Tuesday, October 5, 2010

Ranting for Africans

It was my intention, this morning to write a flash fiction about the coming independent anniversary for Myne Whitman's naijastories.com.

But as I browsed through the day's news and took in some opinion pieces in a Lagos based newspaper, I suddenly realised how much we as a people have drifted, carried away by what I see as an ill blown wind, fanned by an overreliance on western opinions.

First, I read a piece where a woman, way into her fifties by her picture's reckoning, speculated about the coming of what she saw as a new fad, a first of its kind; denim jeans cut to fit the African woman's waistline. Timely, she says of it, but then she went on to complain about the route it took - from the west via China - and bemoaned it for not being African enough, as if trousers were ever African in the first place.

I was about to consign that experience to the dustbin when I was drawn to another article, this time the accompanying photograph placed the writer, also female, somewhere between late twenties and early thirties. This time the topic was food and she was complaining about our local foods, which she said she abhores because of the high calorie content. I would not have picked issues with her had she not gone on to reel out healthy food lessons that she obviously copied from a western fashion magazine, more or less calling diets that kept our forefathers strong and healthy, poison.

I would have screamed aloud if decency allowed it.

However, I actually let out some curse words (sub vocalised anyway). We seem not to know it, but our society, our Africanness, that thing that makes us whole, is slowly fading away and the painful thing is that we are doing nothing to fight this trend.

Yes, a society is supposed to change with time, to evolve.

This may or may not mean assimilation with another culture. In our case, there is little assimilation going one. Truth is, what we have is a one-way thing, with our culture being suppressed and overshadowed by imported values. Our gods are mostly dead, starved of the worship that all spirit beings need; our dances are mere show things; our customs are being shoved into the dust bag of history by youth who deem them too local and outdated, even as they embrace those of another, believing them to be new age, pristine.

I talk not for talk's sake, but to draw our eyes backwards, to return our souls to those days when we sought very little, when in harmony we breathed with the land we live, not the degeneration that people call modernity. Imagine, an African woman calling African food poison, all because a doctor who has never breathed a lungful of African air told her so.

We might not have the resources of the west, but we still have, or should still have, our head firmly on our shoulders. How can anyone say garri is poison, or call palm oil an artery clogger?. The fact that some of you have forgotten how to live in harmony with the earth does not mean the earth has changed.

I will tell you what the poison is. The poison is easy living, from air-conditioned cars to air-conditioned offices. From comfy couches at home to comfy swivel seats in your offices. The poison is those lumps of dough you buy in your high-class fast food stores. The poison is the lack of exercise that is big money's gift to you. The poison is processed sugar that you stock you refrigerator with. That is the poison making 

Africa fat, not our traditional cuisine.

As for fashion, well...a woman above forty really should have little or nothing to do with fancy jeans and whatnot. It is this misplaced fashion sense that has turned our young ladies into scarecrows. Yes scarecrows, with fake fingernails, fake hair, fake skin tone, fake eyelashes, fake lips, fake bosom held in place by padded bras and the like and fake accents.

We are not just losing our selves to this new elite-driven-western-hobnobbing, but our souls too. These days it is more fashionable than not to espouse ideas by the likes of Paris Hilton and the Kardashian sisters. Our ladies make their lifestyle choices based on premiums set by a society that is continually seeking to recreate what is already perfect. We try to dress like the western media tells us is best, mostly without recourse to our weather conditionality; we force our feet into extra high heeled shoes, regardless of the discomfort inherent in our mostly unpaved roads.

Africa, we need to wake up before it is too late. We should be exporting new ideas to the west, not embracing their junk. Now is the time to start, why don't we all start by not rubbing those foul smelling relaxers on our hair?

Note/
This piece was published in the passion for fashion page of Next newspaper on October 3, 2010
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MEND, sorry but you missed the mark.


Several months ago, as a direct result of the seeming futility of constantly complaining about the state of affairs in my dear nation, I swore off commenting on Nigerian political affairs. A few days ago, I also decided that the celebration of independence was not for me.

I made these decisions based on my assessment of the Nigerian nation. Having looked back at my own life and the achievements therein and discovering that those failures that stared me in the face are not necessary personal failures but the effects of the continuous propagation of governments that places little faith in the accomplishment of its future leaders.

