The veneration of banality

The veneration of banality

Last week, I vented dismay at the fact that Nigeria's leaders are, for the most part, too preoccupied with pedestrian pursuits and instant gratification to nudge the citizenry to any lofty national goals. I argued that the reason Nigeria is in such shabby condition is that those responsible for setting the country's agenda betray a maddening disconnection from the imperatives of leadership. Seized by moral and intellectual aridity, they compel their fellows to venerate the most ephemeral ideas.

Several weeks ago, a relative visiting from Nigeria brought along a few recent Nigerian newspapers. In reading the papers, I gained a deeply painful appreciation of the manner in which Nigeria's moral tone has been morbidly infected with virulent strains of banality and their leaders' altogether negative motto. A sampling of some of the dispiriting news reports should bring my point to sharp relief.

The Daily Champion of May 1 published pictures from the traditional wedding of the ex-Biafran leader, Mr. Chukwuemeka Odumegwu-Ojukwu. In one photograph, the Ikemba Nnewi, holder of a Masters degree in History from Oxford, is captured as he "sprays his wife, Bianca, with dollars." What was the point, I wondered? To demonstrate that the dollar is the official currency of the Nigerian nouveau riche? To underline that his wife's brow is far too precious to be touched with "common" naira? The whole picture struck me with its sickening import, with its suggestion that those from whom we have a right to expect restrained social conduct are every bit as anxious to make an ostentatious display of Nigeria's pathologies. Then there was the Punch of May 7. On page 40, the paper wrote about Mr. Emeka Offor, "the Oraifite born multi-millionaire and financier of the ruling People's Democratic Party." Invited to be the special guest at an event in Nnewi, Mr. Offor, according to the report, "arrived towards thetail end of the ceremony." Prudence and good sense should dictate that such a late comer would apologise for his lateness.

But such etiquette does not extend to Nigeria's moneyed men. In the paper's account, "As soon as Offor and his large entourage arrived in their exotic cars, several canons, which had been specially placed in front of the hall started to explode in deafening succession. The spectacle was a reminder of the Biafran war. Anedo shook to its foundation." This demonstration of vanity lasted, said the paper, for "20 minutes or so." And what was the larger point? The paper had an answer: it was "an occasion for Offor to demonstrate that he is Nnukwu Mmanwu (big masquerade)." If wealth is the sole determinant of who is a "big masquerade," then America's Bill Gates, co-founder of Microsoft, certainly belongs to his own league. Yet, I can't imagine him arriving late at an event and not offering an apology. Certainly, it would never occur to him to stage a noisy prank, disrupting an event for 20 minutes, in order to announce his arrival. Why do Nigeria's parvenu find such uncouth behaviour attractive? Why does the press flatter that vulgarity by describing them as big masquerade? Why do Nigerian journalists write with misplaced and unschooled admiration about "exotic cars"? Pray, what is an exotic car like?

But by far the most gripping story was on page 3 of Weekend Vanguard of April 21. The headline of the story in question read, "I hope to meet Abacha when I die Adisa." You guessed right, the reference was to an interview with ex-Major-General Abdulkareem Adisa, ex-Works and Housing Minister, former member of Abacha's inner circle, a leading member of Diya's phantom coup, crier before Major Al-Mustapha, current strongman of Ilorin, multi-millionaire (or is it billionaire?) for life and rookie philanthropist. According to the report, Mr. Adisa "said yesterday in Ilorin that he hoped to meet, after his death, the late General Sani Abacha because the late head of state was his benefactor."

If you're wondering where Mr. Adisa's anger was about his incarceration by Abacha, then you don't know the Ilorin juggernaut. He told the reporter that "he would continue to hold General Oladipo Diya responsible for the calamities that befell him (Adisa) in the aftermath of the 1997 coup saga." What about Abacha's culpability in his misfortunes? Adisa's answer is instructive: "Whatever I have become today is by the grace of God and the late General Abacha. He was God sent to me, so I cannot deny him at all. Let me tell you, when I get to heaven, I will visit him there."

Mr. Adisa's words, it seemed obvious, opened a window to a man's twisted soul. What might we glean about the man from his enlightening response? First, let us consider what Mr. Adisa has "become today." He is, quite simply, a very wealthy man that's all. In fact, given the man's meagre mental resources and the addled company he kept, it is logical that being wealthy was the only thing he could ever become. And he is a quintessential Nigerian wealthy man: one who cannot claim much less prove that he broke a sweat or otherwise worked for his money.

Mr. Adisa felt no shame in telling the world in effect that Abacha, his personal god, bestowed a slice of Nigeria's stolen oil wealth on him. For that benefaction, the Ilorin ex-General has become a life-long devotee of the god who used to reside in Aso Rock. His devotion fixed and unshakable, he warned us that nothing would ever tempt him to renounce faith in the benevolent deity called Abacha. The fact that his capricious god contrived to throw him in gaol is only a minor detail; in fact, it was a loving god's way of chiding a follower who permitted his faith to waver and who, in the process, yielded to Diya's apostasy.

A careful reading of Mr. Adisa's statement underscores his quiet horror at the fact that he nearly uttered a heresy. After crediting everything he's become to "the grace of God and the late General Abacha," Adisa must have remembered his bounden and holy duty to have no other god apart from Abacha. Recoiling in mortification, he then offered an amendment that implicitly restored Abacha to the position of singular godhead. Abacha, he declared with terse directness, "was God sent to me." Had he not hastened to issue this correction, Adisa would have been guilty of grave theological error, one that would disqualify him from the graces of his deity. If, according to Adisa's creed, Abacha was a god, then we must understand why the man finds it inconceivable that the former oracle of Aso Rock would be anywhere but in "heaven." It should be easy to grasp the psychological underpinning of Adisa's faith that "when I get to heaven, I will visit Abacha there." The logic might go something like this: in the same way that Abacha was able to buy Adisa's love by enriching the Ilorin soldier with millions of ill-gotten dollars, why, the late General should be able to use his stolen billions to bribe his way into heaven. Who say money no dey sweet the gatemen of heaven?

This species of reasoning, I am afraid, afflicts too many Nigerian "leaders." They rationalise their plunderage of the nation's resources by convincing themselves that it is a necessary pre-condition for re-distributing the largesse. In that sense, public theft becomes invested with a veneer of virtue. In Adisa case, the occasion for his eye-opening perorations was, according to the newspaper, "the launching of the Abdulkareem Adisa Foundation." Mr. Adisa waxed poetic in evaluating the good his foundation has done. He stressed that "today the foundation is playing its interventionist role effectively in our educational sector. It has so far disbursed millions of naira to thousands of students in secondary schools, polytechnics and universities across the country." The reporter was obviously too impressed to ask the most pertinent question: "Where and how, sir, did you get the money to play this interventionist role?" Or, "Is it not the case that your late god and you created the problem you're presuming to solve with a miniscule portion of your criminally acquired wealth?"