Take It Off

That mask doesn’t look good on you. Trust me. 

Your real self is so unique it can’t be faked. 

I know you don’t believe me. 

Your eyes say it all. 

They wonder if I am real. 

“Real people mask,” I hear you say. 

I beg to differ. Real people take the high road:

They are real to themselves and project these realities to others. 

Masking is not their thing.

It makes them feel strange to themselves; 

And even stranger to others. 

It’s too hard a job to act another man’s script. 

You risk losing you and with it your health and your life. 

So, stay with your script, buddy. 

Only the real you can make you happy. 

The road to genuine success is paved with authenticity. 

Is your mask still on?

Love Yourself! Even If And When Others Don’t

“I can buy myself flowers

Write my name in the sand

Talk to myself for hours

Say things you don't understand

I can take myself dancing

And I can hold my own hand

Yeah, I can love me better than you can” 

- Miley Cyrus from Flowers

—————

Miley Cyrus’ Flowers has rocked the music world in the last several months. Her deep and sonorous voice has filled homes, cars and dancing floors of nations and territories. Flowers pieced into our sedentary life of seeking the love of others, reminding us of the need to start loving ourselves better. The fine piece of music - devoid of vulgarity - won two awards at the just concluded 66th Grammy. Miley’s live performance of the night has elicited rave reviews for its naturalness, vocals mastery and a simple and less distracting choreography. 

For a conservative music lover like me, I find myself drawn to Flowers, not so much to the pomp and pageantry surrounding the Grammy night  performance, but to its lyrics and to Miley’s authenticity. 

Flowers challenges our undue reliance on love and affirmation from others. We feel good when we feel loved. We are happy when others make us happy by the things they do or say to us. In essence, we tie our wellbeing to the apron strings of others’ attitudes and actions. This is a grave mistake as human disappointments and betrayals are inevitable. And as the love and affirmation from others wane, we tend to lose our balance and with it our happiness. This overbearing reliance on others for our wellbeing is derided by the Scriptures. 

”Thus says the Lord: “Cursed is the man who trusts in man And makes flesh his strength, Whose heart departs from the Lord. For he shall be like a shrub in the desert, And shall not see when good comes, But shall inhabit the parched places in the wilderness, In a salt land which is not inhabited.“ Jeremiah‬ ‭17‬:‭5‬-‭6‬ ‭NKJV‬‬

The reason is that people will always be people - shifty as sand; unreliable at best; for “the heart [of man] is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked; Who can know it?“ ‭‭Jeremiah‬ ‭17‬:‭9‬ ‭NKJV‬‬

The path to happiness begins with absolute trust in God. “For without Me you can do nothing!”(John 15:5) is the screaming headline from your Maker. To not recognize this is to court disaster. God is a missing link in Miley Cyrus’ Flowers: It shouldn’t be in your own life’s experience.

Then, you must have an unwavering faith in yourself. Miley suggests you appreciate yourself; buy yourself flowers. Motivate yourself to create indelible marks in the sand of time. Check what you are saying to yourself. Remember, as a man thinks in his heart so he is (Proverbs 23:7). So, be careful what you say to yourself, as your life invariably moves in the direction of your dominant thoughts. Love yourself - take yourself on a date, doing what you love doing, empowering yourself in the process. Hold your hand in an affectionate support. Never you forget, no one can love you better than yourself. Except God, of course.

Prophesies and the Culture of Silence

He stood like a god before a captive audience, moving sporadically like a drunk. His oversized handkerchief worked furiously, cleaning the endless beads of sweat streaming down his face. He looked like a visitor from heaven. Much like the Biblical Moses that was just back from God’s presence. The only difference was that his audience didn’t look away from the glory that the face radiated. May be, because it was the glory of man in a stupor and not the glory of God’s presence. 

