AKE FESTIVAL 2015: Of Gods of Hymens and Fucking Vaginas

The Gods of Ake Festival 2015 usually have lunch together upstairs and then trickle down, not together as a bunch of broom, but sparingly like falling inches of salt and merge seamlessly with multitudes of mere mortals.

You are not a God. You are one among the numerous mortals. Those ones that queue up in a flash to garner low-cost bargains of books on the Etisalat Longlist. Those ones that visit the Ake Bookstore, admire covers of the array of books in display, marvel that you crossed the same doorway with ‘the author of this one’ earlier, feel the subtleness of the book covers, weigh the straddle of cash continuously been depleted in your pocket, and finally decide to pick one book, again, while inwardly swearing and reminding your brain that this is the last book you will buy, lest you trek back to Kaduna on foot.

PART 1: Three Gods and the Caterers

Before all this, you were still a mortal, just with lesser number of books, visiting Abeokuta for the first time to participate in a Fiction Writing Workshop at the Ake Arts and Book Festival 2015 to be facilitated by three of the Gods, amongst the biggest in the field.

Caterers of Gods and Mortals alike 

Courtesy demands that Gods be taken care of, and sometimes, the mortals too. Now, at Ake this is solely the work of the ‘Caterers of Gods and Mortals alike’. You arrive in Kuto, Abeokuta and walk down the sloping terrain of the Cultural Center. Harmattan wind is been sneezed by the skies, drop by drop, threatening a full-blown escape. Squeezing sound of talking drums herald your arrival. You trudge and nod to the beats, like an agama lizard. 

And there she is, the phenomenal Lola Shoneyin. You see her in that instant, for what she is: one of the Gods. Then like a chameleon, she changes. She calls for the stool, for the round tables to be placed, for the microphones to be set. She blends. A perfect camouflage. A God and a Caterer alike. There is a pure Caterer by her side. Seun Mabo. An elixir of passion and enthusiasm. She introduces you. Ushers you in. Bathes you in hospitality. You are immersed in the festive mood already.

Cyborg Gods and Vine Hairs

The eerie face of Fela Anikulapo Kuti and host of Egbaland heroes in perfect tarred busts stare intently at you. You find a seat, flanked by more than a dozen other budding mortals (for now) awaiting the arrival of the self-confessed rudimentary cyborg, Nnedi Okorafor. You are a bit jittery. Even a little tummy butterflies. 

Her vined hair came in first, then the classic eye glasses. She shuffled in like a character from her strange books and settled amidst the gapes, sheepish smiles and total awe. A God amongst mortals. For the next 120 minutes, you flip-flop and unscrew her vined hair, chew her strange brains in and out, and then leave satisfied. A rudiment of one of the Gods in the making. 

“She is just an elegant little bird” 

That was Lola’s characterisation of this second of the Gods. To be able to convey a good story of the Gods, you will need to tweak with different narrative voices. Different shades of speech. 

I am one of the finest of the Gods (no, common not me really!). 

You are one of the finest of the Gods (we all know I don’t really mean you!). 

We are one of the finest of the Gods (okay, enough of this!). 

She is one of the finest of the Gods!

Enter Taye Selasi.

She really did flaunt in like an elegant bird. Charming. Charismatic. Immediately, the brightest star in an already dazzled room. Even the grumpiest of minds will bow and laugh hysterically at the feet of this literary character. But first, she makes you pick a pen. You are going to write in variousnarrative voices. You write. You read. She stops you with her palms. Swirls her hair. Tilts her head in a perfect angle to speak. 

You’ve got to take that again slowly. Intergalactical bus? Lagos? 2096? I love this. 

You smile. The Gods approve of your craft. You then write, write, write and laugh!

The Elusive of the Gods

Helon Habila sauntered in. Your archetypal college Professor. Professional and straight to the point. 

The best fictions are those that use the devices of poetry. 

The worst crime for a writer is to be provincial. 

