where sa-tyres never go flat
where sa-tyres never go flat
There’s no prestige in dying in Gwarimpa General Hospital. If you want a proper state burial, the type that pauses governance for 48 hours and halts businesses in the name of a public holiday, you must die abroad — ideally in London. That’s where the real state funerals begin. The mystery of flying out sick and returning only in a body bag allows the state to control the story.
In the beginning, there was earth. Then came the first Nigerian governor, who looked upon this earth and said, “Let there be road.” And behold, there was road. And it was good. For exactly seventeen days.
We are not like those places where a father rules from his thirties till his death and then hands over to his son. Our dictators here fuck you up nicely; they would put on a smile that would make you disbelieve the evils they do in secret.
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.
Once upon a happenstance, the people of the valley where the sun rises were beset by all forms of marginalisation, subjugation, intimidation, exploitation and all other —tions that bode despair. They were treated like strangers — nay, pariahs — in their own country. Who would blame them for seeking to break away and forge a new path? There is a limit to what a people can endure.
The last time I coughed, I looked around to confirm that Banku was not at my back to demand a tax. Anything you do here, you must pay for it. This is how we live in the Bolebaji community. The only thing Banku and his bloodthirsty boys are satisfied you do for free is shedding tears of agony. Tears of joy are not free.
Before long, Nigeria, with its wealth of experience in the fine art of fighting corruption will extend its Masterclass to many African countries—because who is better to lead the charge than a seasoned expert in the field?
My grandfather? A jolly old chap he is! But he forbids politics and all government-related palavers. Such things bother him a great deal. Only two things matter to him – pool betting and palm wine. He is simple like that. Anyhow, when I got home and my grandfather pulled me aside to lament how the hardship caused by some imbecile government policies had affected pool betting and the price of palm wine, I knew there was trouble.