Everyone was enamoured. Everyone hung on every word he spoke. The prophet, as he was called, knew his onions. He was a master at his craft. He knew how to play with a dramatic pause, how to manipulate the tone and the volume of his voice. He knew how to look like a disembodied spirit and sway his energetic body to the sporadic rhythm of the soulful music coming from the band. He usually started staring into nowhere, attracting a studied silence from the audience. Then, he moved. He stopped. He ran. He stopped again. Then, he spoke inaudible words, hands lifted to heaven, as if in a conversation with heaven. The audience knew the rhythm and the cues. They knew when silence was golden and when screaming made the prophet madder, or was it more anointed. It was one large choreographed orchestra with everyone playing their part. 

Then, he began. “I have received from the Lord concerning the 2023 Presidential elections in Nigeria.” Shouts of ‘Alleluia’, ‘glory’ rent the air. There were whistles, aimless walks, feet stamping, and diverse other religious poses. As the noise petered out, the prophet continued, “It will surprise you! I said it will surprise you!”

Months after, his prophecies did not materialize. Nobody expects an apology because the prophet never makes mistakes. Afterall, he is not human; he is a god. Some puerile attempts are made to assuage the battered hope of his audience. “Don’t believe all that you are seeing and hearing. God is full of surprises,” he says unconvincingly. “Don’t ever doubt the prophet, even if you think he is wrong. God’s ways are not your ways. Remember not to touch God’s anointed or do His prophet any harm.” 

The audience acts as if nothing is amiss. They see and hear what is happening in the political space. A few of them that have really sucked up to the prophet mount a fierce defence of the man of God. The vast majority carry in their fragile hearts unresolved conflicts between their prophet’s posture and the realities around them. They have unanswered questions. In moments of sober reflections, they accept that their faith is shaky as their belief system suffers a breakdown. They own up to their deteriorating mental wellness. They need help. They cry for help. But the culture of silence and the perverted notion of the prophet’s invincibility will not allow them question or confront the prophet with their fears. 

The prophet knows this and immediately concocts a new series of prophesies that are directed at keeping the sheep in line. He needs them more that they need him. They pay the bills, fuel his larger-than-life style and give him the affirmation that he is a prophet of God. And, as such, the deception goes on and on.

2023 Nigeria’s Presidential Elections: They Prayed, God Heard, God Answered

Today, the 29th May of 2023, a new President has been installed in Nigeria. There is as much jubilation as as there has been a disquiet. Bola Ahmed Tinubu, our new President, won a little less than 40% of the total votes cast. In what was the lowest tally for any winner of a Presidential election in Nigeria, he won only 12 states outright and secured 25% in 29 states. With claims and counterclaims of electoral malfeasance, the army of skeptics of his victory is ominously large. 

The disquiet and the skepticism are more pronounced among Christians, who had been more passionate and more involved in the last Presidential elections than at any time in history. Their reasons were just, their passion excusable, and their anger justified. A Christian in Aso Rock would have been a welcome departure from the former President, with his obvious and mindless favoritism for the people of his faith and region to the detriment of others. It showed in his kitchen cabinet. It reared its ugly head in every appointment and almost in every of his policies and programmes. The man both the Christians and Moslems voted into power twice did enough to alienate more than half of the population that do not share his faith. And my God, it seems he didn’t give a damn! Such an arrogance made the support of a Muslim-Muslim ticket in the just concluded presidential elections by most Christians a mountain too steep to climb and a rationale too difficult to defend. 

Not only did this move Christians to tears and drive them on their knees, the seemingly conspiratorial plan to prolong the Northerners’ hold on power raised many heart beats and pushed many politically docile Christians into activism. In their newfound pragmatism, they went shopping for a candidate. They found one that fitted the bill, even if not perfectly. Who is perfect anyway? The candidate became their rallying point. He was the town cryer announcing their freedom, the object of the change they sought, and the messiah to their dreamed up El-dorado. Their prayers were no longer general. It was no longer, “Lord, let your will be done.” In that drunken state of holy anger and in the deafening noise of a justified cause, they forgot to say like Jesus, “Nevertheless, not my will but your will be done.” You can only blame them if you are an angel. You can only fight them if you are a poor student of history. I hope you and anyone reading this will agree that our nation has just witnessed a revolution unleashed right before our eyes. Think about it for a minute; will you? A failed member of a 2019 presidential ticket and a man considered inconsequential to his former party’s quest for the highest office in 2023, rose to a new and historic third party stardom. The candidate said to have no structures won in Lagos, Nasarawa and Plateau, and broke the backs of seating Governors in the East and in the South South. A man from a tribe where self-determination is in the front burner, garnered an unprecedented National appeal and shattered myths that have long stigmatized the people of his race. A Christian man who has neither before healed the sick nor raised the dead, suddenly became the object of countless sermons and prophesies. Only a fool will see the candidate as a mere opportunist or equate him to a bull in a china shop. It will be foolhardy to see his support base - the multitudes of Christians and the young people from across religious and ethnic divides - as mere rabble rousers. 