It would not do to start recalling the myriad of ways that the leadership of the Nigerian state has gotten it wrong over the years, as those instances have already been documented and commented upon by better informed commentators. However, I think it would serve this commentary some measure of service if I talk about why I decided to break my silence and again comment on the Nigerian question.
I broke my silence because of the audacity for violence, which seem to be the new mantra of an organisation for which I used to harbour some form of sympathy.

As I write this, the apology tendered by the Movement for the Emancipation of the Niger Delta (MEND) is circulating in the media. I do not much care for the fact that MEND’S belated apology cast doubts on the efficiency of our security forces as presently constituted, especially as the announcement by MEND  effectively counters President Goodluck Jonathan’s assertion that the Bomb blast that caused the death of several Nigerians and cast a dark pall over the independence day celebrations was not MEND’S doing.

I agree with those who want to give the President the benefit of doubt and read between the lines of what many called his defence of a violent organisation that claims to represent his (the president’s) home region.

I base my argument on common sense, especially since the death of fellow Nigerians would serve the organisation little. More or less, a bomb away from their home region, at this time that they can be said to have control of the Nigerian state through the office of the president, is nothing short shooting themselves in the foot.

As it stands now, by attacking Abuja and killing innocent Nigerians who have nothing to do with the situation that the Niger Delta found itself in, MEND has proven beyond all reasonable doubt that they are nothing more than a terrorist organisation and should be treated as such.

For an organisation that effectively gifted its catchment area the much sought after presidency of the federal republic of Nigeria (some might disagree, but it is my believe that Jonathan becoming the vice president was as a result of the activities of the militants and the need to calm nerves in the Niger Delta), MEND acted very much the clueless winner.

I know the reasons given for the attack were viable grounds for descent, but using a bomb to stress a point was taking it too far. They should have followed the examples of those of us who chose to boycott the event or the example of the majority of the Nigerian commoners whose apathy to the whole wastage made it seem like an elitist Halloween party.

MEND and other militant groups have cried about neglect loudly for a long time. They have spread the news of the degradation of the Niger Delta for years; they have brought the pains of the citizens of the Niger Delta closer to us, but in doing this they have also gotten rich and bold, too bold if one might say so. In their quest to push their agenda, which I used to subscribe to, MEND has emboldened itself to begin seeing us as acceptable collateral damage. This I am forced to say no. No, we cannot be collateral damage for an issue that we have no hand in.

By making us collateral damage, MEND is forcing us to take sides, forcing us to strike out at them as we seek to defend ourselves. MEND, by killing us, is effectively making itself the enemy of the Nigerian people, not just the government, especially now that it has all the reasons in the world to keep the peace.

MEND’s desire to shift the blame of the deaths to the Nigerian security agencies, which it claims did not respond to its calls to evacuate the areas around Eagle Square cuts less cheese than a knife made of air. The fact is, they set the bomb, primed it to go off at a certain time. Had they not wanted the bomb to go off and cause casualties they would have told the authorities the location of the bombs, and keep the goodwill of Nigerians.  MEND FUCKED UP BIG TIME and deserves little or no sympathy from Nigerians. 

 As it stands, my heart goes out to President Jonathan, for surely the question would be asked; “how come he can’t keep his boys in check? “
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Wednesday, September 22, 2010

My favourite story by me.

People have asked me which of the short stories I have written is my favourite. Well, while it would be very difficult to pick just one, based on sentimental value alone, I'd pick "The Totem" It is the very first of my stories to get accepted for publication by a literary magazine and remains very dear to my heart. It is also a very strong example of the type of stories I enjoy writing, those ones I don't get bored trying to force out. If I have my way, I would only write stories in this kind of setting. To let you onto what it is all about...


 The Totem

always had a morbid fear of snakes. Even as a child I shied away from the harmless green ones that are abundant in my village, which are actually seen as an assets for they help control the rodent population. They abound all around the village, either basking in the morning sun or coiled like bundle ropes, with scales reflecting light in kaleidoscope of sparkles, generally revered as totems of  gods, to be killed at ones peril.

My fear of crawly things is not borne out of any unpleasant experience, at least not any that I know of. I feel it is inborn, a feeling of dread and revulsion that my family legend say must definitely be handed down from my grandfather on the father side, whose reincarnate I am said to be. Please do not ask me how that came about for I know nothing about that life (consciously that is) to convince you of the truth in reincarnation. Just accept the elder’s words like we all do.

