I walked all the way, you know. For 90 minutes. There were no buses or Ubers that Saturday morning. I walked through streets where others dutifully waited under canopies. I really stood there, you know — at the dreaded Oba Elegushi Palace, until the officials arrived with boxes. From then, until the very last person cast and the ballot closed, I stood. I tussled, vehemently, with agbado minions, who sought to disrupt the process, who I ultimately pitied: people with evident poverty; bad teeth and nails, who were keen on trading their future for freebies.
I understood them however. I understand that foresight is a privilege; rich people can invest, poor people need to eat today. Continued poverty is the most effective weapon in the hands of our elite. But I really thought there was enough clarity, desperation to turn things around. We could not possibly give another eight years away; we could not think as Yoruba, Igbo or Hausa, but as Nigerians who deserve better. I was wrong. But I was also right, I promise.
Sir, my president did not win the elections. I know who won my polling unit, the polling units across the street, and those across the state, because results were reported by real people in real time. But the gods of Nigeria work in mysterious ways, Sir. In the middle of the night, they make deals, announce victories, assemble in ghoulish babarigas to kill dreams, rehash the past, abort the future.
I really hoped, you know. I nurtured anticipation. I made videos, I did countdowns, I wrote. I urged others to get their PVCs. They would not release mine so I returned every week to inquire. I thought we were about to make a difference , our generation. I thought we could atone for the blood at the toll gate, the indomin hoarded in warehouses, the arrest of our friends, the closure of our schools. It was time, Sir.
I really cared, you know. More, privately. I too was desperate for something, someone to believe in. I really would have given my life if a genie told me it would immediately make life better for my people — if it would give the kids at Obalende better education, if perhaps some people could gain the power to determine their own destinies, turn their lives around; if that aged woman could get the insulin she needs; if that girl under the bridge could keep her legs; if that boy could eat an egg.
But who am I, Sir? My life means nothing.
My president did not win the elections. But my mentors work for him now. The courts have courted, the lawyers have lied. The paid activists have gaslighted. The greatest injustice of my lifetime is now a blur, a haze. The denouement is here, we are in the endgame now. But we are not avenging, we are defeated, docile. Our backs are forced against the wall, and because we are Nigerians, we have chiseled through this wall and retreated even further. Once again, we are thanking God for “at least”.
Sir, some young people are broken in the head too. It breaks my heart. What am I to do if people believe the supernatural causes or solves macroeconomic problems; that their prayers keep them safe from fantastical Nigerian mishaps — from collapsing lifts, bullets fired at trains, explosives that detonate in neighborhoods, bridges that give way? They confess that there is nothing their god cannot do in the morning, then walk into a Nigerian day of utter impossibility.
What am I to do if after all we have been through, people hold their delusions closer than ever — if they still think along religious and tribal lines? What am I to do to make everyone fight for everyone else, to see that injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere? What am I to do about sheer idiocy? If people believe the Israel in the news is that of the Bible, what can I do for them? How can I stop the squabbles, infighting; how do I defeat the deeply self centered core of my people? Sir, I cannot convince enough people that Nigeria is a fruitful farm for one united, self-serving elite.
But if I did, what would they do? What would be different? Ultimately, if some people have the power to blatantly rig elections and get away with it, they will continue to. No preparations or permutations will change anything.
What am I to do, Sir? Am I to level Aso Rock, or fill Makoko? Am I to protest and be shot at? And have my runaway killer hailed on the runway?
How fast can I run if I were to rally the naira, or keep up with exponentially rising prices, or generate power for industry? If I shine my ultralight fiercely, will it light homes? I just got rich, Sir, how much charity can I do? How many great things are really being done from small places? How much more would a good government do? Am I to resuscitate the parastatals, agencies? How many consumers can I protect? Does the rice we have at home bounce when it is folded into a ball? Am I really lactose intolerant? Can you check the spelling of our Amoy sauce? Can I review some tomato purée? Would I have freedom after speech? Would I not be “invited for questioning”?
But what more can I say, be told? What new arguments can I make, what difference would they make? What books should be written? How many more songs can be sung? What tenses would Achebe use? Where would Fela begin? What did Stella Adadevoh die for? When will Taiwo Akinkunmi be buried?
It is the first year of eight, Sir. I need marijuana and a visa.
I need a visa, Sir. I beg you. Here are my bank statements. Here are my salary invoices. I have (borrowed) money. Here are my invites, my criminal records, my health results. I will not run away se. Eh, how high should I jump, how low should I bend? Take me, please. I queued for hours with countless others. Look at them, green as their passports. I will not tell any of them about my visa status until I post crisp pictures from the other side. Ah, in my grey sweatshirt and my white bottom canvas. Won ma gba. Please open your gate, Sir. So I can open your gates, wash your aged, pack your bags. And between shifts, make silly, thankless monologues for the internet. Because deep down, I am disillusioned and lonely.
I need smoke and drink, please. Can I have some Indian and Scottish? Can you increase the volume of that please? Can it be my friend, distract me from survivor’s guilt? Can we have some light skinned shake their booties on this cruise? Yes, I am Nigerian. Oh no, I am the exception. Haha, yes my president changed the anthem last week and slipped at a parade this week. I cannot keep up. Yes, I know Burna Boy. Can we discuss afrobeats while I show you some moves? And when you bend to take me, can I feel this blonde hair? Can I look up to my ancestors and feel proud? They knelt so you would. Yes, this is my immigrant dream.
Perhaps I too should leave for Lagos in December and trigger a small inflation. And expect the local baddies to show some respect. How much is a pound now? I am Nigerian rich.
Sir, can you let me waste away and think about myself? I made it out, I don’t care. No Sir, I do not.
I wanted my life to mean something, you know. I too wanted to stop all the violence committed by the strong against the weak, and I hoped to be intelligent and young and powerful that I could almost achieve that. But like Marianne in that book, I realize that I am not powerful. I will live and die in a world of extreme violence and injustice, and at most I can only help a few people. And sometimes, it is so hard to reconcile myself to the idea of helping a few; I too would rather help no one than do something so small and feeble.
But I am Nigerian, so the world revolves around my family and friends, at least and at most. The rest of you should help yours. Ahem, waiter, bring some casamigos for my amigos. Aboki, wire some Queen Elizabeth to Mummy DJ, my baby girl in Akure, Ololade mi in Lekki Phase 1. Awon temi ni yen. Please say a prayer with me: may this administration favour me and my family; when others say there is a falling down, I will say there is a climbing up. Or how is it said?
Happy Democracy Day, Nigeria.