Hell has no fury like a woman scorned, we often say. But we have just seen played out the fury of Christians and young people from across the nation as they raged and raced with unparalleled passion and commitment to the polling units. They did this to take a stand against the insensitivity, the callousness and the marginalization in the political calculations that have divided us along ethnic and religious fault lines. They did what they did to disavow a political system that disconnects and impoverishes. They rose up against debilitating insecurity and the disregard for human life and dignity. 

With the declaration of the winner by the Independent National Electoral Commission and his inauguration today, I only hope the new President saw them. I hope he heard them. He would be delusional not to have heard them. I hope he doesn’t have vengeance even in the remotest part of his mind. I hope he sees them as they are - the voices of patriots crying in the wilderness for good governance, justice, inclusiveness and a level playing field in a country in which we are all stakeholders. 

I hope Christians from across the nation and in the diaspora will be grateful to God they have started a revolution that is bound to recalibrate our political campaigns, restructure the polity and redefine political class’ response to the yearnings of the various sections of our nation. 

There is no doubt their heartfelt prayers bombarded the heaven’s gate. The God of heaven heard. And He responded. But in His response, He chose neither earthquake nor fire as they earnestly demanded. Rather, His still small voice broke through the doors of their expectations and shattered the windows of their hope. It was His answer, not theirs. An answer that is nevertheless consistent with His omnipotent and omniscient nature. They should be clear about God’s sovereignty vis a vis their own limitations. “‘For My thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways My ways,’ says the LORD. ‘For as the heavens are higher than the earth, So are My ways higher than your ways, And My thoughts than your thoughts.’” Isaiah 55:8,9 (NKJV). It is the habit of God to use the foolishness of this world to confound the wise. Just as it’s not unusual for Him to turn the stone rejected by the builder into a cornerstone. The God who called Nebuchadnezzar His servant and Cyrus His anointed is obviously wiser than us all. Therefore, knowing that His judgments and His ways are past finding out, they must now surrender to His will and rejoice in the hope and assurance that the road to the New Nigeria they seek passes through the new President. May they not miss God’s visitation just because it was not dressed in the familiar and did not look like the expected.

Trouble! You Don't Scare Me

I know there will always be an evil day. So, I am not scared of you, Trouble. The knowledge that you always lurk in the corner frees me of the fear of you. You are a certainty, not just a possibility. It’s only a matter of when next I will confront you. How can I be scared of what I cannot altogether control? Why must I die before my death? I don’t just know you will come but I know how you may come against me. You may desecrate my day with loads of disappointments, arising from the failure of man and his systems. You may manipulate the environment to make me abandon my principles and with it my hope. You may come at me with ailments, death in the family, financial loses, soured relationships and the like. You may deceive me into taking my eyes off God and off my peace. I know you, Trouble. The fear of you dissipates with my knowledge of you. 

 

You don’t scare me a bit, Trouble. You are not as life-threatening as you look. You an ant pretending to be an elephant; a weakling boasting of a non-existent strength. You are nothing but a storm in a tea cup. On the other side of you is all that God wants me to be. Yes, you heard me right. So, all I need to do is see past your antics. If I can only fix my gaze of Him, your threat turns to a treat. You become the bridge to my peace and to my destiny. “All things work together for good,” He said. As you pounce on the shore of my life, I am comforted that my Anchor stays strong and immovable. So, unwittingly, you help me focus more on God than on you. I have learned to see your roar as a test preceding my testimony; as a premonition pointing to my promotion. So, you see, you are an unusual ally on my way to becoming all that God has designed me to be. Why then should I be scared of you? 

