their lives. If the cure and preventive medicine was common salt, wouldn’t they have found out since? Now, these oversabi people were forming. He wasn’t even going to reply any of them.

He bathed as normal. In another quarter of an hour, his day was running in full swing. He’d located his driver for the day, agreed on the “commission” and was calling out for passengers when his discussion with a fellow conductor veered into Ebola and salt. That was when he realised his was not a special case. All passengers to a man had been given the suggestion by calls or texts, often from parents and relatives, quite early in the morning so that not a few complied before leaving the house. He watched in shock as people he considered more lettered than himself and who ought to have been better informed as to be able to separate fact from fiction admitted to having followed the advice to the letter. Their excuse? Better comply than be sorry. He couldn’t believe it. He voiced his objection. But the overwhelming support of the salty therapy and the already mounting medical dexterity with which some were already professing its efficacy shut him up.

Bus-load after bus-load, the subject of discussion did not swerve too far from Ebola Salts. Nor did his consternation drop at the vacuity of those who should have known better. These so called literates were just blockheads, he concluded. Was this what education did to people? Was it not supposed to empower you to use your head? To put two and two together and know when it is four, when it is twenty-two and when it is just two in one place and two in another? What was then the purpose of all their schooling? The certificate they tended everywhere? The suits they wore to make them look more than they actually were? Nothing. Empty heads everywhere. He was so engrossed in this thought process, he missed several bus stops, mixed people’s “change” up, and forgot to take money from at least two passengers, one of whom was honest enough to remind him.

He couldn’t even eat though he knew how famished he was. That was only worsened by the news that filtered into the park just before he left for his room. Two people had died from adhering too strictly to the salt therapy. Why not? He couldn’t explain how it’d caused their deaths but he reasoned that their sudden death was only a reprieve to their gullibility. They deserved to have been made to suffer some more, for their eyes to be cleared of their stupidity before they slowly die. He felt no sympathy for them. The last he heard before making his way home was that someone somewhere had apologised for the salt inducements, calling it a prank. He used the opportunity of the distance home to call his mum and sister, both of whom were educated, to never ever bother him with such things again after he’d told them of the deaths and prank. But they had heard already and were repentant.

He looked at the paper in his hand again and tore it to shreds. Then, he burnt the shreds. He’d continue with his “conductor” job, and when he’d save enough money, he’d buy a bus of his own. From that point, God knows how far he’d go. Street smarts were of more use to him than the kind of education they wanted to force on him. If all these educated people were so dense, tearing up that university application form was the best decision he’d taken in a long time.

It Begins at the End – (part two)

Previously on – It Begins at the End – (part one)

When the old man answered his last question sometime after, the effect on him was devastating. Even if his questions were answered, it left him in a worse state of quandary than before. He was told that he was presently in the Right Region. This region was one of the four regions of this country – the others being the Left Region, Uppermost Region and Lowpost Region. Obviously, this novel nomenclature led him to ask if this was not Nigeria. And that was where the real story kicked in. It chilled his blood. Literally.

It Begins at the End – (part two)

Nigeria had ceased to exist.

The country had witnessed her worst state of affairs since her Civil War. Corruption was rife. Embezzlement was commonplace. Accountability was alien. Responsibility, nonexistent. The people failed to recognise their power and were driven roughshod by the government. Near total lack of infrastructural development, absence of social welfare and amenities and a general breakdown of law and order gave way to terrorism and political powerplay masquerading as religious extremism while the people looked on as helpless hapless victims of this scenario. Singing alleluias and hosannas to the point of orgy did not stop the death statistics arriving with each news broadcast. However, at each arrival, the people of the country that was Nigeria grew a thicker skin, developed for one purpose – to endure and endure and endure it all the more. Rather than stand and fight, they prayed on in Long Suffering.

A few groups and unions tried to galvanise action for their benefits. Their actions yielded some fruits but only ephemerally. Strike actions only led to more strike actions. It was in the thick of the strike called by the Nigerian Medical Association that the dreaded Ebola virus, which had been on a tour of several African nations hit Nigeria. One will be pardoned for thinking that the gods had conspired to wreck such havoc on the country so blessed yet so pulverised by everything negative. The weakened economic, political, social and moral fabric of the nation couldn’t withstand such epidemic of pandemic proportions especially in a country not renowned for her hygiene. Some tried to mobilise themselves quickly into action to fight this common enemy, but it was too late. Having never been united enough to stand for anything, it fell out quickly.

The spread was viral. Devastating understated its havoc. In the month that followed, only a fraction of the population wasn’t feverish with telltale symptoms of the virus. It was only a matter of time before it brought about the end to the country. However, those yet uninfected successfully organised themselves into a colony with a survival instinct that was un-Nigerian – they were united in their resolve to stay uninfected. They hacked to death anything living that came within the security perimeter of the colony.

When joined by some others escaping the virus from other parts of the continent and realising they they decided to congregate into a new entity under a representative system but with autonomous component units called Regions (Right, Left, Upper and Low). As one entity, it is called The Coastal Colony.
It was at this point that it struck him what had evaded his grasp thus far. The road on his bus trip was smooth. Not as bumpy a ride as he was used to on “normal” Nigerian roads. Even the bus was neat (“tear-rubber-ish”). Everything seemed new and the environment, neat. It dawned on him now. There was something cleaner and more civil than what he was used to. Yet, questions remained. What happened to him? How did he miss all these? He wanted to ask that question but many more were forming in his head, tumbling over each other, like what year was this (having remembered only 2014) and his family…

Then, he heard, as if from an abyss, his friend’s voice calling his name. He was being poked on the ribs with a sharp elbow. He opened his eyes with a start and was immediately greeted with recognition. Yes, it was the staff bus and as he looked around, he observed that the driver was negotiating the bend that will lead straight to the office on the Island. His mind registered it clearly, almost movie-like – Lagos, Present Day. The bus swerved viciously, first to the right and then to the left, as the driver adeptly dodged two gaping holes on the street, both of which were now puddles of rain water and might have been tricky for a lesser driver. Yes, he nodded in acknowledgment of the swerving, this was more like it. He looked around and saw all the usual suspects – all co-workers at their normal sitting positions. Then, he looked at this friend who had poked him and who was now quizzically staring at his movements and reactions.

He laughed. Cheerily. And having gained some of this composure, he exhaled. Deeply.

As he sat back in a more relaxed mood, he couldn’t help but notice his friend who was still at sixes and sevens. He tried convincing his friend that everything was alright but that did nothing to stop the strange look he was getting from his friend. He told the friend that it was a long story which they may have to go over later since they were now alighting from the staff bus. He then enquired as to why his friend had poked him initially. Without speaking, his friend handed him the day’s newspaper. On it’s front page was the bold headline:

EBOLA KILLS FIRST VICTIM…in Lagos as NMA strike continues.