Kissing Democracy Goodbye in Nigeria.

Political corruption is one of Nigeria’s besetting ills, and there has been plenty of it in the so-called democracy, but of course it is not our collective responsibility to care.  There are other important things to do—goals to reach, dreams to dream of and daily battles to conquer.  In that light, kissing democracy goodbye is unavoidably right? False!

It is up to the new leadership in 2015 to show us ‘true’ democracy. The task of cleaning would not be easy but can be done. That new leadership must reject the idea of getting votes by appealing to religious sectarianism, tribalistic jingoism, and petty thuggery.

All parties must desist from bribing and corrupting the supporters and achieve results by the ballot box.  They must show that Nigeria is not in the grip of any new imperium. A definition of Nigerian democracy must be created.

For a nation of one-eighty million to make any kind of sense of democracy, it must base itself firmly on the concept of multiplicity, of plurality and tolerance, of devolution and decentralization wherever possible. There can be no one way—religious or cultural—of being a Nigerian; let difference reign. That is democracy.

But alas, the romantic relationship between certain individuals and the seat of power would be the reverse of Jack Dawson’s love for Rose Dewitt Buktaker on the RMS Titanic ship. Rose must die for Jack to live. In other words, Nigeria must die for them to remain in power.

Those who forget the past are condemned to repeat it. 1966? Nigeria, a delicate child of fifty-four, has not really enjoyed the benefits of democracy. If anything, she has only shared some shards of the scattered definitions of freedom.

There are deep uncertainties about where the country is heading. With events springing up like thorns one may conclude that the kiss is everlasting. Issues: defection of PDP members to APC; Suntai denies rumoured resignation; boko haram; homosexuality and human rights, etcetera, is Nigeria.

It’s easy to say that the new administration, should, and in all likelihood will, attempt to simply change the societal ills; that would be a tricky conclusion. The social malaise is gargantuan. And, the question lingers: who/what is the new administration?

Our knowledge of Mr Goodluck Ebele Jonathan is of an inexperienced leader. Add his team and you have a gathering of languorous elements running the engines of an unstable regime.  What next?

It’s only a matter of months before we can stop this progressive lunacy. What must be done? It is simple: choose the right devil. All politicians are devilishly-good or devilishly-evil.

Many, with good reason, are extremely nervous about the outcome of the approaching general election. Sabre-rattling individuals want GEJ to remain and in other factions, another individual is preferred. The general populace want a human being in power.

Calling Nigeria a democratic state, to many observers, is absurd.  At any rate, the question remains: if the situation of Nigeria continues to deteriorate, will the people be bold enough to turn against the ruling class? What happened after Occupy Nigeria?

Two clichés about Nigeria must be dismissed. First, the probability of a military coup is possible. Second, the idea of a united, democratic, secular Nigeria is attainable under this leadership.

For the moment, however, all of us who are Nigerian by citizenship, or birth, or race, must accept that we are gradually kissing our democracy goodbye. It would be a shame on us all if we let it slide out of our hands.

We must find the strength to act with honour in the months to come. To struggle to retain this freedom before us and to ensure, by any means necessary, that we choose that individual who would lead us, devilishly, into a heaven where we can begin to craft new ideas, reach new heights and burst into new dynasties.

Our stories must not be left in the hands of an unscrupulous few. We have the right to re-shape the plots of our lives and re-define it. Let’s start today.

God bless Nigeria.

The Life of a Writer

I wrote my first article when I was eight years old. It was about military oppression in Nigeria. I loved it. But Uncle Monday, my primary school teacher, didn’t like it because he thought I copied it. “I didn’t,” I cried. I was hurt.

Secretly, I continued writing. I wrote for myself. I was scared of what people might say. Fear of scorn and fear of rejection made me embark on necessary nonsensical career journeys.

 To become successful in Nigeria, I was told, you have to be an accountant, an economist, an engineer etc etc. Indeed, I followed the bandwagon. What do I know? For years, I sat at home looking for that university that would admit me into their noble department. My talent suffered.

 A writer’s life might begin with these doubts: whether, truly, he/she is doing the right thing or maybe, just maybe, that professional profession is better. These aporias fuelled a mediocre living.

After four years of waiting and wasting time and JAMBing, I finally made it into university to study literature. The arts called me back. Like Okigbo, I returned to Mother Idoto naked.

I studied various writers’ works and their lives. They have one thing in common, they love words and most of them were considered as weirdoes, geeks and misfits.

As I continued my trip into this sometime solitary life, I discovered some strange truths. First, people you love and those who love you always say something positive about your writings. Even when it is crap, they sing your praise. They encourage you.

Second, there are those, as a writer, you hate to love or love to hate. Those who run around defaming your personality and wishing, most importantly, that you amounted to nothing. Every move you make is devilish in their eyes. That writer smokes heavily, uses drugs, and copulates with two hundred women a day before he writes. These ones add to the spurious myths held about writers.

Depression. Boredom. Energy. Envy. Love. Hate. Madness. Negativity. Positivity. They come, yes. They visit a writer once in a while. And in these moments of visitation, the writer may let the guest rule those hours or decide to rule the guest. Whatever the choice, a result comes out: good, bad and good-bad.

The life of a writer may mean a lot to some and mean nothing to others. For example, in a party, I was dancing to Davido’s Skelewu and, screaming “Skelewu!” until I found myself outside. I met this lady, a conversation ensued and we got to that awkward part where you’re asked, “What you do for a living?” I answered proudly, “I am a writer.” A fake smile emanated. “You look like a banker. You guys try sha. You creative people. It is always good to have you people as friends. You never know. I know what writers are like.”

As a writer, you must learn to work for free most times. Friends, family members and even enemies send you stuff to proofread, re-write, and some tell you stories that need urgent writing. You must not say no. You must not charge. You are supposed to be a voice for humanity. Your pay is in heaven. You can feed your family with your goodness.

Discipline is key. Practise is essential. Every good thing comes to the writer who writes regularly and consistently. Life has made it that way.

The life of a writer is patience and determination filled. Forty rejection letters later, the writer keeps writing. When bills strangle the writer’s neck, when life’s harsh realities punch the writer into a coma, why does he keep composing words?

Story telling is part of a writer’s life. He can conjure characters from the air and make them live. He has the power to make you believe a woman can create gold. He has the power to make you cry, laugh, just to mention those two.

I’m still writing. My life is writing. Writing is my life.

In this career, I’ve learnt lessons. One of them remains important: never give up and never allow what anyone says about you or your work derail you from your set goal(s).