Got a short story "Alaye" published in StoryTime

It was still dark enough for the neon lights to reflect off the paved road, throwing crooked shadows off potholes that scattered like puckered pox scares on the coal-black tarmac.

Across the road, to the left of an abused public toilet, a huddled figure lay, prone, dead to a sleeping world.

From afar, the weak light failed to hide calluses and deep cracks, which could only have resulted from walking bare foot for months on end, on the figures feet. Large, mutant-like mosquitoes can be clearly seen perched on the exposed softer areas of the feet, which strangely, was a little further up the foot than normal. The mosquitoes sported distended tummies and swaggered with the delirium of the high that comes from ingesting too much human fluid.

The figure, a man judging by his built, appeared to be immune to the bites of these giant vampires, for apart from the occasional gentle heave of chest, he lay perfectly still.

An attentive watcher, coming closer, would also notice the way his patched lips seemed to move in silent mime to whatever song was playing in his dream world.

The sleeping man, haggled by a thousand internal demons, turned involuntary in dreamy stirrings that revealed an impossibly deep wound on his shin. The wound was fetid and crawling with maggots.

The wound had probably gotten to that stage beyond pain for the man’s stirrings pressed it on the jagged side of a broken pavement stone, and a darkish red liquid ran off and formed a small spreading puddle beside the stone.

A few feet away, loomed a sprawling mountain of refuse, which bestowed a peculiar fragrance over the entire scene.

Beyond this, was the bridge; huge and grey, a solid testimony to man’s engineering genius. The bridge, a traffic interchange that links the road from the airport to the one from the port and both to three others, from afar, appears nondescript, without identity, a lonely sentinel, with only the earth base and dirty canal water for comfort. But closer, it took on a distinct identity, calling attention to its animate family, and silently attested to its right to be called home by those who take solace and shelter under its concrete wings; the so-called homeless who have found a home where none but the earth can rightfully claim to own.

Read more here

The Prince and his “stubborn” ways

That Sanusi Lamido Sanusi, the governor of the Central Bank of Nigeria (CBN), is a stubborn man is something Nigerians have come to realise. His penchant for sticking to his ideals even in the face of widespread opposition has assumed legendary renown.

Sanusi, a blue-blooded scion of Kano Royalty, does not back down from his convictions and has over the years shown that he possesses very sound judgement, as his convictions continues to stand the test of time. In February, Sanusi refused to heed the International Monetary Fund’s advice to devalue the Naira, stating that the recommendation was “internally inconsistent”. Before then, he had faced-off the Nigerian senate, refusing their demand that he withdraw a statement by him that 25% of government recurrent expenditure is spent on them.

That the future later proved Sanusi right on both occasions says a lot about the man’s capabilities as an administrator. The Naira, it turns out, didn’t need any tinkering -- at least not the kind the IMF envisaged -- and the Senate later admitted, albeit reluctantly, that his statements “were close to the truth”. In Sanusi Lamido Sanusi, it appears, Nigeria has found the right sort of person to administer the Central Bank, someone who would not sell-out, or swallow IMF directives without investigating their merits.

However, Sanusi is currently facing the strongest opposition yet, in his attempt to improve the Nigerian banking sector. This time, the opposition bears the dreaded religious colours, as the Christian Association of Nigeria (CAN) is asking that plans to introduce Islamic -- non-interest -- banks be shelved. According to CAN, led by the garrulous Ayo Oritsejiafor, the introduction of Islamic banking in Nigeria is tantamount to turning the secular country into an Islamic state, and is at par with the listing of Nigeria as a member of the Organisation of Islamic Countries (OIC) during the heady days of military rule.

“The problem is this;” says Oritsejiafor, “what the original CBN Act, or whatever it was, it says was non-interest banking. The original thing was just non-interest banking. Islamic banking is just one kind among many other kinds of non-interest banking. So, why would CBN, an organization, an institution that represents the Federal Government, which is an institution that represents all Nigeria zero in on only one kind of non-interest banking. This is the problem with Sanusi and his idea.”

Oritsejiafor’s statements were echoed by another Christian leader of high standing, the Archbishop of Lagos, olubunmi Okogie, who said, "We are against the operation of Islamic banking in Nigeria because we see it as another deliberate move to subjugate Christians in Nigeria. Nigeria is a secular state. We must be very sensitive to the religious beliefs of others.”