 

In your hurry to afflict me, you underestimate my understanding of God’s love for me. There are so many battles against you that I do not know about. God literally takes my place and fights alongside me, as I hold His hands. His love simply wards you off and I get to win against you without putting up a fight. I know that sometimes I take my eyes of Jesus and I permit you to ride roughshod on me. Even then, His love for me swings into action. And even though you are right, His love marks you wrong. I know this is an unfair advantage. But, what can I say? He is my Father. On occasions, God allows you access to me because He knows I can handle you, having assured me He would not permit a challenge in my life that I cannot handle. And then, I need the discipline, the training and the growth my encounter with you will bring. So, I am always better than I was before you came calling. Can I tell you a secret? I rejoice in the tribulation you bring. I count it all joy when you unleash your diverse schemes. How can I fear you when I have Him in my corner? So, bring it on: God and I are in partnership to turn every of your wiles into a singing and dancing session.

 

The Miracle Of My Father's Arms

“Come on, child, your Father is here.”

 

With that, I turn my whole body towards the sound of His voice, beaming with smiles. His is a loving and soothing voice. Like a pool of water in the desert land. I fall recklessly in His arms - His arms long and big never disappoint. They pick me up with ease - with the dirt, the thorns and all. I feel safe. I am safe. My memories fail me. In His arms, I develop amnesia. I neither remember the pains of a lost business nor the shame of failing to meet people’s expectations of me. Not even my numerous challenges can scare me. The fear that I might fail again pales into insignificance. Lost in His arms, I dare to face life’s challenges, knowing that I cannot lose with Him in my corner. It is the miracle of my Father’s arms

 

Secured in His love, I rest. Even His rebuke is a scary delight. His cane is measured and purposeful. His words are framed to correct not to destroy. My Father’s frozen face makes me cry. I hate to cross His lines. But, come to think of it, I am only a child. No one knows that better than my Father. His anger is short-lived, like the morning dew in the scorching heat. Wait, I can hear Him say, “Come here child.” As I see His love eyes, I wipe away my tears, my feeling of condemnation dissipating. What boundless love is this? The miracle of my Father’s arms. 

 

Now, I am grown but I am still a child. I don’t ever wish to grow out of His arms. Surely, I have grown in knowledge, wisdom and stature. But just so that I might become more of a child He envisaged. The more I know the more I wish to know, of His love, truth and power. As I grow wiser, I tremble more at His infinite wisdom. His unsearchable wisdom eclipses mine. Every statute I gain reminds me of His incomparable stature. It doesn’t reduce my stature, it only elevates His. It doesn’t make me weak, it only reminds me how much stronger His arms are. Now, I do more than doff my hat to the great God; I just fall into His arms and worship at His feet. His arms are my safety net; His feet my path to victory. It’s the miracle of my Father’s arms.

The Politics and Religion of Ransoms: Rendering unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s

“Pray, should we pay taxes to Caesar?”

It was intended as a trap. To say Yes was to accept Caesar’s rule and, perhaps, make him a deity. A No would put Jesus at cross purposes with the ultimate ruler. 

Jesus called them hypocrites. And rightly so. God and reason are not always at loggerheads, except when they should be. To be sure, taxes, not prayers, repair roads, build schools and equip hospitals. Sometimes, the demands of Caesar might be inconvenient, hurtful and even unfair. But you obey all the same, having considered the implications of disobedience. In some circumstances, you choose disobedience. “This is not Caesar’s,” you firmly assert. In the former, your faith excuses your obedience while denying obedience in the latter. It is the way of faith and reason. In essence, faith keeps us on the higher grounds of belief and conduct even when reason suggests otherwise.  It is a no brainer choosing one without the consideration of the other. For how can we know the limit of reason without the triumph of faith? And how can we savour the beauty of faith without the discipline of reason?

