Get on the Road, You Beauty

‘My country did not send me 10,000 miles just to start the race; they sent me to finish the race’ – John Stephen Akwari, Tanzanian marathoner at the Mexico City ‘68 Olympics

As the starter’s gun went, he was ahead of the pack for a while. Then, with about 200 metres to go, he stopped suddenly, held his thigh and went down, writhing in pain. A large section of the crowd seemed shocked, miffed and helpless, all at the same time. But the other runners were not obligated to stop, so they went on to finish the race. And then the hefty-bellied man in a pair of shorts and a baseball cap came forward from the terraces, charging past everyone - including a couple of stadium stewards who tried to stop him from approaching the tracks were the hurting young man was lying. About a minute later, they were both trudging down the finish line in lane 8. The roof of the Olympic Stadium almost came down with the reaction of the crowd – some of them weeping, some wailing, many clapping, many just shouting, but all of them urging the athlete and the party-crasher on towards the finish line. The athlete could have just limped off the tracks to the side of the pitch or, even the man could have simply advised and assisted him to do that just as has happened countless number of times in the Olympics whenever there is an injury situation. But no, not that duo. Instead, they simply 'conspired' to inadvertently create one of the most memorable and cherished Olympic moments in history by doggedly finishing the race.

The race was the 400 metres semi-final of the 1992 Olympics in Barcelona. The athlete was Derek Redmond of Great Britain and the man in the baseball cap was his father, Jim. A certain Steve Lewis, from the USA won that race. But, hey, who cares about him? The history of Barcelona ‘92 doesn’t seem to anyway. Neither do most of us even remember the name of Quincy Watts, also of the USA, who won the gold medal in the 400 metres. But Derek Redmond has been immortalized, canonized even, for creating that Olympic classic together with his father.

I’m still not sure if the initial footage of the race I saw then was a live broadcast or delayed. Four years after the Redmonds’ heroics, I again sat in front of black-and-white TV (this one was definitely live)  in the wee hours of the night as Nigeria’s Mary Onyali literally tore out her hair in excitement after it downed on her that she had won the bronze in the women’s 200 metres final at the 1996 Olympics in Atlanta. Had one told some other person who did not know what was happening at the time that Onyali had won the gold medal, they would have believed without the shadow of a doubt. Such was the depth of the emotion Onyali displayed. Back at Barcelona ’92 Onyali, together with Beatrice Utondu, Christy Opara-Thompson and Faith Idehen had similarly gone delirious with excitement after winning bronze in the 4x100 metres relay race. Their jump and jig as they hurdled together in celebration is one of my favourite Olympic moments. Ever.

From the days when a scrawny-looking Abebe Bikila of Ethiopia ran and won the marathon barefooted at the games in Rome in 1960 and then performed his stretch-exercise stunts after winning the marathon again four years later in Tokyo, the Olympics has always amazed and fascinated. From the days when a bloodied, bandaged and almost deathly-limping John Stephen Akwari of Tanzania limped into the stadium in Mexico City in 1968, alone - to the applause of the scanty remaining spectators at the stadium - over an hour after the marathon race had been declared over, the Olympics has always captivated and inspired millions for 'victories' other than outright competitive victory. ‘The Greatest Show on Earth,’ as the Olympics is affectionately referred to, has thrown up mighty many such moments through the ages. Moments  of inspiration, of courage, wonderment and intense emotions, when it seems that outright winning is only a poor second fiddle to participating and showing a willingness to carry on, no matter the odds, moments of being thankful and joyous (like Onyali) for simply realizing that you are not the worst of the lot.

It’s the prospect of witnessing a possible re-creation of a few such moments that I guess, makes a lot of people salivate as the 2012 edition of the Olympics kick-off today in London. It certainly makes me tickle at the back of the neck. Let the games begin, please.

When the ‘good ones’ leave you with not even a farewell chance

When people talk about closure in relation to the death of a loved one, I often wonder what clear signs are there to show to the bereaved that they have finally found closure. Does finding closure mean that the pain of losing that person no longer exists or that the regrets that may be present in the mind of the bereaved have been assuaged sufficiently so that he no longer have any sense of ‘what-ifs,’ however long after the death of his beloved? I put down my thoughts here not knowing if closure is what I actually seek, but strangely I feel that by writing I would be able to reduce the weight of the increased torment my heart has been going through over the past few days.

My paternal grandmother, Mrs. Ramatu A.K. Sado died about 11 years ago. She had been very old, certainly in her eighties, although no one seemed to know her exact age. An uncle had announced the sad news to me on the telephone. “What I’m about to tell you is heartbreaking, especially to you, but you must take heart,” he had said. “Your mother is dead… I mean Iworigida is late.” I must have been numb and without movement for 10 or more minutes before I recovered sufficiently to tell my uncle’s wife who had come downstairs what news I had just received. I was inconsolable the rest of the evening.