As expected, Sanusi is not budging and the CBN, amidst the furore, granted its first preliminary licence to Stanbic IBTC Bank Plc to provide Islamic banking services to the Nigerian populace. Stanbic IBTC is expected to commence Islamic banking within six months, according to the CBN, failure of which the licence becomes void, requiring that the bank reapply to the CBN for similar licence.

Sanusi has so far played down the dissenting voices by stressing that the principles of Islamic and other forms of none-interest banking is geared towards the uplift of the masses, who usually find the interest rates of conventional banking exorbitant.

As it appears, Islamic banking does not preclude a Christian from benefiting from its non-interest products. Sanusi is again right, Islamic Banking, which is already being practiced in other secular countries, is here to stay and if all goes according to plan, Nigeria will be the better for it. This is yet another chalk mark on the winning board of the “stubborn” prince.

Election results, did Celebrations begin too early?

As citizen’s reports came in via social media after Nigeria’s parliamentary election, a mass euphoria resounded across cyberspace, carried by tweets, facebook posts, blogs and the myriad Nigerian internet sites, clearly buttressing earlier predictions that social media will play a major role in the April elections.

People who are not familiar with the Nigerian situation must have wondered at that much hoopla on account of a parliamentary election results, but the excitement is not misplaced. The celebration was not purely on account of an assumed widespread defeat of the ruling party, the Peoples Democratic Party (PDP),but was hinged on the belief that votes, for the first time in a generation’s lifetime was allowed to count, and the hope that years of underdevelopment; high unemployment rate; decayed infrastructure and a general feeling of hopelessness in an otherwise endowed nation, may be at an end.

The celebrations were also an indictment of an under-performing ruling class, who many held responsible for the status quo and who, they feel, had not used 12 years of political dominance to address the rot in the system.

The spread of the celebrations in social media, not just cutting across social status, gender, age and tribe, shows that the longing for change is a common denominator in the country, and that this change is a very welcomed.

However, as time went on to show, the celebrations, largely on account of presumed PDP losses, started too soon. By the evening of Sunday April 10, a day after the election, the euphoria began to fade as the Independent National Electoral Commission (INEC) released the official results, which showed that the citizen’s reports were not as accurate as many had hoped they would be.

While the citizen’s report remained largely accurate in the south west, they were more farfetched in the North, South South and South East, especially early reports that had the senate President David Mark losing to Lawrence Onoja. In addition, the initial reports that the PDP no longer dominates in the parliament turned out to be not so true after all. The PDP did lose much more than it has ever done in the election, but managed to maintain its dominance of the South South and South East, while posting a very strong showing in the North East and Middle Belt.

Back to the old days

The election results from the South West did not come as a surprise to many keen watchers of the Nigerian political terrain. The zone is not just the current home base of the clearly formidable Action Congress of Nigeria (ACN) but has always been known to lean towards political entities on which it could exert some level of control, especially if that entity is progressive minded. The zone also appeared for some time now, to be longing for the days of Alliance for Democracy (AD), which until the 2003 elections controlled the zone.  

However, much credit should be given to youths for the major role they played in helping ACN carry much of the South West in the last election. While the desire of the various youth led groups, most based in Lagos, is primarily to ensure the April election is free and fair, the hype they created is responsible for the extra awareness that prompted many elites and ordinary Nigerians who have never voted before to turn up and vote.

It would also suffice to add here that the South West is the bastion of the traditional media and new media - wielded by millions of passionate and youthful advocates for good governance - as such; incidences of rigging and voter coercion were reduced to the minimal.

Clinging to the old ways

The South East, which have been suffering from culturally entrenched migrations for decades, does not have the luxury of a vibrant youth movement and media presence consist largely of government owned TV stations and moribund newspapers that are more akin to newsletters. As such, the new media influence that played a large role in the South West situation was largely lacking.

Also, a different political structure exists in the south East, and does too in the South South. Perhaps that is why the results of the parliamentary election did not stray very far from the norm in both zones, as did the usual incidents of ballot snatching, before and during the elections.

Presently, from INEC records, states in the zones mentioned; Imo, Delta and Bayelsa, had the highest incident of ballot snatching during last Saturday’s elections.