So, Caesar should have his taxes. And he doesn’t have to be a deity to enjoy that priviledge. He should even have more, much more. He should have obedience to lawful and reasonable demands. He should also have the respect and honour his office demands. Even then, we should never hesitate to say to Caesar, “This is not yours but God’s.” The question is: who is Caesar? He is the one who has power over you, who can put you in a difficult situation from which you cannot easily extricate yourself. The power may be a force of love or of coercion. Caesar is the armed robber that demands your car key at gunpoint. He is the rapist that overpowers you in the dark corner of a deserted street. In either case, you pray fervently for help. You also assess the situation reasonably in an interplay of faith and reason. In one possible scenario, the chilling sound of a police siren may be the divine intervention you need to save you from the armed robber. In another, it may be the succumbing to the brutal force, while trusting the Lord to keep you safe. You may miraculously overpower the rapist, or you may choose to live to tell the tale of God’s miraculous help for a rape victim. 

Recently, the Prelate of the Methodist Church of Nigeria - His Eminence, ArchBishop Samuel Kanu-Uche - and two of his co-travelers were before their Caesar. The notorious band of eight Fulani herdsmen had made them trek for several hours in the wilderness and under the cover of the night. Their Caesar showed them the gully of dead bones of victims that had failed to render unto Caesar the things that were Caesar’s. Tortured, wounded and desecrated, the Prelate engaged his Caesar as we should all do ours. He negotiated the ransom and their release. Meanwhile, the Church and the nation were praying. In a matter of hours, N130 million was raised, out of which N100 million was rendered to Caesar in five sacks of N20 million each. 

After their release, the Prelate in a press conference announced that their release was made possible by God that enabled the Church to pay the negotiated ransom. Before then, Governor Okezie Ikpeazu of Abia State had attributed the release of the Prelate within 24 hours “to the grace of God, the fervent prayers of the Christian community and the well coordinated response from security agencies in Abia State.” He was right about the grace of God and the fervent prayers of the Christian community. However, the well coordinated response from the security agencies the Governor spoke about only existed in his fertile imaginations. It was a mere political grandstanding designed to give a false impression of security in an obviously dangerous environment. 

Simply put, the Prelate rendered unto Caesar what was Caesar’s, despite being aware of the National Assembly’s attempt to criminalize ransom payment and the tough but empty boasts of “well coordinated response from the security agencies”. In essence, there were two Caesars the Prelate faced. One Caesar was the fearless and the seemingly invincible band of abductors he was locked in with in the wilderness and in the dark of the night. The other Caesar was the government, whose representatives were asleep in comfortable mansions, oblivious of and detached from the existential security threat the nation was wallowing in. Another set of representatives of this Caesar were on the streets harassing and extorting from traders, motorists and any young person with evidence of means. 

The Prelate pragmatically chose his Caesar. And he rendered to him the things that were his. By doing so, he wittingly or unwittingly refused to render his trust and confidence in the promised protection of the other Caesar. He is alive to tell the story without shame. If anyone should be ashamed, it would be the other Caesar, whose security policies are long on promise but short on performance.

Looking for LAUGHTER

Laughter, where are you? Have you gone with the winds? Gone are the days when you held court in our human life and experiences. In your ubiquitous presence, you surrounded our dinner tables with so much joy, you lighted our dark moments and enlivened our workplaces. In your purest form, you are hearty and unpretentious; instantaneous and genuine. You were a delightful companion, a soulmate. In your absence we now frown. And frowns go for ten a penny. But we would rather spend a billion to have you back. So far, our money has only procured an array of comedians but not laughter. We still have medicines on our shelves but they don’t heal our wounds like you do. We still flock to religious houses but the joy of the Lord you bring still eludes us. 

If we may ask you, Laughter, why did you choose to leave us? Why did you walk away without a warning, without fanfare? You couldn’t even wait for a befitting send off. How greatly we must have angered you. Did we naively take you for granted, thinking we would always have you? In our naivety we never asked what brought you to us and what kept you with us. 