You find yourself taking down notes impulsively. Even the air breezed through like that of a standard class. Nice. But before then … 

(24 hours earlier)

… you waited for an angel. The elusive of the Gods. Helon Habila was supposed to broaden your horizon first, before Taye Selasi dragged you through her narrative voices and Nnedi Okorafor capped it all with the finesse of editing. Alas. When the Gods evade even the Caterers, what can mere mortals do? The Gods work in their preferred miraculous ways. You wait …

It is 24 hours later, after complete doses of narrative voices and editing, there you are on the seat of honour, on the right hand side of the Gods, time well measured, ready, to broaden your horizon.

And man, you did! You successfully lifted the veils of hitherto obscured horizons. And that was how a two hour session, so engaging, swept past. It felt like the whole moment was a single stroke of the minute hand of a clock. Tock. The elusive of the Gods departs like a wisp as he had arrived.

PART 2: Festival of Gods and Men 

You draw out your festival guide from the pillage of books now rapidly increasing the weight on your shoulders. It says you will be engaging the fringes in the next few days. A headless barely naked figure submerged in gibberish on the front cover stares back. Art. You chuckle and flip through the pages. Gods from all over the world have gathered in Abeoukta. 82 eclectic world renowned writers will be assembling with much enthusiasm. You are at crossroads. There are so much of the Gods that they cannot fit into every discussion at once. The festival guide has split up the Gods. You have to choose. A strange choice: to choose sides amongst Gods, and fast!

It is a rollercoaster. Panel Discussions. Book Chats. Readings. Books. Books. Books. Gods disagreeing. Gods of Africa Magic. The Man Who Mends Women. Books. Books. Books. Hours rolled by. Days rolled by. It is some intense cultural immersion. 

Ake does not allow you catch your breath, it drags you with it, and suffocates you in a good way with fruits of the pilgrimage. And the array of Gods, they spiced it up with drama, with magic.

Of Gods of Hymens and Fucking Vaginas

Red-haired curls, vocal, fiery, passionate and oozing with humour. Mona Elthahawy hooked you, together with the audience, straight in the eye and let you know, she was here to talk about vaginas. Yes! So you better jump in. The audience ishysterical, cringing, like a biology class during your undergraduate days, forcibly trying to be comfortable with the idea that vaginas and penises are normal vocabularies. The entropy is pitch high. Discussions engaging. You realise then, that there are some 50 shades of Gods, and red-haired ones stand out, prominently.

 

The Ake buzz enters another gear. Acquaintances are made. Gods are at par with mortals. Impromptu workshops. Books. Books. Books. Readings. Laughter. Satire. Fictional Felons. And then you all HEAR WORD! Naija women talk true. You listen. The message resonates. You rise with the theatre hall as one. Applause. Applause. Applause. You don hear. 

At Ake, the buzz never stops. More doses of books, publishing, religion. Books. Books. Books. Sandwiched with readings, books, business, politics and an already tired governor. And then the poets take over. 

The Son, The Father and the Holy Poet

Once the Gods of poetry take to the stage, others just take a bow and blend with the mortals. You sit under the fluorescent light of the Poetry Evening. The poetry squad captained by the effervescent Professor Remi Raji blows your minds and brains out. His poetry squad warms the floor. With a gratifying and a well-deserved voluminous introduction the Coach is finally sent to the field. It is the moment you have been waiting for. Professor Niyi Osundare takes the mantle. The Holy Poet parts his lips. The hall is silent. You can feel the sound of his breath. He begins.

The Longest Love Poem in the World

Yes …

He saunters quietly back to his seat as the enormity of a single word dawns on you. You clap and clap and clap till your palms soar. Mixtures of emotion rush through your veins. You drift back in time 5 hours back …

… earlier Prof Niyi had captivated the crowd. Then, The Holy Poet recited more than a word. An emotional piece birthed in tears of Katrina. He rose enigmatically to perform. 

I don’t insult poetry by reading it sitting down. 

He talked of the books his parents read to him as a child, from his father’s library … full of yam. He touched the shadesof our conscience and responsibilities. The depth of our possibilities. Of muses and inspirations. You watched God of the Gods sway his words with awe. You swore forever to remain a poet. 

 

Right now, the adrenaline of the fond memories and excitement of mingling with the Gods of literature in Abeokuta still meanders around your heart. You came to Ake Festival a mere mortal. You left as a soul that is much more than that.