An intriguing North

While the South West seem to have gone back to the old ways and the South East and South South sticking to their known devils, the North appear to be evolving in a different direction. Perhaps the situation in the North, where no clear political Direction that would have made predictions on the presidential election easier currently exists, is occasioned by the fact that three of the four most prominent presidential aspirants are from the zone. This zone is usually known to collectively back a consensus candidate during presidential elections in the past, not having one in this dispensation may be a sign of a willingness to depart from the part and enter a new era. However, some see this lack of traditional collective will as a blessing in disguise, if not for them, them for the ruling party, which stands to benefit from a divided vote – something it has already done, judging from last Saturday’s results.

Reason enough to celebrate

Though the CPC made very good inroads into areas that PDP used to control, the PDP still came out of the race as overall winner, with more seats in both houses than all the other parties combined. The PDP’s overall count, does not however give it the type of clear majority it used to enjoy, as a combined force of the other parties will dampen its influence on both houses - that is still worth celebrating.

The current standing, as it applies to much of the South West, North West and North East, shows an entrenchment of democratic ideals that Nigerians have prayed for for years, one that allows for people's vote to count. In the South East and South South, one cannot  honestly say this laudable change holds, and this is not because of the wins of the ruling party, but because of the situation on the ground and this is the horror that exists.

If at this moment, when the South East clearly lacks a political leader with national reckon, South Eastern politics is still bedevilled by intrigues like the one between ACN’s Senatorial candidate Chris Ngige and APGA’s Dora Akunyili, then we clearly have much more to do before the celebration really begins.

If in the South South, the politics that holds is like the one whose passing Nigerian celebrated after the parliamentary polls, then we not only celebrated too early, but are not looking at the bigger picture, which should capture the emancipation of every inch of Nigeria.

But then, there are clear cut reasons to celebrate and anyone who placed thumb on paper with a clear conscience on Saturday should celebrate. The walls are crumbling; the people of Nigeria have proven that they are ready to for the present realities of this world. Votes did count, even if not everywhere, but they counted in a greater spread than they have in 12 years, and that is worth hearty “congratulobias”.

Gradually, we are taking our affairs into our own hands and will, in time, prevail, even in those areas that are still lagging behind, especially if we do not forget them.

No, when everything is taken into consideration, we did not celebrate too early.

N/B
this piece was penned right after the parliamentary elections and though unpublished until now, till packs some truth.

The politics of bombs and voters wooing

It is election season in Nigeria. Surely, everyone – even those not usually concerned about things of that nature – must know that. Constant adverts on TV, Billboards and posters, pasted on buildings and streetlights – which by the way, break the very law politicians swear to uphold – make sure ones attention – no matter how unwilling – is drawn in and held.

Just like Christmas spirit afflicts the very air, election fever chokes the very essence of the country. The main actors, those who have more stake in the scheme of things – those a seasoned writer, whose name is jumbled with hundreds of other names – great and not – in the recess of my mind, called “the political class” – are out in force. Like in the not-too-distance past, they are all jostling for the right to govern our very existence, to impose their will us for another four years – which essentially, is what leadership in these climes entail.

Though the fever is yet to peak, the usual bloodletting, which many had hoped would not play out this time around, has already claimed Nigerian lives. Early March, at a PDP rally in Suleja, Niger State, Nigeria, the culture of indiscriminate bombing – Middle East style – was introduced to the Nigerian political equation.  This new tactic is a very clear departure from the old method of eliminating opponents via assassinations. Opponents, it would seem, are still the target of this new tactic, which appear to be an indirect attempt to scare away potential voters.

In suleja, 10 lives were untimely sent to the greater beyond. For what? Does stopping the election of one man justify the taking of human lives? NO! I say, not by a long shot.

While I do not seek to hold brief for the crop of people that call themselves politicians in Nigeria, who mostly lack a sustainable plan to move even a small local government forward, not to talk of a state or the Nigerian nation, it is imperative that we reassess ourselves. We need to call to mind those core values that used to be our bastion – whatever happened to being our brother’s keeper – and I very much doubt if there is any glory in planting bombs that go off when the perpetrator(s) is too far away to be harmed. That, I believe, is the height of cowardice.

There is no gainsaying the fact that the perpetrator(s) of this and similar heinous crimes against the Nigerian nation need to face hard-hitting justice, at least now we have the anti-terrorism law in effect, some examples need to be set.