As I said before, I hate snakes, and usually go out of my way to avoid them. I will not even touch a dead one not to talk of tasting their meat, which I hear say is the sweetest of meats – if the words of my snake eating cousins are anything to go by. Pampered buggers, my cousins, with two years separating them, born after a succession of twins who were unfortunately thrown into the evil forest and left to die as tradition demands. A break in a circle, you may say, since their mother went ahead to birth another twin set after them and had to go to the evil forest herself. Their father thinks the world of them and gives assent to their barest whimpers, and do they whimper? They eat only the best of things; fresh soup when the choice meat and fish are still in large supply, and even then, only the best part, white yam only, not water yam that lacks flavour, no. Also, do not make them taste goat meat when the succulent deer meat is in the trap. Please take their word on snake meat, because they truly know what they are talking about.

Well, everybody that is anybody in my family knows about my hatred for snakes and respects my views on them. They even try their best to keep the communal green ones from my hut, planting snake repellent plants around it and blocking all holes that stubborn ones may want to force their slithery way through.

It was this respect for my hate, I think, that caused one of my crazy cousins to rush into my hut that hot afternoon.
                                         ***
It was just a few moons past my fourteenth birthday, at the height of the wet season (which I hate too). I lay spread-eagle in the cool hot dozing off the effect of a very hot meal, hoping to put off until the last minute, the inevitable trip to the palm forest to retouch the wine gourds collecting wine on father’s palm trees. A trip that was as important as it was dreadful, taking all the wet dark leafy places my great enemies may lurk into shivery consideration.

Anyway, my cousin, the crazy one, rushed in and affected me with his panic.

“Kadim, Kadim!” he called, using my common pet name. I pretended not to hear, for I knew, as usual, that he was on to another mischief, which I must tell you, still remains his middle name.

“Kadim, you sleepy headed son of Madu, how long are you going to pretend to be asleep? You know that I know that you know that I know you are awake, or do not the eyes of those who sleep deeply twitch? Or are you so unconcerned as to ignore the peril that hangs over your head?” he said, too loudly for the little hut.

That is my cousin Okwu, noisy as ever. We joke in my family that only an adult woodpecker can challenge him in a talking contest, only the woodpecker could never hope to peck wood with the speed at which Okwu pecks words. Knowing he would not go away until I had listened to his news, I opened my eyes and yawned wildly, with all the appearance of one waking from a deep slumber. As expected, Okwu was not fooled. He smiled at me in his sly way and laughed in his high-pitched voice.

“Our grandfather thinks Okwu is still a baby, when Okwu had breathed two moons worth of the earth’s air before he was born, anyway you know that I know that you know that I have news for you, and my, my, are they heavy news? Only wait till I tell you the half of it then…”

“Okwu,” I said, cutting off his breathless tirade that would have continued nonetheless, “Say your say and be gone for I need to rest before heading to the palm forest, father’s wine needs checking.”

“Aha, the palm forest, I don’t think you will be going to the palm forest today grandfather…” he paused uncharacteristically to gauge my reaction as I fought to control an exhilarating emotion that jumped in my chest at his words, ‘no trip to the palm forest? What relief, thought I, but since I know that he only calls me grandfather – a reference to my being an incarnate – when he was up to some mischief, especially when I am the main target, I kept my face unreadable, or almost, for the sly bastard wasn’t fooled

“Oh, I have his attention at last. Tell me was it the palm forest? Never mind, like I said before, you don’t have to bother your head about the palm forest, today that is, for the elders are meeting in Da Okoro’s Obi this very minute, and guess who the main topic of discussion is?” Okwu’s beady eyes shined with mirth and something else, triumph maybe.

“You know I can’t do that, I wasn’t there, and don’t tell me you’ve been snooping around the business of the elders?”

“Yes I have.” he said pointedly “or how do you think I would have gotten the information I came to give you? Now, about that information, if you keep interrupting me I doubt if I can get to the telling of it before this day closes. You always find ways to take the sting out the telling Kadim.”

“Ok,” said I “I won’t interrupt again.” by now my interest had risen though was yet to soar to its peak.

“Well,” he said, “I overheard the elders talking about totems, they said that a large sacred python has blocked off the Iyi stream and so prevents water from flowing down for the village use.”

“What!” I screamed, mad that he had used up my time as well as tried my patience only to tell such tall a tale, I lunged for him in anger, not that I had ever been able to defeat him in wrestling for my cousin is a rather stout fellow who made up with brawn what he lacked in brains. He cowered from me, not necessary out of freight, but as a token of truce. I stepped back from him as he motioned for me to wait.