JONAH'S FINAL DRINK

He does not like the way they all trouped in with grim faces. It felt like they were on a condolence visit. But he has not died yet; he just lost a damn election.

The new set were coming in, feet shuffling in their flying bleached white clergy gowns, the sound of their slimly palms reverberating across the villa, grim-faced and ashen-stricken, their faces looked like they were greased with dark crude oil. He went straight to receive them with outstretched arms smiling, and behold his simple smile transformed their greasy faces washing away the slimy aspect. He transferred the Easter mood and spread it on all their faces like the sprinkling of holy water.

The group of clergymen broke bread and ate chicken, not turkey, with the outgoing President while talking about the virtues of Christ in this reflective season. The issue of the 10 million votes that miraculously disappeared between 2011 and 2015 was not reflected upon yet though. He was not going to bring it up on his own too; he was not a sour loser. He would continue to be the hero. He smiled and chewed on the chicken bone, and they prayed. They prayed for Easter, for Jesus for the nation’s emancipation. 

They prayed harder. He reflected harder.

Jonah not long ago had some of the richest pastors in the world, surrounding him, and earnestly disbursing prayers, cementing his every lizard-hole with it. He always knelt for their prayers, all of the lot. He might have been the president but President Jonah was a humble servant of the Lord too; not even a President is greater than the Lord’s cronies, he knew that deep in his heart. Yet those cohorts could not deliver his message to the Lord, with all the prayers they amassed in their private jets, none travelled more than a mile up to the Lord it seemed. One miracle indeed.

The full-stomached clergies kept pouring their own bouts of prayers though. Loud Amens collided with the humming silence, and the eerie reflections in his head with the warm weather of the Easter afternoon.

Even when it was clear the numbers from the south will not overturn his rival’s in the north, they didn’t stop cooking up dry facts. 

“Sah, we will surely win it…it will be a landslide” one would say. 

“We will win it again Sir…by hook or crook…” they always pointed.

Special advisers or special patronizers, he was staring at defeat, but they kept feeding him false altruistic meals; only the white-bearded general told him the truth, the bitter truth.

By hook or crook?

He thought of that means too. But why continue to fight when even God has shunned your persistent kneeling?

The clergy’s long prayers were done and the chickens were now merely bones. Finally, the issue of the 10 million votes he lost was next on the list. Diplomatically, in a way only the men of God knew how to, they began:

“What God has ordained surely no son of man shall drag with it. Mr. President you are a world hero. Yours is a story chipped right out of the Holy Scripture. We are proud of you, the whole country is proud of you, and even our Saviour is smiling at you from heaven”

The ordained fate. What even their Godly eyes could not show them though was that deep down he was happy, contented to be free. He was tired of the choky Abuja atmosphere. 

Aides, meetings, advisers blowing hundred different perspectives on issues into your head with none out of the whole bunch corresponding, all different simulations. How is one supposed to transform everything like that? Haba!

“Mr. President you have etched your name in Gold. Your attitude and humility as a leader is to be ascribed to, this singular act of yours has been unprecedented” 

Unprecedented. The new darling word that has now giving Transformation a technical knock-out from the lexicon of the villa; it flew around pecking him as he tried to run and escape its bloody bite.

“Surely you will continue to rise; this is not the end, for those who have done right shall rise to life. Behold, heed to the spiritual story of our Lord Christ and it shall be your own emancipation. May the peace of the Lord Christ go with you as you leave with only the best of intentions!”

Yes, it is all the doing of God. But he has already been emancipated. The elections were his emancipation. Jesus the saviour had saved him, aptly in this Easter period too. Jesus has risen with him.

Jonah can still feel the soreness on his legs, from all the campaign travels, all the prayers and all the kneeling. The pastors, the bishops, the shrines, the wizards; all of the shouts, wailings and the gibberish; the heavy breathing, bad breaths and all the descending floods of saliva and the rough hands manhandling his presidential skull. 

*May all your enemies die like Sisera! May those who love you rise like the sun in all its power!

*I therefore declare that His Excellency will win the coming elections!

*The Lord will return his Excellency to his presidential seat!

*There is no vacancy for The General at Aso Rock!

*I declare divinity’s decision to return Jonah to Aso Rock!