Mama had been the only mother, father, grandmother, grandfather, sister, brother, and what have you, that I had known from the moment I became aware of the people around me. But prior to her death, I had last seen her four years previously. In-between, I had been ‘too busy’ ‘growing up,’ trying to get my independence, going to school, etc, to see her. I often sent her provisions, but I kept shifting the date of my visit to her. For that I was enraged, angry…with myself for ‘betraying’ my mother. For weeks I beat myself for being a ‘bad’ grandson, for not caring enough for the woman who many could swear was my biological mother. She had left and I never went to say goodbye. My anger with myself increased each time I played back in my mind’s eyes the part of her life I had been privy to. Mama was the dotting, protective ‘cat’ who could scratch and tear apart anyone who messed around with her darling Jibril. I remember her as the scrawny woman with eternally wizened fingers and ‘that voice’. That is how I could describe her voice, neither shrill, nor baritone. Neither, sonorous, nor whatever. Not pitched. It was to me, just ‘that voice’. She was the little woman who was popular around the four Egor villages and much farther, as a trader in pap, salt, sugar, banana and other provisions. And I was famous as the ‘little man’ she took along wherever she went.

She had several other grandchildren but I was her favourite, the one who even in his teens long after I had left the village, she would keep a piece of meat, a morsel or a spoon of rice for when I was away, while the other grandchildren ached with envy. Although she was a Hausa–Fulani maiden from Kano when she got married – Iworigida, her pet name being the Hausa word Uwar Gida (mother of the house) - to my grandfather, her accent was neither Hausa-coloured nor Afemai-coloured. She never totally spoke Hausa or the Afemai language without her famous code-mixing and code-switching. She spoke no English, but long before I encountered the colloquial “watcha mean?,” Mama had popularized “Watdu mi” – her regular refrain whenever she was pissed with anyone or at anything – mostly in my defence. Till date I still tell myself that by my five years absence prior to her death, I had not done enough to give the woman who “carved a future for me where there was hardly a present” enough to smile about in her grave.

Mama died at a ‘ripe’ old age, but my cousin, Alexander, died in October 2010, a mere child, a baby, ‘my baby’. He died three months to his 10th birthday. On Wednesday afternoon, Alex had been rushed back ill from boarding school. The family doctor later diagnosed him with typhoid. By the following Monday the family decided his condition wasn’t improving and took him to a Federal Medical Centre in Lagos. That afternoon, he slipped into a coma and by Thursday morning, my Alex was gone. My best friend had gone forever and I wasn’t even by his side to will him not to go.

I had been working flexible hours at the time and so I had time to look after his younger sister each time she came back from school, while the mother was permanently with Alex at the hospital and the father was doing the running around. As a result I could not go to the hospital. Moreover, I was confident my baby would get well and come home to me. He never did. For several days after his death, the mother, with whom I have an exceptionally close relationship would cry and I would console her. She would ask me: “Jibril, go and bring back your baby now, or don’t you love him anymore?” I would look at her, misty-eyed, not daring to shed a tear – I had to be strong for her. Thereafter, I would go into my room and for several minutes, cry and cry before coming back to look after her again.

Alex had been my best friend in the house, the only person with whom I could exchange glances and we would both instantly send discreet messages to each other. He was the one perpetually by my side when I was ill, bringing me unsolicited cups of water, asking if I had taken my medicines, what I wanted to eat, if he should get me a bottle of Coca Cola or a cup of tea. When he was home on holiday from school he slept many nights on my bed than he did anywhere else. We shared everything and shared similar interests in movies, music, sports, et al. When he was naughty or proving plain difficult, I was about the only one who could talk to him. He was intelligent – very intelligent – and wise beyond his years, and I adored him for that. He was the one who could tell you all my secrets – the people I call or who call me, who was my girlfriend, what I was feeling…. We were kindred spirits, an unbreakable tag-team, and everyone knew it.

I was – and still am somewhat - convinced that my presence at his bedside could have given him more will to live. It’s a blame I still can’t get rid of. The day after his death, when we went to the mortuary to collect the corpse for burial, I rubbed his head and tickled his feet, hoping that our special chord would connect and he would get up from what must have been a 24-hour slumber. He didn’t. And I have been grieving. He was such a terrific, multi-facetted kid and there are constant reminders of him for me in movies, pictures, books, social discussions, sports, attires, and so on.

