… where sa-tyres never go flat
… where sa-tyres never go flat
It is often said that governance is about roads, security, and economic growth, but that is the thinking of mere mortals. True immortality is not only built with cement and policy; it is also constructed with plaques, marble signs, and rebranded signposts. A monument does not become national until it answers to a name worthy of national awakening, preferably in capital letters.
Of course, some “critics”, the usual people who don’t appreciate excellence in ego, have called it “sycophantic,” “tone-deaf,” and “grossly undemocratic.” Imagine! Just because we renamed a road or ten! These people clearly don’t understand that Nigeria is now a brand, and every brand needs consistency. Especially when the roads are not.
Two years ago, we welcomed His Excellency, President Bobo the Bold, into the sacred chambers of Aso Rock. A man of vision, they said. A builder who has built the best state amongst its contemporaries. A man of action, they proclaimed. And indeed, action we have seen, though perhaps not the kind we anticipated.
The Neanderthal stepped out of his cave. It was a good cave. No, it was a beautiful cave. It was a beautiful cave, deep with many rooms. It was the best of all caves.
Since taking power in September 2022 (read: gentle, consensual coup), Traoré has become the patron saint of Africa’s favourite social media genre: revolutionary cosplay. He is what would happen if Thomas Sankara and an Instagram filter had a baby. But don’t let that distract you from the facts. Or actually, do—because they’re not important.
This pot has seen things. It has seen me boil water I had no intention of using, just to convince my body that life was happening. It has seen me cook noodles with only pepper and pride. It has seen me measure crayfish like diamonds, count seasoning cubes like votes. My pot knows the weight of scarcity. It knows that sometimes, hunger is not a feeling. It’s a timeline.
When occasions call and yam is involved, fathers shun off their crying precious daughters—their once-upon-a-time apple of the eyes—and they sheepishly welcome a few tubers of yam to their mortar. Gbegiri, egusi and assorted will accompany the daughter’s dowry on the journey of no return.
People are raised to believe suffering is spiritual. They’re told to fast their way through emotional abuse, and to forgive predators if they can quote Psalm 91. We have glorified silence and called it submission. And because nobody wants to offend “men of God,” many people suffer in silence, hiding wounds under long skirts and choir uniforms.
If you’re the smooth talker, your job is simple: form alliances, overuse words like “representation” and “inclusivity,” and write long WhatsApp broadcasts nobody will read. If you’re the tyrant, be prepared to threaten, manipulate, and intimidate—yes, even your own campaign team. Either way, nothing must actually change on campus under your administration. That’s the golden rule.
“Guy, ask about me, I dey craze gan o,” the first man would assert. To which the second man would say, “Na where your madness stop, my own begin o!” That should have been my first clue that something was terribly wrong. How could sane people want to be mad so much?