Amen!

And to think they all spoke God’s mind, all of them. Wonderful God, Benevolent God!

Jonah has no regrets whatsoever though. The meeting with the clergymen was lighter in mood, he thought, as he ushered them out of the presidential home. It was tenser when he met the Governors he recalled, but even then he was bold too. Yet he smiled. The smile seems to be flowing all too easily these days. It is the single bullet left in his armory. 

The Governors’ entourage, those that were brave enough to come, arrived sheepishly, like a heavy load was mounted on their arched backs, dragging them down. It was not like they were the only cause of his dismal failure at the polls, well even though they did contribute, but he was not half as grumpy as they all were. He actually has never felt as free and light as he was these days. 

Light like a feather, the spirit of Christ is with him, he has nothing to fear, nothing to lose. 

Jonah has been propelled up the trajectories in all his endeavours, all his life. Deputy Governor. Governor. Vice-President. President. Surely his Lord has been generous. He decided not to lift the burdened guilt they carried on their bent backs. For the first time he was stern in their midst. He did not even bother to have a sip from the bottle before they came, but, he was now ready, the confidence and the ego were exuberant, the Lord is with him. He told them off brusquely and blatantly.

“I’m not saying you should go down with me, no, but let the young people vote with their hearts, trust me you will feel much lighter and better spiritually when you do. The era of electoral fraud and manipulation should be closed; you will be heroes, win or lose. Just look at me now!”

They stared at him with jumbled eyes, like they were watching a complete maniac spiraling out of control. He was now a mad man to them, he has lost his touch of reasoning, just for instructing them to allow the will of the people take its course. Jonah did not blame them though, but his mind was made up; he would not be a complicit to any treasonable act again. And he shall not turn a blind eye to it too.

Silence. It was the root of my failure.

He had listened to too much of their nonsense, and they took his silence as a seal of approval; but when everything debilitated and rot, the sour meat is served hot in his plate.

It is all coming to an end though. His aides and their foul advices are already shy of the villa. It is like the General’s win has also automatically sacked all of those runny-mouth advisers, or at least incapacitated them. He is still the President though, and he will be presidential, as much as he can be, in these final days. 

No more sycophants and their rotten sycophancy.

Jonah gave power to his enemies, the real enemies within. He was his own downfall; he could not rise to the challenge.

And no more.

“That is all I have to say”. He concluded calmly with the Governors. “Do the right thing”.

The Governors left with defying optimism in their head though. Their eyes were sunken and hollow like the end result of a widow’s grief, the resurgent vigour of this mad man would not stop them however. But the mad man knew, his eyes are open now and he saw the Lord’s vision clearly, they would all follow his suit in the coming days. There will be nothing they could do about it anymore.

Jonah now had only one agenda. 

Hero. 

He has to continue to be the hero they have crowned him now. The people might forgive easily, but would they ever forget? 

He is leaving peacefully. 

Unprecedented. 

No bloodshed. No violence. He is the hero. Let them hold on to that for a longer while. 

Hero! 

The final peace shall reign. That would be his legacy. 

Peace.

He made a mental note of it as he made for the bar. He no longer makes a dash for it, he is free, and a man of his own will, but he needed the soothing warmth after the day’s bout of grim commiserations.

I was the most criticized, but now I am the luckiest.

He smiled, that transformed smile, dropping the cup aside and gulping the bottle of the soothing thick crimson liquor down his throat.

POETRY: Clueless Heroes

The elections have come and gone! All have played their part! All have been declared heroes, but who are the villains?

CLUELESS HEROES

Publicly honoured heroes

Distinguished murderers

But heroes they are

They saw change with blazing drums

The vultures then left in a hurry

With incessant crying all the way:

We concede! We concede!

Hail Mary queen of grace

I present to you, heroes of our time

Hear: the Naira is sickly

The economy is on crutches

Foreign reserve has diabetes, 

The mellitus, decubitus ulcer of

dollar accounts, leaky holes

Plundering, squandering, raining dollars

But heroes surely they are

The Heroes then surrendered

Heroes of beers, of deaf protruding ears

To our bitter cries, to our aching appeals

Cult heroes indeed have reigned!