Much of these details of my anguish about my grandma and ‘my baby’ have largely remained hidden in the innermost crevices of my tortured mind’s diary until Tuesday, June 21 2011 when the crushing news came to me of the death of Mrs. Aisha Bright-Aikhegbe (nee Okponobi) who died that afternoon. She had been battling cardio-vascular ailments for a few months and had been recovering impressively only for sudden complications to force her to be rushed to a teaching hospital where she died that Tuesday afternoon. The previous Tuesday, I called to tell her that I would be visiting (having not visited her for three weeks). She sounded well and I was even more confident she had ‘turned the danger corner.’ She even teased me, saying that until I showed up at their house, she didn’t believe I was coming. We laughed about it and I reiterated that I would come. I never made it and I still kick myself for being away from her for that long prior to her passing away.

Sister - as I called her – and I had only met about three years ago. She was an established defence/police affairs correspondent for AIT while I was a struggling security/crime reporter for one of the national dailies. Once she knew that I was a son of Weppa Wanno, Edo State, like her, she made sure that we became inseparable, calling me to come along with to all the places where the juicy news stories were, linking me with contacts from whom I could make more money, especially as my newspaper had refused to issue me employment letter. On account of her feisty loyalty to me, some of her journalist friends whom she had known for years held her in malice as they felt she was too concerned about me to their disappointment. Her constant mantra was: “You all have your Igbo or Yoruba brethren, but he is the only Afemai youngster I have on this beat and I can’t help it if you guys don’t like how I treat him.” And she kept her loyalty to me intact. As she did with everyone else she was close with. She always demonstrated an altruistic concern to the wellbeing of those she knew, often putting her own interest secondary.

As we grew closer, she had no problems confidently introducing me as her brother to those she met. And I was more than happy and proud to refer to her as my sister. As a good dresser, a jovial, relatable and amiable woman with an unpretentious sense of humour, she was always a standout personality at press conferences and among her peers. Sister was the confidant to whom I spoke about some of my problems and who urged me to be prayerful. She was a very intelligent woman with whom I could discuss a host of issues – politics, music, literature and the arts, philosophy, religion, gender, history, biology, economy – bar sports and to some extent, movies.

She was also a devoted mother to her children and a strong family woman in general. The day following her demise, I called at the house early in the morning. As soon as I crossed the threshold, Daniel, her soon-to-turn-four son said: “Uncle Jibril, give me your new phone to play game.” I replied that my ‘new phone’ was gone, to which he frowned. Of course, the phone had been gone and it had been replaced with another one. But his request brought fresh tears to my eyes: The phone was replaceable, but never so his mother who, had she been there, would have said: “Uncle Jibril, abeg give my Daniel your phone to play with o.”

Where bombs meet complacency, inflexibility

Across the world socio-political landscape today, the governments with the most impact on the lives of their peoples in the area of security are mostly governments with a gung-ho approach coupled with the necessary Devil-May-Care attitude towards security issues as occasion demands. Their ways may not always be 100 percent effective or pretty, but their message to troublemaker-designates all over the world could hardly be clearer: ‘You must think again and again or else you will have all of our state might to deal with.’ Nigeria has lacked such a streak for far too long in dealing with internal security matters. The suicide bombing at the police headquarters in Abuja on June 16, 2011, further signposts this.

As pesky as some may consider the United States of America to be in the current order in international politics and associated issues, one thing the rest of the world cannot always accuse God’s Own Country of lacking is the will to look ahead and act with brutal decisiveness no matter whose ox is gored, in most cases. Such phrases as “preemptive measures,” “preemptive strike,” “preemptive self defence of American interests,” etc regularly rear their heads in the diction of American administration officials. Why? Simple, although America has never been exactly lukewarm to threats against its interests, but from Pearl Harbor to the Iranian Hostage crisis of 1979/1981 through the East Africa embassy bombings in 1998, America has learned the hard way to be ruthless, decisive and more importantly, proactive where matters of terror are concerned.

On one of the few occasions in recent memory when the US authorities failed to properly address such issues in advance more than 3000 souls were vanquished on September 11, 2001. But what followed that attack was a renewed commitment by the US to fight terror and terrorists wherever they may be – Afghanistan, Iraq(?) Pakistan etc. Admittedly, the Yanks’ methods have not always been endearing to all. Nevertheless, since 9/11 especially, they have made a statement that still resonates with terrorists: ‘the American nation refuses to yield to intimidation or cower in the face of terrorism.’

It is an approach that France, under the leadership of Nicholas Sarkozy seems to have also embraced. Some months ago Mr. Sarkozy’s popularity and approval rating across France was dipping by geometric figures because his government was perceived as lacking the verve or va-va-voom to help plant France more emphatically on the world socio-political template. The president ‘saw the light’ and realized he had to stir the hornet’s nest a little especially so as to give his reelection bid more impetuous. Luckily for him, both Laurent Gbagbo in Ivory Coast and Moumar Gadhaffi of Libya inadvertently covered themselves in scapegoat skin and provided Sarkozy the ammunition and the safety valve to make a bold, clear and unmistakable statement of authority: ‘France and Sarkozy can bite.’ Never mind the legality or lack of, in these tactics.