“I swear it is true, Chi went to the stream earlier today and returned without any water, people now go as far as Ota stream to get water.”

“To Ota, But that is ten shadow lengths away?” I said incredulous

“Yes ten shadow lengths through the hills; for no one is allowed to pass through the shorter cut which you know is through the Iyi route.” Okwu said

“Ok, let’s say you are telling the truth, how come I didn’t know about it, I was at Chi’s mother’s hut just before the sun climbed overhead and now it is not three arms past the middle?” I asked, seriously wondering how something of that significance would have occurred without my notice.

“That is easily answered” he replied, “no one wants to mention snakes around you, especially large pythons” a sly light was shining in his eyes.

                                                  ***

I must not forget to tell you that my cousin does not know fear – not my kind of fear anyway. He particularly likes catching snakes with his bare hands, and was the culprit of several hateful pranks played on me when we were much younger, most of which involved his hiding the sacred green snake somewhere and conning me to reach out and touch the hidden horror. All these pranks had petered out as we grew older and he found other people outside the family on which to practice his now more advanced pranks, without fear of being scolded by our mothers.

As for the pythons, they have always been here, protected, like many others, by the patronage of one god or the other, at whose shrines large numbers of them could be seen at any given time. In some clans, it is the crazy rhesus monkeys that reign supreme, while in others, the pygmy tortoise gets the highest patronage. However, in my village it is the giant python that reign supreme. At times, they are seen lumbering down one village path or the other looking for cool places to hide from the sun’s heat. As you would have guessed, I keep well away from them, unlike some of the younger children who, waiting until the pythons have swallowed their fortnight meal of goat or chicken – depending on the particular python’s capacity – take rides on their broad backs. That, to say the least, is not for me.
                                                            ***

 Okwu would have told me more had we not been interrupted by my father who came into the hut unannounced to stare at him with angry eyes.

“Okwu, what are you doing here?” he asked suspiciously “I hope you have not being sneaking around where you are not wanted?”

Okwu tried his best to look innocent, a thing he could not quite manage, being out of character. He managed to mumble something before slinking out of the room after he suddenly remembered something he was supposed to do for his mother. His attitude, quite comical I tell you, caused my father and I to laugh aloud.

Though I had not forgotten about the issue of the python, it did not cross my mind to ask father about it, probably to protect my nosey cousin or because I felt, I was not involved. How wrong I was as future events would prove.


I followed my father at his request to visit his elder brother, who I had always been drawn to and felt closer to than anyone else, well, apart from my mother. As we made our way towards his house, situated at the outskirts of the village, I noticed the peculiar way people were looking at my father and me. Some would shout out his praise name or call out my grandfather’s name, to which he would insist I respond to. This I did by raising my hand in silent salute, a large smile on my face, for I rather liked the title of Ogbuagu (the lion killer).

My uncle was waiting for us when we got to his compound, a cluster of huts arranged in a semicircle behind his massive Obi. Impressive, as befits the first son of a great chief.

“My father,” he usually greeted me this way “you have come.”

He turned to my father and cocked his head. To which my father shook his head negatively in respond and my uncle nodded; apparently, in agreement with whatever it was they referred. It was then that I knew that my father had met with his brother earlier, the significance of which did not hit me until later when we had settled down in front of the Obi eating fried breadfruit and Nsude palm nuts – the best combination if there ever was any.

“My father,” my uncle had begun, “I want you to do something for me; it is something you may not like. No, it is something you will not like, but something that must be done. A thing that only you can do, but something you must be willing to do in order to succeed.” he paused and looked towards my father who nodded his head in affirmation.

“Yes, a grave thing indeed for the clan and disastrous for our family.” he added, a solemn look shadowing his face

At about this time I must confess that my mind was doing some additions and heading towards a conclusion that I did not like one bit, so it did not come as much of a surprise when the issue of the python was brought to light.

To cut a long story short, my uncle spelt it out to me that the python blocking the stream was my totem and tradition demanded that I, I alone, go to the stream and plead with it to move away from the stream. According to my uncle, the totem was annoyed at my snobbery all these years. Was I surprised? I seriously was.

Yes, I thought my uncle’s speech had something to do with the python but I did not know I was that involved, as such, you could imagine my horror and helplessness.