There, right at the edge of the valley

Heroes faint, heroes concede

We? Addicts of unending suffering

Not our job to yell, but to smell

Conferment of heroes by the experts

For we only grumble under the ashes

Buried at the buttocks of black stoves

Swimming in the torn mosquito net

Mr. Malaria our savior, our only Hero

But they, surely heroes they are

The Hero of the Bar, brewing his wish

And now he has covered our mouths

With stinking hands of slimy excreta

Even in darkness who are we to judge

The good, clueless, lucky Hero of our time

But heroes’ diaries do snap their deeds

Scene: Pound and plunder the national treasury

View: When they boasted and drank

On the fields of blood and sorrow

Our hopes split like lips of Harmattan

But alas heroes they are

Sculptors of anguish, heroes they are

Hear? Let’s drink beer at the hero’s funeral

MUSINGS FROM A MOSQUE: A Poem

God is Great! God is Great!

The subtle voice of Isha

Echoing call transmitted

From a croaky throat, geriatric

Trickling liquid on the palms

Massaging dribs on the face

Donning faith on the heart and

to soft pads, a forehead bows

Comforting temple, coolly-conditioned

“Give me more riches, dash me

further fame, keep me healthy

let me master my domain”

Litanies of a mind at rest

Beseeching knees on the softest of wool

Bowing and praying, here so cool

Whispers came ushering though!

Children of Buni Yadi!

Assembly lines of Potiskum!

Abandoned mosques in Mubi!

Razed, derailed farmlands of Bama!

Do prayers only come on cushions?

Little boys on rough cushions,

Where were their prayers stuck?

On the rifles of an insurgent

Forced to pray on stony paths

Internally displaced, internally in tatters

Why do I deserve to pray? A thought!

Peace be Upon You! Muazzim called

This round of litany concluding

Alas, this head still bowing, weeping

transfixed to the cushioned earth!

While we Wait for Ebola to Kill...

Much has been said of and debated about this deadly virus, both realistically and mystically. It is on record that some Africans don’t actually believe the disease itself exists, and certain healthcare workers in Liberia have been pelted with stones as people believe they brought the epidemic to them. Not to mention the other theory that it is actually a bioterrorism weapon used for certain purposes by certain world super powers; but that’s another story. The main factor is: It kills and it does so rapidly, in no time, and close to some 40 years since its first incidence no proper vaccine or treatment protocol has been put forward to counter future threats.

Drugs are not made to treat the poor, and the unfortunate victims of Ebola have been the poorest

It doesn’t really seem that lack of an Ebola vaccine is simply due to lack of ingenuity or scientific capability in this 21st century. No, the drugs are just stuck in the lab because it is an African disease, and thus borders on the pharma-economics of the drug market itself. Put it this way, no drug industry giant is going to pour dollars, lots of dollars, into the research of a certain zoonotic African disease that erupts once a while and affects the poorest of the world population.There is certainly no return in that, and the ‘Pharma-Industry’ certainly revolves only around money. Drugs are not made to treat the poor, and the unfortunate victims of Ebola have been the poorest.

More than 60 health workers have died since the latest outbreak and unfortunately all have been African nationals, as their counter-colleagues from developed nations who tested positive for the same virus were flown across the Atlantic and treated to a drug that was hitherto unknown to the world, but appeared providentially in their time of need and appears to do just the right thing. We Africans are yet again left to lament, but it’s really time to take a stand. It is indeed an African disease and we need to learn how to solve our problems and fast. It is worth noting that conditions like baldness and erectile dysfunction have received more funding than our killer-tropical disease. One may ask of the about 29 African billionaires – of which four are from Nigeria – where they are lurking while this virus ravages their fellow Africans. Is return on investment a greater priority than the lives of those lost and of those that will be lost? Where is the humanity?

A patient drinks to rehydrate himself under the scrutiny of a nurse at the MSF Treatment Centre in Kailahun, Sierra Leone. Photo: Sylvain Cheraoui/Cosmos for MSF

We may not have the scientific know-how of the west, not be as wealthy, but it is clear we cannot just sit-tight with folded arms waiting for a vaccine or a drug from the so called ‘World-Powers’ when we can do something to curb this menace on our own.