What is important to note here is that, in the main, countries – for instance Pakistan -where the leadership stands by and only tries to react to trouble after some damage has been done mostly get tangled up in all sorts of mess. And when the response is in the shape of what one friend of yours truly’s would describe as “greenish, semi-formed, non-bloody, non-mucoid” performance as happens in Nigeria all the time, the result is the kind of indiscriminate loss of life and property we have seen on a rapid basis in the country in recent times. Far from advocating the sort of brutal and barbaric crackdown on dissent currently going on in Syria or a reenactment of the massacre that took place in Odi in 1999, the truth is that a state cannot just fold its arms and watch a coterie hold it to ransom. Unfortunately, the Nigerian government has continued to prove itself a willing, docile and complacent animal to the antics of predators on national peace and security.

While speaking with journalists on his visit to the scene of the carnage the day after the blast, President Goodluck Jonathan reportedly said: “Terrorists will aim at the top. If they can bomb the President, they will do it.” He was spot on. Boko Haram have never disguised the fact that they would kill the president or the governor of a state if they could. What must worry most Nigerians is that the government and its security apparatuses keep providing the group with the conducive environment to aim higher and higher with each violent incident that gets followed by the usual rhetoric and directionless, halfhearted state security response. Imagine for instance, what information would have been milked from the late leader of the group, Mohammed Yusuf who was carelessly murdered by security operatives who had captured him following the weeklong violent clashes between security forces and members of the group across some northern states in July 2009. Ironically, by inexplicably killing Yusuf shortly after a brief interrogation at a rowdy session before members of the public, the security operatives foolishly threw away vital intelligence on Boko Haram. So it is no surprise that the intelligence community is still as clueless as ever about the group.

As tragic as the incident at the police headquarters is, it bears comical imprints how easily an alien car could stealthily gain access into the convoy of the (supposedly) most powerful policeman in Nigeria and then drive into the ‘welcoming’ embrace of policemen at the sentry - men part of whose brief it ought to be to have known ahead of most people the exact number of vehicles in the Inspector General of Police’s convoy that morning as well as other details about the convoy. So the blast took place within the police headquarters premises as a consequence of yet another case of unpardonable and ultimately fatal lax in security awareness.

Again, the bombing had been coming for months and could have been nipped in the bud were the presidency and the security outfits not such headless chickens on security matters. The omens could not have been clearer starting with the October 1, 2010 bombing that took place a mere 500 metres from the Eagle Square, venue of Nigeria’s 50 Independence Anniversary celebrations where the President was chief celebrant. Following that incident was the Christmas Eve bombing in Jos, Plateau State which was quickly followed by the New Year’s Eve blast at Mogadishu Barracks in Abuja. On the heels of that was also the March 4, 2011 blast in Suleja, Niger State during the flag-off of the state governor, Babangida Aliyu governorship campaign. The April 8 bombing in which several Independent National Electoral Commission (INEC) ad-hoc staff were killed also followed. But in their usual headless chicken performance, the security agencies have never been able come up with a definitive list of suspects in any of these cases. Crucially also, whereas more intelligent intelligence agencies or governments would have taken the hint and ‘fortified’ Abuja seeing that all the incidents mentioned above took place in or around the Federal Capital Territory, they also did not react decisively to the aftermath of any of the earlier incidents.

There are permutations that, starting in particular with the manner Yusuf was killed in 2009, the now recurring violent incidents in the country especially in the North are being fed by some powerful saboteurs both within and outside of government. These claims may not be entirely without merit. Still Nigerians should be even more disappointed if that is the best defence their leadership can muster on the mess currently playing out. Truth is, every terror machine has its day of reckoning. It is the duty of a leadership with a sense of the importance of the battle at hand to bring that day forward. Even Pablo Escobar, the seeming unconquerable Colombian drug lord in the 1990s, together with his cartel of violent louts eventually met his day. But should Nigerians have to hold out forever, hoping for some show of flexibility by their leadership in response to or anticipation of developments of grave national importance?

Sitting in ('uneducated,' 'hasty') judgment of Elections 2011

The Big One has come and gone as Nigerians have elected their president for the next four years. No surprises about the outcome though, even though I pretty much wanted a Buhari as president instead of Jonathan. It’s time now for everyone to rally round the new president and hope for the best for all through his tenure.