As my uncle said, I have to do it not for myself alone but for our family, which would be held responsible for any negative outcome of the python’s anger.  I did not say a word, but the way my head was shaking from side to side must have said more than any word I could have uttered. No! Me, face a snake, a large one, alone. No!
                                                  ***

 Having been reminded of my history and the antecedents of the man whose name I bore and tutored by the python groove chief priest who I never liked anyway, I set out for to the stream with my uncle, who promised to stay as near as he could when I confront the python.

Locating the python was not hard because it was a big one and the forest was not that dense near the stream, on account of the tall trees that obscured the sunlight which would have given strength to the smaller plants. As such, apart from the occasional shrubbery, the forest floor was as clear as a well-kept garden, it looked very much like a place one would gladly spend a lazy afternoon if not for the danger posed by cobras and other fang and stinger crawlies that abound in the wet season.

The smell of rotting vegetation and countless fungal growths nauseated me, but the song of birds that fluttered above in apparent enjoyment, ignorant, it seemed, of my fear and loathing, gave me some form of comfort.

I came upon the great snake suddenly, much closer than I had imagined it would be. I had known it would be a big one from the account of the elders and the priest, and the traces of its passage where last night’s rain could not reach to wash off traces, but the sheer size of it assaulted my mind. To have called it big was an understatement, what came to my mind was ‘gigantic’ for it was larger than three huddled men in the smaller neck region and could comfortably swallow an ox – not the fabled ox of the plains herdsmen, but our indigenous black ox that stand half the height of an adult man.

It was coiled across the stream, successfully damming it with a double fold of its middle. Only a trickle of water escaped to seep into the muddy riverbed where tadpoles and few catfish young flip-flopped, with some unfortunate ones becoming food for birds brave enough to hunt where the python ruled. That its size and apparent intellect awed me would be another understatement, I was terrified and rooted to the very spot, while I wondered at how the snake seemed to have thought its actions through – it was directing the excess water towards another channel with its tail, an intelligent move that sent shivers down my spine.

I stood on the slight incline, within a patch of forest floor where the python’s passage had flattened grasses and shrubs, unable to move, until it appeared to sense my presence and lifting its head, looked towards my direction.

All my previous fears returned then in a flood that washed over me in unending torrents. Soon, when it continued to stare at me with bead like eyes, courage returned, no, not to stay. I turned and would have beat it out of there in a great haste had my uncle not called out to me from his hiding place further back.

“Ogbuagu,” he called out. “Does the lion killer fear the harmless python? Go to him my father and appease he whom you have wronged.”

At his words, my will returned and I began to make my way gingerly towards the python. After a few shaky steps I stopped, still some meters away, turned back to look at my uncle who waved me on. Turning back to face the python whose massive body was directly in front of me, I reached into the oversized goat skin bag strapped on my back and pulled out the wrap of fourteen eggs that was supposed to represent my earthly seasons and placed it, unwrapped, before him while whispering the incantations the Chief Priest forced me to memorize. The priest told me to look into the python’s eye as I did this, and after I over came my initial queasiness, I found it easier than I had expected it to be for the eyes were kind, though without the sort of intelligent spark you would find in an adult. It was more akin to the eyes of a child.

I do not really know how long I stood there or when the first coils entwined me, I only recall being lifted off my feet with the sort of violence only one of with such strength could manage. I think too, that at that point, I think, my uncle screamed my name, but I am not sure for everything was wheeling crazily then.

There I was face to face with my greatest nightmare. The musky smell of the snake choked me and I felt the power in its muscles. I would have screamed had I the breath to as the python was then squeezing me, tighter and tighter until I felt my heart quickening.

I knew I was going to lose consciousness even before everything blacked out.