It is the only possible curative measure that is practicable and available in our environment

The health-care sector in the whole of the West-African sub region is dilapidated. Basic equipment and tools to help curb the spread of the disease and quarantine the unfortunate are unfortunately lacking all through the region. However, convalescent therapy has been shown to work, and that we can do ourselves.

Convalescent therapy involves receiving a blood transfusion using the blood of an Ebola survivor, after screening for HIV, typhus and other infections, and the blood incubated at high temperatures to kill other harmful organisms. This method has been used since the first outbreak of Ebola in 1976, has recently been used to successfully treat an American aid worker, and is currently being used to treat an American journalist. Despite the technicalities it involves, it is one of the only possible curative measures that is practicable and available in our environment. And despite the risks, it does seem more adventurous than constant rehydration with electrolytes as is the case now, after all patients are in hemorrhagic shock so what else could be worse. Isn’t it better to try all possible curative avenues than just rehydrating patients till the inevitable occurs? Yet at what point do we go for broke? At what point do we realize we are losing too many and decide to risk everything to achieve the goal of saving lives?

First Published on thisisafrica.me

GENERAL BUHARI: CANDID WORDS, RAUCOUS APPREHENSION

The mammoth crowd that brought the Federal Capital to a standstill was indeed a confirmatory indication of the General Muhammadu Buhari’s massive support base. The ‘Unapologetic Buharists’, young die-hards with the persistent believe that the General is Nigeria’s only current solution have taken social media circles by storm, and the viability and massive defense towards the general’s integrity has never been better in this social media age.

Buhari’s unerring popularity was also tested to the core with the recent open letter from the renowned scholar, former navy captain and medical doctor Sheikh Ahmad Gummi, son of the most renowned Grand Khadi of the Northern Region Sheikh Abubakar Mahmud Gummi. Open-letters have surely being a norm during this democratic dispensation, adding a positive spin to our freedom of information in the country and proving a strong showing of our democracy. However, a large hullabaloo always follows almost every open letter by any renowned personality to most specifically our politicians.

Despite our orthodox political connections, if there is one thing Nigerians can submerse and tolerate, it might as well be anything that has religious affiliation. The backlash that Sheikh Gummi’s honest letter received however, was with baptism of fire, and served as an exception to the religious rule for one simple reason: it was perceived as a disregard and denigrating towards ‘The People’s General’ and it is only Muhammadu Buhari that would command such strict deference towards his personality and credibility without dotting a drop of his ink on a paper, nor without sending any PA or SA to do damage control. Such is Buhari’s over domineering awe, that it is improbable for one not to discuss the General’s ambition, without having to do so while treading on a steadfast path, because any iota of slight towards his personality will let the powder keg below to explode.

This is not a rejoinder to the Sheikh’s letter, never, nor is it an outright defense or cleansing of General Buhari, not by any means, but just an outright opinioned analysis of events on social media that followed that well-publicised letter. So what did Sheikh Gummi did, or say exactly to cause this uproar? Well, it was an honest attempt by a religious preacher, within every ounce of his right, to correct and guide his Muslim brother and one he has utmost respect for, towards certain peculiarities. Preaching on Public Avenue’s even on social media is what Gummi never shied from, and his reputation for doing the spectacular rather controversially has been duly noted, a distinct peculiarity from his father, who always leaned soft, but one thing they did have in common was leaning towards the common truth. It is worth noting that Sheikh Gummi Snr was one of Sardauna’s closest confidante and always advised the late premier on the right path no matter what the consequences might be, and most of the time the fiery Premier will be upset but in the long run would see the right of Gummi’s comment and would indeed ring him and apologise for his furious outburst. Gummi Snr, played his part in every regime up to the time of his death, in sound advisory notes to the generals and the civilians alike, but one thing he always avoided was a public rant. He famously never agreed to start radio broadcasts of his preaching till he believed the Muslim population were united enough to avoid unnecessary interpretation of his preaching in a medium where he would not have an avenue to explain himself further, and risk irking controversies. That was Gummi Jnr’s first startling spectacular.