I am however, a bit taken aback at how once again, we failed to match word with action with regards to the Peoples Democratic Party (PDP) which, before the election, many could not resist describing as the ultimate villain in the sour direction our socio-economic fortunes have taken since the return to civil rule in 1999. Note that I said “a bit taken aback.” That is because I recognize that the ballot paper by itself alone does not bring about change where there is a clear will by people or groups with the right machinery to ensure that change doesn’t happen. The other point is that even when many people kept praising the so-called revolutionary thinking and new-found political awareness of the Nigerian youth, I mostly saw many youth who just wanted to be heard to be saying something, as against youths who truly wanted to be the change agent or knew the path to walk the talk. So, no mighty surprises there.

That noted, it has still been a discomforting experience to see people, many of them young people who had been chanting mantra about change on social networking fora and other fora, develop cold feet when it was time to walk the talk. It has been irritating to see many of the people who one expected to know better, resort to primordial, almost Masonic sentiments when casting their ballot or discussing the politician and his political structure. But then, therein lies the beauty of democracy.

Nevertheless, so far, this has been a far better-conducted, less manipulated election than many of us in our lifetime can point to. It may not have panned out the way proper elections elsewhere do, but for now, we will take this one-eyed leader considering that we have only had blind ones for so long in the past. So, some kudos to Attahiru Jega and his people at INEC. Kudos also to many Nigerians, even President Goodluck Jonathan, for their personal and collective conduct so far. I hope this ‘relative sanity’ carries through to the governorship and state assembly elections next week. If it does, we would be wasting less money and other resources to conduct rerun elections or run around the corridors of court rooms unlike what has obtained since 2007.

There have been vital lessons for all to learn and my major fear is whether, come next general elections in 2015, we would have imbibed enough positive lessons from what has happened in 2011 to entrench even more laudable elections. With all the praise and knocks I can muster for the season, below are a few points I have noted, some of which are sure to stand in the way of better organized polls and more acceptable results, which ought to culminate in a better, more balanced, more elevated, more forward-thinking, a better internationally-regarded Nigeria in future.

1. The ACN is content with remaining merely a regional party.

2. The PDP will continue to rule at the centre at least, for as long as the eye can see unless some miracle happens to the ranks of the other parties.

3. In fact, all the parties self na like Coca Cola and Pepsi.

4. Now that Buhari has had his final(?) shot at the presidency, cue the mad defection from the CPC and its gradual disintegration and demise as a party.

5. The much-vaunted political sagacity *phew* and sophistication of the South West in relation to the other regions of the country seems to be pregnant with many commas and question marks. (Now, you can slaughter me for this one.)

6. The absence of any form of violence alone does not necessarily beatify elections as free or fair.

7. I don’t want to go any farther back in time, so I will score only these umpires: Abel Guobadia – 42%; Maurice Iwu – 30%; Attahiru Jega – 78%.

8. Majority of voters (educated and otherwise) still do not know what voting means or what power the ballot has side-by-side their fortunes and the future of their children and the country in general.

God bless Nigeria.

MY END-OF-2010 CHART

As we peek into 2011 I just had to make a list like this one to end 2010. Happy reading.

REVELATION OF THE YEAR

This wasn’t so much a revelation as it was a more graphically-delivered argument as to why I perpetually feel the need to round up all Nigerian politicians or precisely put, all Nigerian government officials, lump them all in a vast space and set the place ablaze while I sit legs crossed, with the Ten Commandments in hand, listening unperturbed to their anguished last wails as they slowly but surely roast to their deaths. Simply put, when Sanusi Lamido Sanusi, the governor of Central Bank of Nigeria raised all the right dust about 25 percent of the nation’s overall expenditure being gulped up by the National Assembly (a group of just 469 individuals) the import of it all was that not only is the rest of the population left to subsist on the remaining 75 percent of total expenditure but those same mercenaries – who only (pretend to) work for the people 181 days every year - and their cronies in politics and government across the landscape also share out of the 75 percent. In summary, from Maiduguri to Lagos, Sokoto to Calabar, a collection of just about 10 thousand mostly half-educated, visionless, maladjusted individuals is, conceivably, trapping about 90 percent of the wealth meant to tend to 150 million people under their feathers in the name of governance.

Honourable mention: Amos Adamu’s bribery scandal; Wikileaks’ many exposes (make your pick, please)