I woke up in a dark place, I knew I was still me but I knew also that I had a different name. There was no light but I could see quite well. There were others there, some who had been longer than I and others who came after and I could feel, but not really see others arriving. A great multitude, some leave immediately they came, others appear not to be in any great hurry to do same. I wait; I do not know what for, but I feel the need to wait awhile. I do not know how long I waited in that all seeing darkness but just as I knew I had to wait, I suddenly knew I had to leave and quickly too. Not knowing why, I headed toward the direction through which those that were leaving went. I pass a door. It was dark outside too, but not the dark of inside. Beyond the door was a river, I walk towards it overtaking others who left before me in my haste, some murmured their displeasure, I ignored them. By the river a boat stood. As I came up, the last passenger entered and the boat started to pull out. I ran but it was moving fast. I noticed that the river was black, dark enough to stand out in the gloom. My haste overtook me and I tottered, my flaring hands encountering only icy water as I fell into the river, which unfortunately was too powerful for my untrained body. I was been swept away by strong currents. From the boat came movement. Longish body, serpentine, dived in, coming swiftly, towards me. My strength failed, I was going under, I felt a great tug, I was been pulled against the current towards the boat, the boat was there, suddenly. I reached out a weak hand, was pulled up, turned to help my benefactor up, only the serpentine head was already heading towards the shore I stood a few moments before, powerful strokes churning black splays behind it. I turned to the boatman, “why?” I asked, “The boat was already full. He is giving you his turn and asks only that you remember when you get home,” he said. I looked at my arm, there were teeth marks on it but I felt no pain, I lifted my head toward the fast receding shore and beheld the multitude there “I will!” I yelled at the top of my lungs and the echo was relayed a hundred times, louder than I could have managed. As we stepped off the boat, I turned to the boatman and said, “Tell him I will remember.”He nodded his hooded head and said, “He will have to wait another year and even then one can’t be too sure of what one would get, I will tell him your promise.” With that He turned and rowed back to the distant shore and I stepped through the shimmery light ahead of me as others before me had done.


I came to amongst the python’s coils to find my uncle standing a little way off, while the chief priest massaged herbs unto my heaving chest. I looked around in panic to find that the python was still much around and alive, it was then looking at me with that strange glint in its beady eyes and I could swear that it felt concern for me. I raised my left arm and beheld the ten teeth-like birthmarks that had been there always and understood.

“Ogbuagu,” the chief priest said, “I think your debt is paid, only never ignore your totem again, even in your later comings.”

“Yes,” I heard myself say in a voice that was strange to my ears, “it is paid.”

“And the stream,” I asked looking towards the bone of contention which as if in answer was churning loudly as it rushed to fill the gap between it and communal water hole.

“I doubt it will hold any grudge.” He replied, laughter in his voice.

We left the python there, where it lay feasting on the eggs I had brought.
I must confess that I am still nervous around snakes, especially the poisonous variety. Who would not be?



Monday, August 30, 2010

Beauty and the Warlord: Beyond Blood Diamonds

The recent upsurge of interest in the Charles Taylor trial, prompted by the appearance of a runway model, pointed towards one major – even if age old – fact, that the West has a very patronising view of Africa’s problems. 

Though Charles Taylor faces 11 counts of war crimes and crimes against humanity at The Hague, and is the first African president ever to be tried by an international court, the court continues to ignore the fact that Charles Taylor is a product of the western influences that were the main beneficiaries of his activities in Liberia and Sierra Leone.

The trial is proving to be more than just the usual example of the unwieldiness of international justice.  The Liberian civil war and eventually the larger regional war involving four neighbouring countries started on December 24, 1989 when Charles Taylor returned to Liberia, allegedly from Libya, at the head of the then notorious rebel faction, the National Patriotic Front of Liberia (NPFL).

Starting at a time when the west began shrugging of the need to render support to its cold war allies, the wars were mainly financed by commercial entities and transnational organized criminal networks, which provided weapons and a market for resources that sustained military campaigns conducted by both governments and rebel forces.

Exchanging weapons for timber, rubber and gold in Liberia and diamonds in Sierra Leone, these unscrupulous businesses gained from human conflict.  Though the suggestion is of shady groups running around in conflict areas, cutting deals with both sides, the truth is less savoury, for involved were major corporations and some of the world's largest mineral extraction, oil and financial institutions who operate a “see no evil policy”.

Taylor, who became president in 2 August 1997, following a peace deal that ended the Liberian civil war, was at the middle of it all. It was during his term of office that he was first accused of war crimes and crimes against humanity because of his involvement in the Sierra Leone Civil War.

After opposition to his government led to another civil war in Liberia in 1999, international pressure forced him to step down and he went into exile in Nigeria in 2003 from where he was extradited in 2006 at the request of newly elected Liberian President Ellen Johnson Sirleaf to face trial in The Hague. Taylor is accused of war crimes stemming from his involvement in Sierra Leone's 1991-2002 civil war. Prosecutors say he supported the rebel armies Revolutionary United Front (RUF) and the Armed Forces Revolutionary Council (AFRC) by giving them weapons in exchange for rough diamonds, charges denied by Mr Taylor.