This assertion should not read as exonerative to either opposition forces. Violence, it seems, is one thing the Nigerian politicians do not have in short supply. They swagger around during campaigns with a “do or die” mien that signals their intention to take on all comers. They buy thugs indiscriminately and sponsor same to follow them around in motorcades that remind one more of an all-conquering army advancing against enemies, than a peaceful political movement heading to actualise our collective dreams. The bitter truth is, if they devote half the resources they put into seeking for votes and strategising new rigging methods into the job of governance, Nigeria would be a much better place to live in.

The present state of Nigeria calls for us all to not just be onlookers. We should do more than pray for change, we should make change happen. The Nigerian youths have already proven that they have the power to make things work for them in a very oppressive environment, need I point out the growth of the Nigerian Movie, Music, comedy industry, and upcoming, the literary arts. Perhaps it’s time we transfer this ingenuity to the political arena, by not just voting in the right leaders, but constantly snapping at their heels to keep them on the right track thereafter.

first published in www.dailytimesng.com


Related articles

• Bomb explodes at PDP rally, killing at least 14, in Suleja, near Abuja (saferafricagroup.com)

Behind the Painted Faces

I had been in her room for 30 minutes, inhaling the sweet, lavender flavoured scent that intermittently wafted out from the electronically operated air freshener on the far wall.

Having spent that long holding back a need to empty my Gordon Sparks distended bladder, I requested to use her bathroom. As she pointed towards the door, a glint of something, perhaps unease, flittered past her eyes; more intent on answering nature’s call, I didn’t dwell on that.

It was only when I entered the well appointed, pink tiled bathroom that I began to understand that brief look of hers. Arranged in an order that I, the cosmetic novice, would never understand, were rows of bottles, tubes and palates—enough cosmetics to keep a little corner shop in business for long while.

Through with my nature call, I moved a little closer and my awed eyes flowed past a hundred names. Now, they were not in singles, as each brand name found expression in powders – cakes and conventional, lipsticks, lip-glosses, eye shadows, hair relaxers, hair treatment creams, conditioners, hair sprays, deodorants, perfumes and hair removal creams. Some I could understand; even explain, but the ones that lined a lower, somewhat hidden shelf, defied grasp. Prominent among them was a L’Oreal breast lifting gel, two brands of tummy tightening creams, a buttocks firming cream, a face lift cream.

There were more, tucked further back in the shelves and peeking from the corners of bags hanging from hooks, by the side of the same overstocked shelf. Wow! I was really impressed.

I went back to the room, now knowing the look I had received earlier, to meet a stoic faced friend, who couldn’t help but act like I had caught her stealing meat from a pot of egusi. I knew deep within me that the low-keyed conversation that followed had a lot to do with what I had seen and this got me pondering on the battle she endures to look better everyday

What is it about today’s women and the need to coat up everything with layers of cosmetics?

What happened to the conventional dab of power and touch of lipstick?

Clear answers elude me, but I can sniff hints from the women I see on the streets every day, looking like art pieces on an abstract canvas. What with the way they match up colours and re-invent the natural lines of the face. Geniuses, I called them, but that was before I stumbled into every woman’s secret in my uptown lady friend’s bathroom. Artists they might be, but their art is fakery, superimposed upon a canvas – their faces – better appreciated in its natural state.

I admit to being unapologetically old school, especially where it concerns female beauty. I do not believe that letting my woman experiment with any new fad and accompanying her to salons, spas and whatnot identifies me with women’s’ lib; there are better ways to cut that, I think. Perhaps if women really knew what men want, they would save themselves the stress and money it takes to look like the modern woman.

We, even those modern-thinking brothers my female friends are wont to compare me with, like those lipsticks sparse. Why, because it saves us those embarrassing smudges that tell tales we’d rather keep to ourselves. I am yet to meet a man that understands the need for those coloured eye shadows that women tend to wear, sometimes matching shoes, wristwatches, clothes and even the colour of their cars.

Consider the mini supermarket in my friend’s bathroom. One might understand the need for some, less physically endowed persons, to maximise their looks through application of cosmetics, but that is hardly the case with our babes, as use cuts across all strata.

I have seen the ridiculous, the humorous and the downright stupid; facial paints that can easily compete with the greatest works by Da Vinci and others that remind one of the worst of Hammer House of Horror – those ones that make you want to run and hide when you encounter their bearer at night. What about those fillers – they call them foundation – used to patch up every foreseeable smudge. Walahi, a well-heeled modern woman carries around, on her body, more chemicals than NNPC can readily identify.