MOMENT OF THE YEAR

If you weren’t following this on any news and information medium, you possibly weren’t living on planet earth or even on any of the planets. For an initial 17 days the world waited anxiously to know the fate of the brave men. Then 51 days later we were finally going to see the first of them on the surface of the earth for the first time since August 5, 2010. They were not going to spend Christmas 700 feet underground after all. For several hours on October 12, 2010, everyone got itchy as the final tests were carried out on the transport capsule that had been designed to convey each man up through a 700 ft shaft. When the contraption was finally lowered, to fetch a man up for the first time, the whole world - from Manila to Maiduguri, Sao Paulo to Sokoto, Beijing to Bouake, Santiago to San Marino – waited with baited breath. As the capsule, bearing its first passenger trundled its way up the shaft, you could literally cut through the blanket of anxiety across the world with a knife. And then the capsule popped up into the hands of waiting rescue engineers, at around 12am on October 13, and the collective sigh of relief by about one billion television audience across the globe was nothing like the world had ever felt before. Clearly, this most daring of rescue operations, an ‘experiment’ to rescue 33 Chilean miners who had been trapped below 2000 tons of rock was workable after all. Unbelievably, 22 hours later, with chants of "Chi! Chi! Chi! Le! Le! Le," greeting each emergence of the capsule from the shaft, it was “Mision complida, Chile,” and the world went into rapturous celebration.

ASSHOLE(S) OF THE YEAR

In a year during which a traditional ruler physically battered his wife in public, in which some nincompoops smuggled a dying president into the country in a move to further disrupt things in an already unsettled socio-political landscape, picking a single person or group of persons to receive this prestigious gong given for inane and ludicrous acts of absolute comic, yet tragically laughable performance is no tea party. After painstaking appraisal of top nominees, the award goes to… the Nigerian National Assembly. How could they not trump all comers when by the evidence of just two incidents during the sixth and the twelfth months of the year respectively, members of that (supposedly) hallowed group managed to put up performances that wowed the country and charmed people from across the world? Can we really ever forget those disgraceful scenes of June 22 when a mass brawl in which teargas canisters, the House’s mace, whistles, furniture and of course, fists were employed as weapons of debate, broke out on the floor of the House of Reps? Is it also possible for us to ignore how those 469 men and women sent a cavalry after one scrawny little fellow who dared remind us of the blood-sucking existence of the members of that Assembly?

Honourable mention:
Sani Kaita (Super Eagles player who helped ruin Nigeria’s best chance of winning a match at the 2010 World Cup)
Laurent Gbagbo for refusing to concede defeat to Alhassane Ouatarra over the November presidential run-off election in Ivory Coast.

FEUD OF THE YEAR

This was a ‘street fight’ between two people who deserve each other more than 150 million Nigerians or 6 million Ogun State population deserve either or both of them. The “Battle of Sango,” as many have labeled the incident, was the confrontation that took place between Ogun State governor, Gbenga Daniel and Speaker of the House of Representatives, Dimeji Bankole at the formal opening of the Sango-Ota overhead bridge on July 29, 2010. The story is told of how Daniel spited Bankole by hurriedly leading Minister of Works, Sanusi Daggash, to ceremonially declare the bridge open when Bankole, who was scheduled to join Dagash in cutting the ceremonial tape was just a few metres from the scene. In furry, Bankole jumped into the bus that conveyed the governor and the minister to the place and… well, the rest of the story can be learned in as many ever-marginally varying versions as there are people willing to give an account of the events.

Honourable mention: OBJ vs Ayo Fayose’s “Bastard & Father of Bastard” word match in Akure.

PRODUCT PROMOTER OF THE YEAR

Before August 5 2010 when 33 miners were trapped underground at the San Jose mine near Copiapo in the Atacama desert in Chile, Chile was, beyond the legend of the Atacama Desert and the copper mining industry in the country, more famous for the bestiality of its former president and strong man Augustus Pinochet, as well as the pair of Ivan Zamorano and Marcelo Salas, both celebrated Chilean football players of the 1990s and early 21st Century. By October 13, 2010 when the trapped miners were rescued in a made-for-the-cameras exercise, something fundamental had changed for the country, although it is still to be seen how far reaching the effect could go still. Chile may not be a ‘product’ in the same way as you would refer to Coca Cola, but experts and laymen alike believe that with the thrilling, ultimately successful media packaging of the rescue of the miners, Chile gained a lot of goodwill that should mean more tourist visits and more willing foreign investment in the country. As the ‘orchestra conductor,’ the Chilean president, Sebastian Pinera said after the successful rescue operation: "We faced up to this rescue united as a country. We did it the Chilean way, which means the right way." Great advert! Brilliant PR!!

JOKE OF THE YEAR

That, once again, as we go into year 2011, 9 years before 2020, in spite of the country still being barely able to light its homes while its roads are hell-holes, Nigeria will, come 2020, become one of the 20 most industrialised nations of planet earth. With the caliber of presidential material we have had for the past four years? Abeg I still dey laugh o.

END OF THE YEAR QUESTION

By whose votes will the next Nigerian president be elected in 2011?

PROPHET OF THE YEAR

Paul, the psychic octopus, for (supposedly) correctly predicting the outcome of eight football matches during the 2010 FIFA World Cup in South Africa.

