By: Ekene Ezebuike
It is truly amazing what hunger can do to the human psyche. As Nigerians gradually gear up to resort to open grazing, I decided to travel to my ancestral home in search of greener pastures. Do not laugh, please. I figured there would be more edible grasses and, if I am lucky, vegetables in the village. But it was not only hunger that forced me to travel home. I wanted to spend some time with my grandfather.
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. Real trouble! Since he forbids political discussions and government hocus-pocus, he spoke strictly in parables.
‘Have you heard of the Parable of the Shrewd Father?’ he asked as he took off his pair of glasses, which he only wears to forecast and search the system for bankers.
‘No, Papa,’ I replied, sitting up.
‘Well, listen then. I’ll tell you. A shrewd father once decided to cut household expenses in order to save up money for more important family needs. He made his wife and children eat only once or twice daily. Medicine was replaced with herbal concoctions and prayers, while for clothing, boutiques were ditched in favour of thrift shops. And so the shrewd father was able to save a substantial amount of money with which he bought himself a very important thing – a Rolex!’
All my efforts at persuading my grandfather to reveal the true identity of this inconsiderate father or how the parable relates to the current state of the nation failed. He merely asked me to use my tongue to count my teeth as he put his pair of glasses back on to resume his search for hidden draws. My grandfather can be strange like that, but I like him.
That night, when I retired to bed, I found it difficult to sleep. The elusive meaning of the Parable of the Shrewd Father kept me awake. When sleep finally came towards the early hours of dawn, it was laden with strange dreams. First, I was the president addressing the nation via a televised broadcast, and then I became a lamassu-like creature bursting with energy. And suddenly, I heard my grandfather’s voice:
‘You must take flight immediately and, from the sky, observe what is going on in Nigeria and report back to me right away.’
I was confused because my grandfather does not care for all the national, political nonsense. I was about to ask him if he was sure, but he was gone. So I flapped my wings, and in a few seconds, I was soaring over the length and breadth of my beloved country.
First, I arrived in Lagos. And from the sky, I observed long queues in all the filling stations within sight. Then I saw NNPCL’s Vice President (downstream), Dapo Segun, sweating profusely as he addressed a restive crowd. Mele Kyari stood at a safe distance and merely watched.
‘Be patient with us,’ Dapo pleaded. ‘Shango and Amadioha conspire to sabotage our efforts to make fuel available to Nigerians. The incessant rains, lightning, and thunderstorms are behind the fuel scarcity. We have set up a standing committee to look into the matter and find appropriate ways of appeasing the unpatriotic deities. Soon, there will be fuel in abundance, and the treacherous gods will be put to shame. We are aware that this act of sabotage is aimed at toppling the government. But it won’t work!’
I was about to change direction when a confused-looking fellow asked Dapo Segun if the standing committee would be given a sitting allowance amidst the hardship in the country. The NNPCL executive ignored him. An old woman tugged at the shirt of the confused-looking fellow and explained to him that since it was a standing committee, they would not require a sitting allowance. Then, a frail old man asked Dapo to explain the difference between fuel subsidy and shortfall. He dabbed off perspiration from his forehead with his immaculate white handkerchief and muttered something. I am not sure whether it was renewed despair or renewed hope he mentioned, but the crowd went wild with rage. I did not wait to see what happened next.
Shortly after, I was soaring over the Presidential Villa in Abuja. Wow! Looking at it from the sky, it was a great display of wealth and splendour! At the entrance of the Villa, I saw His Excellency addressing newsmen, unaccompanied by aids and security operatives. I could not believe my eyes. To be sure, I flew at a low altitude, and behold, it was His Excellency himself. His unmistakable trademark cap extinguished all my doubts.
‘Be patient with us,’ His Excellency urged the newsmen. ‘Our anti-people policies will soon begin to yield dividends. Tighten your belts and persevere a little longer. To say my father told me is to swear the greatest oath. I am your father, and I cannot lie to you. It is beneath the president to tell lies. What are my media aids and numerous spokespersons paid for? Such tasks as telling lies and reeling off misleading statistics are reserved for them. The president cannot lie.’
One of the newsmen raised his hand to ask a question, but His Excellency ignored him and continued with his monologue:
‘I told you I would hit the ground running. Did I not do so at Eagle Square during the celebration of Democracy Day? Be patient. We will keep all of our promises. All of them! As for the fuel scarcity, I will hold a meeting with the Honorable Minister of Petroleum Resources, who is, by the way, my humble self. We will have a closed-door meeting to address the issue. But the ‘shortfall or subsidy’ semantic palaver will not be discussed. We don’t want the meeting to end in deadlock, do we? It’s not a meeting between the Federal Government and ASUU. It’s a meeting between me and my humble self. Rest assured, Ajuri Ngalele and Bayo Onanuga will release a joint statement, after a brief fight, to inform Nigerians of the outcome of the meeting.’
As the newsmen were about to fire missiles of questions at His Excellency, he vanished, leaving a cloud of dust behind. Then, I changed direction again and found myself in Kano. As I hovered over the ancient city, a particular sight caught my attention. An Islamic scholar was addressing a group of students in an alley. The students had empty bowls in their hands.
‘We have been sentenced to eight years of imprisonment,’ he announced painfully as he adjusted his babariga. ‘We have successfully served just over one year. So, we have less than seven years remaining. We must remain civilised and patriotic. Protests and complaints will only compound our woes. If Allah wills it, after serving four years, we might be released on parole on account of good behaviour. Allah will not forsake us.’
At this point, the pitiless sun was beginning to sap my energy. So, I decided to fly back home to tell my grandfather all I had seen. Then I flew even higher into the sky, and behold, I saw the Niger Delta. I was drawn by the majestic creeks. I glided over narrow rivers blackened with oil. As I flew further into the hinterlands, I came across what looked like a big ceremony.
I came down to a lower altitude and realised it was the burial ceremony of a very important chief. An Amanyanagbo, I think. A truly moving sight it was! Misty-eyed mourners wailed violently and rolled about on the floor. I was moved to tears by this great show of grief. I landed immediately, and my arrival was heralded with both fanfare and ululation. Then, I was taken to a special table, away from the dirty mourners. The table was labelled IOCs. There, I was served a big bowl of starch and a plate of Banga soup filled with fresh fish and large chunks of beef. I unbuckled my belt, which I had kept fastened very tight in line with the directive of His Excellency.
Just then, I woke up to a loud bang on the door to my room. It was my grandfather. He had come to summon me to partake in his early morning breaking of kola nut and pouring of liquor to our forebears for protection and strength to face the challenges of a new day. I stumbled out of my room, my mind clouded with thoughts of starch and banga soup and fresh fish and IOCs. What a sad ending! The things being a Nigerian can do to one’s psyche.
Ekene Ezebuike is a keen observer of the kaleidoscope that is Nigeria. His opinion articles have been published on theeagleonline.com, promptnewsonline.com, opinionnigeria.com, etc. He can be reached via mystaheze@gmail.com.
