Congratulating the president
By
THE grand but fearful masquerade is abroad; what do we say to our children to keep them from developing fits of fever? Matchet in hand, the rope around his waist is loose and panic is in the air. Our children are new to strange sights as we behold today in the haze of things. His mask, decked in colours of rainbow, is not a familiar sight even to the aged ones whose eyes have carried the lantern and darkness of age. They shut their eyes and cannot applaud the masquerade whose dance we had all stepped out to see in the National Theatre, standing in place of the village square. Across the waters, tigers and mastodons lay in wait for the once beautiful bride who has become a monster in the eyes of the hunters. His words are weak and no one wants to say that the dance has been a beauty, a bright light. And so we remember the lizard falling from the great heights of the Iroko tree.
We are not there to praise, and he declares hope, which we had always searched for in the scheme of things. But this hope is not tangible, it is not even certain, not is it a thing whose shape we see in the air. For, in the past they had given us hope only to dash it against the rocks in the twilight times. They had preached beauty and friendship in the dawn of time; they had even proclaimed a new conscience in the aftermath of a revolution. The pregnancy was unending, the goal post was shifted so often that it became the culture, the norm. Yet in the end, they all became like their predecessors. Some even locked us up and killed our grandfathers, some pumped bullets into the bodies of octogenarians, while lustily singing the song of national rebirth. One of us whose pen-mouth was said to be too loud was despatched with the power of dynamite at breakfast time. A letter from State House was the booby-trap!
Yet we know that the dance which our chief masquerade dances, is a complex one. Let those who say pepper is a delicacy chew it in the open ground near the marketplace and drink water thereafter. Let those who say the head is bald and so should not visit the barber ask the strands that sit on the fringes. Who will give them the trimmings? Is the head ever too big a burden for the neck? Our son has done well, and we salute him. Our son has not done well, and we call him indoors to light up the true path. We must not let strangers teach him lessons he ought to have learnt from the homestead. "Since when did stranger don indigo before the bereaved cried out his loss"? Soyinka asks. Whoever blames us for not washing the rag of our son's failing in the open market place, should find out what happened to the community when only dog hid father dog after the order to kill off all parents went out.
The story can become the people, and the people a story. We pray that we do not become a dead story even while we live. How may we eat of the fruit of the search when the conquest comes to us in the aftermath of the encounter? We have no words to salute the king when we have soiled the farm. He stares at us and says we have betrayed him. When a father pollutes the air of the church, his children look downwards. If he decides to dance on as if all is well, the shame rises in degree. We look back and say he danced without listening to the rhythm of our song. The music of strangers caught his fancy and he pointed out his homestead with his left hand? Is that what we say? Do we say that his eyes roved only where beautiful women from foreign lands posed for his amorous attention? Have we called him, summoned him to the inner sanctuary, the table of decisions? Even stray cats are sometimes returned by kind strangers to their bewildered owners! Where do we stand in all of this as the world keeps "tumbling in the void of strangers"?
Our Masquerade has fought the war twice in our lifetime, propelled by fingers and hands of Circumstance. He returned unscathed after the first rumble. His second coming must be unstained. The hatchet must be buried in the head of a common foe. It was Independence Day, yet we saw no designer adverts flying in the air congratulating him for being the scapegoat for all of us. It is not in his nature to award patronage contracts to cronies and parasites. It was Independence Day, yet no adverts flew into space to say that in his time, the telephone became demystified. It was Independence Day and no adverts flew to say that we have remained in the same room after the incestuous annulment because he agreed to hold the reins of the national horse. It was Independence Day and nobody cared to thank him for not crushing opponents with the Power of State. It was Independence Day, and no one wanted to put a smile on the face of a hardworking President whose working hours are legendary. We remembered only his travelling hours! It was Independence Day yet nobody congratulated him that we had the Oputa Panel, and its findings shook the foundations of the mighty. Oputa who put fear into Generals; Generals who refused to stand before the Jury of Nigerians. We know it would be impolitic to expect Mr. President to move against the buccaneer Generals until the end of the impeachment Damocles, until the days of the Third Coming. So let it be.
So I congratulate the President, on behalf of the others who believe that in spite of all the webs we see around him, there is still Hope; I congratulate the President for daring bleeding Tigers and writing the history of our generation in colours of the rainbow. I congratulate the President for seeing the things which are not clear to us. I congratulate the President for seeing the need to have a national conference where an equitable basis for the federation will be worked out. I congratulate the President for creating the NDDC after years of wrangling. But my congratulation fervour suffers a set back when I remember the resource control matter. Professor Itse Sagay assures us that the Bill designed to resolve the Resource Control fiasco is a fraud, a fraud that dances between contiguous and continental shelves. Still I congratulate the President. I know he will listen; he will read Sagay and tell his selfish and mischievous advisers to save him the embarrassment of another Niger Delta uprising. In spite of the bad federal roads, I congratulate Mr. President.
The person to skin alive is the Federal Minister of Works, the Mr. "Fix It" of the Obasanjo administration (he certainly has not fixed the roads) who has told the world that N300bn has been spent on road construction and repairs since 1999! We do know that the buck stops at the President's desk, whether or not he has sleepy road fixers. He is our President, warts and all, and no one can take that away except the people so decide in the elections next year. But time is long; the morning is yet young. We are plagued with doubts though, a hallmark of this generation. We were born in a period of hope but matured in a period of uncertainty, having to cope with the menace and tragedy of military rule and a Genocidal Civil War. The multiple layers of thought and images of history which Mr. President evinces, which he has stirred also make it imperative for us to be children of Doubting Thomas, and perhaps children of Sisyphus too. The absurdity of the times makes us wonder about the future, about the future of the country and leadership. How do we tame a fighting and belligerent tiger which sees its meal-power being re-negotiated for the common good?
The nightmare of impeachment is not over, certainly not over. So we must reach out, we must stoop to conquer. We must reach out to those across all bridges who may have a soothing voice, a calming-of-nerves-voice to set the boat of state aright. The boys may be small, but they are big with a big nuisance value. When the earthworm dances, it hears music in the background, though we do not see the drummers. Carve an image and call it a god. Give it palm oil and it would ask for blood. If a cock chases after you in the morning, dust your feet and run. It may have grown teeth overnight, so our elders say. And who are we to dispute our elders?
So, we must congratulate Mr. President on being the Helm-of-Affairs-Man at this auspicious time, for being associated with the theory and practice of democracy twice in the historical development of this great but sleepily vibrant country. If others have forgotten how he gallantly handed over power to civilian buccaneers in 1979 when he could have stayed on and on like his successors, we, doubtful believers, have not forgotten. Memory and sweet pain ensure everlasting remembrance. History will vindicate him particularly if he is able to steer the ship to a safe berth this time. As the Masquerade dances on, from the sidelines we hold our breath, we hope and pray that heirloom and loincloth will not come loose at the moment of peak intensity or delirious politicking. We wash ancient coins and gaze at bright memorabilia that die-hard cynics can never see, may never see. Congratulations, Sir, Mr. President. May 2003 not pass you outside doors of state!
Nov 2002