QUOTE OF THE YEAR

One quote will not be enough for me here, so I’m going with two:

“I dey laugh o” - former president Olusegun Obasanjo, reacting to news that former vice president Atiku Abubakar had been chosen by the Northern wing of the PDP as its consensus candidate for the PDP primary elections in 2011.

“My name is Sanusi Lamido Sanusi, (my name is) not Central Bank Governor. By my nature, if I do not believe that I am wrong, I do not apologise” – Sanusi Lamido Sanusi on December 1, while standing up to the Senate’s bullying over the CBN governor's 25 percent net spending comments.

Cheers for what?

I don’t usually pride myself on being the party pooper especially at a time like this when everybody is flaunting their best patriotism dress. However, I do feel like dragging a few things out of my diary to highlight why I, and of course, millions of Nigerians have continued to agonize as our weary beloved Nigeria has trudged on through the years. Thankfully, or rather, poignantly, the country’s many (avoidable and ridiculous) failings as an entity, have continued to be peppered over by the remarkable resilience of its truly brave and tolerant people.

Below is my (pathetic, if you will) attempt to capture a few issues - many of which certainly do not beatify our heritage - that are a reminder of where we are today.

• On October 1, 2009, 24-year-old Grace Adie Ushang, a member of the National Youth Service Corps serving her fatherland in Maiduguri, Borno State was, IN HER SERVICE UNIFORM, thought to be provocatively dressed by a gang of young men who raped and murdered her. That band of gorillas is yet to be caught and I can bet my left arm that the authorities are not even looking to arrest them, perhaps because she was ‘an indecent girl who got what she deserved.” On the same day Grace was killed, the trio of Rotimi Philips, 28, Ibrahim Olojede, 32, and Friday Uti, 34, were callously spread with bullets by a group of policemen right inside a car in front of the workshop where they worked as motor mechanic in the heart of Alagomeji in Yaba, Lagos State. Arrogant and unapologetic as ever, the culprits and their masters in the police hierarchy have not shown any remorse for that atrocity and as a news reporter covering the story since it first broke, I have lost count of the number of tacit and even direct threats I have received for daring to follow developments on the issue.

The late Grace Ushang

 

• By his estimate, former chairperson of the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC) Mallam Nuhu Ribadu believes that Nigeria has wasted about N700 billion in oil proceeds since independence. I think that is even a conservative estimate.

• In a country still plagued by widespread illiteracy, there are fewer more eloquent testimonies to why this is the case than the fact that education still gets an annual budgetary allocation that is just about half the National Assembly’s budget. Add to that the fact that teachers - who in more forward-looking societies are some of the better paid professionals - are some of the lower earning workers in Nigeria and you may better understand the point I am making here.

• In 50 years, from Wale Soyinka Chinua Achebe, John Pepper Clark, T.M. Aluko, Ola Rotimi, Zainab Alkali, Zulu Sofola, to Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie and Ben Okri, to name a few, Nigerian writers have wowed readers from around Africa and other parts of the world with engaging literature, that has provided more than just a hint of how blessed this country is. A special toast must be reserved to these ambassadors whose ink, continues to give a more pleasant meaning to what being Nigerian is contrary to whatever unedifying impression the political class may have created in the mind of the world.

• Thirteen years ago, he and his cronies set the tone for what was to become a future pattern of political and electoral rape of the Nigerian people this nation. In a more orderly and saner clime, former military president Ibrahim Badamasi Babangida would never be seen as anything but a betenoire and an aberration anywhere issues of election or eligibility for public posts are being discussed. Money no doubt, talks loud everywhere in the world and although he may not win the PDP’s ticket for the elections, but the sheer temerity in his throwing his hat in the ring as a potential elected president of this country, goes some way in highlighting the value system we have nurtured down the years. Only a culture of highest-bidder-may-come-forward that canonizes people of means however tainted the means may be, can embolden even the darkest of black beasts to believe they can wriggle round a system, no matter their antecedents. Unfortunately, this is what Babangida and his delusional ilks constantly prey on this to make a mockery of us all.

• Believe it or not, water is almost as, if not more expensive than soft drink in this country. Think of it, a bottle of Coca cola, Pepsi and the likes sells for N60 while a bottle of packaged water sells for N50. Perhaps not even in a place like Germany with its well-known story of limited water reach, is a litre of water equal in deutschmark value, to a glass of beer.

• Since the British left our shores, one can count the number of natural disasters that have befallen this country on the fingers of one hand. Yet by continually pushing the self destruct button such as in the case of the Lagos-Benin Expressway and many other appalling man-made calamities, Nigeria has lost more lives than a combination of 20 tsunamis, earthquakes, cyclones, landslides, wildfires, volcanic eruptions and typhoons could have claimed.