I know our ladies will never agree to toe this line, I mean, give up on this drive to cosmetologise (na my gift to oyinbo language, leave am dia) their existence – well, that’s how I explain the craze – but the plea is for them to simmer it down, at least.

As I remarked to my uptown lady friend, you mustn’t all be artists and panel beaters to look good, joo.

Published in 234next.com on December 12, 2010

Before we dismiss EFCC’S list

Image via Wikipedia

I read with interest, not just the list of ‘corrupt’ politicians recently released to political parties by the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC), but also the comments posted to the web by others who read the list before me and felt like venting.

For most of the commentators, the grouse is not the amount of money – staggering by the way – that those who made the illustrious list are alleged to have pilfered from our collective pocket, but with the EFCC, for having the temerity to conceive of such ill-thought-out-list in the first place. They barraged the commission for allowing itself be a tool in the hands of politicians who want to keep perceived opponents from challenging them in the polls.

The leaning of most of the commentators did not come as much of a surprise, for I have come to associate my countrymen with that unequalled ability to look but see very little, an ability that stems from an uncanny compulsion to defend those who common knowledge depicts as the chain holding our collective will in perpetual enslavement.

While it is not my intention to hold brief for EFCC, I however find something fundamentally wrong with Nigerians who allow themselves be constantly beclouded by politicians and their antics. A say this because the EFCC rightly called the list and ‘advisory’ one. As such, the list as presently constituted, is supposed to provide information about individuals who have cases to answer in court, to political parties that may want to field them in the 2011 general elections.

True, these individuals remain innocent until proven guilty. However, one thinks it is in the interest of the political parties and the electorate to know the status of people who might be interested in public office. On the other hand, if we all pander to the argument that asks that they remain unnamed, if elected, wouldn’t some guilty ones (again) enjoy the immunity that comes with political office, thereby defeating the aims and objectives of the EFCC.  

I don’t know, but it seems we as a country have become so used to corrupt leaders that thoughts of not having them in power elicits in some a mild kind of madness.

I believe the EFCC is bent on preventing the situation highlighted above and should be commended for having the will to draw up the list as it is.

As for those on the list, I doubt if they have any reasons to worry, if they are innocent, for the innocent have no reason to fear the law. However, something of import should be said here, cases against some of the accused that would have been concluded a long time ago, continue to drag as they (the accused) continue to use every available legal loopholes to prolong it. It is instructive to note that, had they allowed the cases to run at a natural phase, they probably would be free men now.

I do not really know any of these people on a personal basis, perhaps with the exemption of Ndudi Elemulu, who I was opportune to meet while serving as a NYSC member in his home town and Chimaroke Nnamani who held sway over my home State Enugu for eight, perhaps, not very productive years, so I will not presume to know the strength of their moral character. That said, I gladly leave decisions about their guilt to the law courts. However, I dare to state that anyone with a sense of decency would have fought tooth and nail to clear a good name, not fight to postpone the outcome of a case that seeks to clarify just that.

Nigerian politicians seem to lack positive ambition, not that they are not ambitious in other ways, as they seem very interested momentary gains. Most are willing to grab what they can without recourse to posterity. I usually cringe, when I recall the euphoria that greeted the emergence of Chimaroke Nnamani as governor of Enugu state in 1999. I was among those who saw the young medical doctor as a breath of fresh air. I believed, with his charisma and education, that he would ascend to the national pinnacle after serving Enugu state, but I believed in a dream that probably did not believe in itself as Chimaroke, the EFCC claims, went on to steal N5.3 Billion from Enugu state’s coffers and effectively constrained  himself to the dregs of Nigerian politics. I am yet to hear of a bill the supposed senator sponsored in the years he has so far spent in the that not-very-much hallowed chambers.

As for Elumelu, I really cannot say. For a young man whom I recall, as chairman of the House Committee on Power, seemed to embody the new Nigerian spirit, especially during the public hearings for his power probe, a EFCC indictment for corruption does all kind of harm to his image. Like I said before, I know him too sparingly to be a better judge of his character, but I still feel the disappointment of believing in his star too. I hope the allegations against him turn out to be false, so we don’t get to ask of him, “where is our money?”

Let all those in the list have their day in court. They should stop running away and clear their names as Fani-Kayode is trying to do, and if they cannot, they can always swallow their collective pride and follow the Lucky Igbinedion, and recently, Ibru example – Plea-bargaining, that great gift the law provided for criminals everywhere.

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

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? “

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?