Having noted in the opening paragraph of his letter, that he has access to the “Humble People’s General” personally, but was trying in his capacity as a religious scholar to also educate others through this simple honest means, shows one is not to blame the Sheikh as he was doing what he does best, to the General and to the society at large, offering guidance. But one peculiarity here is what the lessons are for other Nigerian’s of Buhari’s similarity to take from the open letter. Which other Nigerian in the current political climate is like the General? Which other Nigerian political aspirant has the soft heart of the general and an excessive overburden of getting rid of corruption like the general? As Mahmud Jega, on the issues around Buhari, asserted ‘Where can you find another Army General, a former State governor, former Federal minister and a former Head of State who on top of that has a reputation for firmness and incorruptibility?’ The answer is resounding, ‘it will take several generations to breed one!’ Hence the peculiarity of Gummi’s letter is most certainly driven to the people’s general alone, and a simple visit to the General’s residence by the learned Sheikh, which undeniably wouldn’t be denied, would have sufficed, and a more general preaching to us sinners on a public podium wouldn’t be bad afterwards, we do log onto Facebook more than Buhari after all.

Another striking issue is the timing of Gummi’s wall post. That this letter is just emanating after Buhari has already bought the whopping 27.5 million Naira APC Presidential form, underscores the impact it can have on Buhari jettisoning his presidential agenda. Maybe it would have been wise if Sheikh has sounded his warning drums much earlier than Buhari’s official declaration and most certainly before he had parted with what would take him albeit 23.5 months as President of this country to recoup back if he crosses the bridge and becomes a civilian president, because I really doubt if Oyegun and co. do refunds.

What endeared me more as I read this letter however was Gummi’s brutal honesty and utmost respect for the general, and the way he persistently addressed him as ‘Your Excellency’. Candid points were indeed raised by the learned Sheikh, who grew within the tribulations of Nigeria’s botched regimes and who has had scuffles of his own being a Muslim scholar around the world, and it is from those trials that he has learnt for the good, that “good intentions are never enough”. That was a Nigerian talking, a person who knows the handiwork of our upper class, not just an Islamic Scholar, and these are lessons our next President no matter whom should take to heart. Buhari’s good intention on his first coming as President surely weren’t enough, and his miscalculated ruling with an iron-grip were not giving the chance to succeed, by antagonists who will always exist in any dispensation.

It is really ironical, that today Buhari is considered too Islamic, but here is a man who yes, practiced his religion, but was never concerned about being in the forefront of any religious agenda. Buhari was an earthly, pious General with a good heart, but not the religious chauvinist he is portrayed as today, he was a military man, and Islam was never part of his propaganda, war against indiscipline was. It was of course the same General Buhari that prevented top Islamic clerics and Christian faithful from Pilgrimages to Mecca and Jerusalem respectively, amongst whom were respected scholars like Sheikh Abubakar Gummi who had his passport also impounded, as part of the obsession with the moral cleansing of the General which Gummi Jnr constantly referred to in his letter, and one he should albeit have a firsthand knowledge of from his learned father. Buhari’s war did not segregate towards religious lines as we are made to believe, he was indeed infatuated with cleansing the gross indiscipline brought about by the civilian rule and not even religion would stand on his way. That is one thing Gummi’s open letter is afraid of, burying the coffin without the devil in it.

Gummi’s take on the age precedence was in no credence fair though. The General’s age has been a weapon that has been dangled at the electorate always. But if he is too weak because of his honesty, I doubt if age and comparison with the late Sardauna is another factor too. Sardauna was his own man, just as Muhammadu Buhari is his own person, if the Sardauna felt he had enough of the political atmosphere at his ripe 50s it doesn’t mean it should dictate Muhammadu Buhari’s decision, he should be allowed to adhere to what he believes in too, if he doesn’t think the time to retire is yet then so be it. But when do you actually retire actively from a struggle of emancipation and become a passive on-looker?