• Like most aspects of our lives, the Nigerian entertainment industry, through the ingenuity, hard work and tenacity of its practitioners continues to trudge on in spite of the odds. Technically speaking, most of the movies still leave much to be desired but the music has come on in leaps and bounds quality wise. And these, together with other media of entertainment, have through the decades proved a more competent representation of the true Nigerian spirit – a Spartan spirit that conquers all obstacles.

• Three general elections since the return to civil rule in 1999, Nigeria still doesn’t have sustainable and workable electoral laws and rules to guide the conduct of elections. Hence, at the turn of each electioneering period, we contrive to further muddle things up by coming up with selfish contingency rules that only cater to the whims of the cabal with the strongest and furthest reaching influence.

Birthday wishes 101

There is something about waking up on the morning of your birthday. Of course, you are older and then you get reminded about all sorts of things – about how long you have been about and around, where you’ve got it right, where you have been atrocious and where you could have tinkered a little more for better effect. I am a year older today and although I like to think that my birthday or similar anniversaries isn’t overtly special, I am not entirely convinced about that thought. However, I do know that I don’t like to make a party out of my birthday. And even this I am not sure, has passed through enough test to hold true for me.

That noted, it is given that, once again, I’m not blowing out any candle lights on a birthday cake this time around. But at least I am entitled to some birthday wishes. So, dear granter of wishes, here we go again this year. Firstly though, I suspect that some of my wishes from last year were not exactly granted, not because they were ludicrous or outlandish but because the wish list was too lengthy. Therefore, I am attempting an abridged version this time.

A few days back, someone whispered to me that on this day there are certain ‘pests’ I need to get rid of through prayer and even suggested the kind of prayer I should say. I was told that there is no better occasion than today to pray against my enemies, both known and imagined. So I woke up this morning to the rhythm of Durella’s Enemies song. But far from being gifted at marking down any enemies, plus, I am incredibly incapable of imagination when it comes to such issues, I only hummed along enthusiastically to the bridge where the song goes: ko si bi won se le se ma si k’ole m’ole …. (no translation please, go learn your own Yoruba). I didn’t bother with the enemies are many in my life, part.

Talking about enemies, well, in this case pesky well-wishers, dear wish granter, I still have an issue from last year’s wish. Those meddlesome characters are still on my case with regards to the issue of me getting married. It irritates me to think that some of them are, like I pointed out last time out, ‘unattached’ geriatrics compared to me who is just one score and a few years old. Yet these busy bodies fear as they claim, for me that my not being ‘attached’, to their knowledge, is an indication that something is horribly wrong. Dear giver of wife, I didn’t plan to talk about this subject again this year, but I’m glad to ask this all the same. Please, you know that girl, no not the broomstick thin girl, and certainly not that gaunt, plain-looking, bimbo either. You know the one I am talking about, abi? That one with the lips, no not the thick-lipped knocked-kneed one who seems to walk with both feet almost together, I mean not the one with those eyes, those almost perpetually expressionless eyes. I am talking here not about the one who ogles at me each time she sets eyes on me. God forbid, not that plump one, as she likes to be called, who seems like she’s been around for seven lifetimes. Yeah, not that one with a jackal’s laughter, the one who walks with the grace, well, the grace of a kangaroo and has an IQ as high as a room’s temperature in winter. I am not referring to the clunky, clumsy, butter-fingered, traipsing, talkative, curvaceous one, you know, the one with the temperament of a rabid cat – that withdrawn-murderous-withdrawn-murderous temperament. The girl I actually mean here is that one, not the squat, spontaneous but freaky and preternatural one with that dollish look. OK dear provider, since I promised to make this an abridged version, I trust you know the girl I’m talking about here, the one I have been eyeing for God knows how long now. She knows herself and might even read this. So, to keep things abridged, she could even volunteer herself to you to help fill in the blank spaces. Suffice to say that she is the one I have identified for a wife. At least it’s an improvement from last year.

Staying with ‘abridged’, let me lump all the other wishes together because I do not think they allow for any abridgment (I hope to God that that word exists in the English language). I trust you to see some of them through at least.

One more thing, please, not that I am gloating or being insensitive here, but dear mighty one thank you for fulfilling at least one of my wishes from last year, the one about a change in the shape and orientation of our president. But the only problem is that I am afraid that the president you have given us as a substitute still seems to me like an amoeba - his shape or even shade defies my definition and description.

And before I go please, I’m still hoping to take that vacation not to ritzy Sun City, not to decadent Las Vegas, not to breath-stopping Dubai and not to idyllic Riyadh or scenic Milan or Paris, but to somewhere beyond the clouds above, although maybe not in an aeroplane or some space machine. But may no fate willfully misunderstand me and snatch me away forever.

Hip! Hip!! Hip!!!