One question that resounds in the western media is the one that ponders what Charles Taylor, with his antecedents, was doing at a dinner hosted by a man of Nelson Mandela’s class.  They fail to understand the peculiarities that surround the person of Charles Taylor – When the dinner was held; Charles Taylor had just assumed the presidency of Liberia, a position that was one of the clauses that ended the decade old Liberian civil war.

Charles Taylor was at the party because of the existing unspoken rule that allows a leader like him free reign until he leaves office.  Charles Taylor was enjoying one of the perquisites that leadership of an African state bestows on even the worst leaders a state can throw-up.

Back in 2007, Charles Taylor was the known devil, one whose ascendance to power saved African governments – particularly Nigeria and other West African countries – money spent on peacekeeping missions.  Though his antecedents was known by all the players, they were willing to turn the blind eye, at least for the while, even if that means the escalation of the situation in Sierra Leone where Charles Taylor has more than a transient interest.

Before the recent upsurge, caused by the appearance of supermodel Naomi Campbell and Mia Farrow, others have testified against the warlord turned president.  People that had their limbs amputated, children who were turned into child soldiers or forced into sexual slavery by faction commanders and their fighters have all appeared before the tribunal, bearing tales that shocked as well as inspired.  Constant in their accounts was the story of the involvement of the aforementioned opportunistic businessmen, outsiders who sought profit in diamonds, timber, rubber or weapons on the back of the war.  However, the horrifying testimonies of the victims of Mr. Taylor’s alleged atrocities   attracted marginal coverage in the Western media, until Ms Campbell’s subpoena.

Ms Campbell agreed that she met Charles Taylor at a 1997 dinner in South Africa but stressed that before then she has never heard of him, or of blood diamonds, or of "a country called Liberia.”, a situation that is true of many westerners.

The hope of prosecutors that Naomi Campbell’s appearance would throw further light on Taylor’s deals in conflict diamonds appeared to have come to naught, because, aside from the assumption that the diamonds might have come from Mr Taylor, the testimonies heard could only place Ms Campbell and Mr Taylor at the same dinner party.  The testimonies of Mia Farrow and Carole White, no matter how much overblown by the western media, only further buttresses the fact that without documented evidence, the three year old case against Mr Charles Taylor might turn out to be a monumental waste of the $20 million so far spent.

About $100,000 is being spent on Mr. Taylor's defence each month, paid for by donations from western governments who effectively turned a blind eye while Taylor was committing the crimes he stands accused of today.

Human rights campaigners believe that Taylor’s trial would set an example for Africa and send a strong message to other tyrants and warlords that justice is waiting for them, but we hope that perhaps the tribunal would look beyond the diamonds and focus more on the atrocities.  Perhaps it would look at the fates of two Nigerian journalists, Krees Imodibie of The Guardian and Tayo Awotusin from Daily Champion who were executed by Taylor’s troops, in August 1991 and avail their families and other victims of both Liberian civil wars and the conflict in Siearra Leone some form of compensation.

Another truth, hidden under the institutionalised ignorance to African affairs, is the fact that most Africans do not understand what the term blood diamond means.  To the west, blood diamonds are those that are used to exchange for weapons that are used for conflicts.  To the average African diamonds are novelties that very few people, aside from miners who are too poor to keep them, have held in their hand or have the resources to buy.

Perhaps, it is time to put the real beneficiaries of Africa’s war, international jewellers, miners and the fashion industry, the sources of the dollars that fuelled the wars, on the stand.

Perchance, this time, the prosecutors would look deeper at the circumstances surrounding Taylor’s ‘escape’ from a US jail on 15 September 1985. Taylor’s former associate, now Liberian senator, Prince Yomi Johnson claimed before the country's Truth and Reconciliation Commission on 27 August 2008 that the escape was orchestrated by the United States to engineer the overthrow of the Doe regime, a claim that has been echoed by Mr Taylor in his testimony at his trial in The Hague. Still, any news of US involvement in the wars of Liberia and Sierra Leone would not come as any surprise, at least not in West Africa, where the belief of Taylor being a US lackey has always existed.

Perhaps the court would subpoena American televangelist Pat Robertson who is alleged to have had business dealings with Charles Taylor and reportedly got diamond mining rights from the Warlord.

Perhaps when all these loopholes have been plugged, Africans will start believing the words of the West and maybe, African leaders would have reasons to fear the consequences of their actions.

As for the Taylor case, it transcends the model’s diamonds gift and butchered limbs.
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