What is amazing however, is the Sheikh’s hypothesis, having admitted that the present administration has charged up the religious divide so incredibly well, and also the need as a priority for peace and stability to reign even for a few years before good governance comes into view, but yet coming up with an arbitrary unfathomable hypothesis, which I doubt is meant for next year’s general election. Indeed by no means will President Goodluck step aside for an Akpabio/Muazu/Ribadu/Shekarau potential combo in the PDP, and it is a highly improbable factor an Amaechi/Okorocha/Kwankwaso/Elrufai/Tambuwal combo might out sit President Jonathan, not impossible but highly improbable. So if to have peace and stability, this present administration has to be shelved, then surely we have to admit that the Buhari factor comes in handy as the only probable choice to oust the President together with more likely one of the Sheikh’s hypothetical combo in the APC, or the other option is to let President Jonathan finish another four year term of this transformational horror and instability for an upcoming fresh era of stability come 2019? I wonder if that’s the Sheikh’s conclusive rough mathematical calculation! 2015 is getting nearer though, and we are in the middle of the bridge and it is indeed tangling!

OUR PERSONAL BOUT WITH GUILT

“There are only two emotions; love and fear.” ~ Elisabeth Kubler Ros

It was the renowned American psychiatrist Mrs Kubler-Ros who gave the resounding statement that love and fear are our only emotions and all other emotions stem out of them. Putting this into perspective and the dire ire of the most populous black nation, our country Nigeria, and you have these two contrasting emotions - the love and the fear. Guilt is considered a negative emotion and hence stems out of fear as a factor; but what about ‘guilt’ bore of love?

Approximately 70 per cent of Nigeria’s population, representing about 105 million people, is under 30 years. So here is a country whose backbone is its youth, unfortunately a higher percentage of whom are idle, yet still fervently in love with the nation but have accepted the narrative that we are powerless to change anything that is controlled by the aristocratic older 30 per cent of our population. So there began our personal bout with guilt, one that is fought by the many millions of us inadvertently in love with our country but powerless to resist its impending denigration.

On a daily basis, mass acts of corruption and blasphemy are carried out by our political class, our so-called leaders; from tens of billions missing like a needle in a hay-sack; little girls bundled away like farm produce; villages ransacked and thrown to tatters; jets being bought colossally with our nation’s treasury; security votes diverted to God knows where – but what do we do? We sulk, we cry inwards, we storm to social media in our virtual worlds, but in the end we do not transcend from the virtual to the real world. Time passes by and we seem to forget, we do suppress and try to move on, leaving our culprit leaders to go scot-free, yet again and let us continue to fight with that guilt. Yes, we might suppress it but inadvertently it’s still innate and all we do is pretend that someday things will change. “Change is on the way”. How sad!

To suppress our guilt, we shirk our personal responsibility, constantly finding something and someone to repeatedly blame for the failure of our nation, our failures. From the colonial power houses for bringing us together, to the military for putting us in shackles and to the dispensations of democracy for looting us all away; to the councilor for being so corrupt, to the chairman for being a stooge to orders above, our governors and the president for being our tormentors-in-chief and the judiciary for letting them go scot-free? But when do we ever own up to our own “responsibility”? Or don’t we have a responsibility to our nation? Have we simply been kidnapped by the force that is the elite that all we can is o eternally fight our moral guilt and believe we are not wrong? Unfortunately, rarely do we transcend from saying we should do this to actually ‘now doing this’.

From a problem of leadership, now the cancer is spreading, it is a citizenry problem; it is a Nigerian colloquial problem. At the market, the trader transfixes rotten tomatoes in between the ripe basket of tomatoes without any aorta of fear, you stand up to him and complain, what does he tell you, “Oga, this is Nigeria oo”. You are bewildered but what do you do? You sulk and move on to fight with the guilt of not being able to do anything. You are on a queue for almost an hour, but every minute somebody just comes in and is ushered at your peril. You shout and claim it’s not fair but eventually sulk and fight with that innate guilt, that you are helpless to the situation in fear of its repercussions, the guilt of fear. The cancer indeed has spread.

Now, as you are reading this, at certain parts your brain clicks. “That is so true”. “That reminds me of the other day”. “Unfortunately, that is Nigeria of today for you”. NO! That’s your responsibility-shirking innate guilt, hostile attitude in action yet again. Why are we hiding behind our shells? Nobody is going to proffer solutions to this crestfallen nation by earning millions while shouting and debating, albeit even groggily sleeping. It is an individual effort that starts right there where you are; you either make a move now or eternally be fighting with that guilt.