In retrospect, you didn’t leave us, we left you. We left you to pursue fame, power and money, at the expense of genuine happiness. Little wonder we are left with short-term grins and long-term frowns. We now know you mirror the love we have for self and for others. You reflect the undying hope we have for our life’s endeavors and echoes our faith that holds firm in times of trouble. As we stayed in our lane, refusing to compare ourselves with others, you flooded our hearts and faces with joy. Our laughter was from inside out. It wasn’t an external stimulus, but an inner voice of peace. As God’s peace garnished our minds, you lighted up our faces. You routinely depicted the happiness we had on the inside. We laughed because we were happy, and we were happy because we laughed.

It’s fruitless looking for you, Laughter. We know where you are and have always been. We will come to you and not you to us. As the Lord lives, we shall do the needful and start laughing again.

The Nexus Between Hunger And Death

There is the story of four lepers that stood transfixed at a crossroad of history, their stomachs empty and growling, their hopes in the air. It was at the gate of Samaria as recorded in the seventh chapter of 2 Kings. The lepers were stuck between a battered economy and a buoyant economy. Behind them was a decimated nation, before them a Syrian camp of soldiers stocked with food supplies and all, ready to pounce on a fear-struck adversarial nation. There had been a famine in the land as a result of the Syrian siege. The resulting hunger was so severe that mothers took turns to boil and eat their sons to stave off total annihilation. Call it a tragedy or a calamity and you would be right. But to the helpless people of Samaria, it was a most undignified necessity, an excusable indignity, and an explainable cruelty. After all, hunger and death are like Siamese twins. Extreme hunger almost invariably leads to death. And death may be a more attractive option in the face of an excruciating hunger.

The four lepers thought with the small ounce of faculty remaining in their hunger incapacitated minds. They could stay back doing nothing and die invariably. Or, they could break into the Syrian camp and face possible death like men. They chose the latter. Facing uncertain death was more appealing to the hungry lepers. 

Last Saturday in the oil-rich city of Port Harcourt, there were thousands, not four lepers, that thronged the Polo Club. This throng of people, made leprous by the circumstances of life, had heeded the call of their agonizing stomachs. A church had provided them the last straw to cling unto. They were promised gifts and food supplies. The sound of that was enough for them to risk their lives in a struggle. After all, they thought it was better to struggle and die than to die of hunger without a struggle. For this, they neither feared the crowd nor the possibly of death from the expected stampede. At the last count, thirty nine of them had lost their lives.

It was a sad but recurring tale. We have watched with dismay the young and the old scooping petrol from fully loaded petrol trucks that were involved in accidents. In some of the instances, fire had consumed many of the scoopers. We have seen and are seeing many at the political rallies looking for handouts from the political class, risking their lives for their only opportunity to receive the dividends of democracy.  

The saddest part of this normalized anomaly is that the multiple incidences of deaths do not serve as a deterrent to future stampede and further deaths. I have read about some commentator blaming it all on our culture of disorderly conducts. Such commentators should know that hunger does not answer to reason. As long as governments at all levels, corporate and religious houses, individuals, families, associations and communities continue to neglect the poor, we shall continue to breed hungry lepers, who will risk any danger to heed the call of their stomachs. In the hungry man’s thinking, it is better to struggle and die than to die without a struggle.

Deborah’s Blood on Their Hands

Like every girl of her age, she had dreams and eyes on the future. She had looked forward to a day she would receive  her certfificate, earn a decent living, start a family and assist her poor parents. Again, like every girl, Deborah had a passion. But unlike most of others, her passion was neither fashion nor drugs, neither prostitution nor yahoo-yahoo. It was a faith - a faith that made her believe and behave differently in a community dominated by another faith. Those differences led to her gruesome murder. It was not supposed to be so. The constitution to which Deborah and her murdereers subscribe (or, are obligated to) guarantees the freedoms of speech, association and religion. In a discerning society, these difference are assets and not liabilities. Because they open the door wide to inclusiveness. Different shades of opinions and practices make a nation robust enough to deal with its challenges and strong enough to advance its commonly shared values and dreams. A nation’s robustness and strength are hinged on not obliterating or removing its differences but effectively managing them through mutual acceptance, tolerance and cooperative or legal resolution of conflicts. To be sure, mutual acceptance is a tall order, judging from the claim of every religion as the only way to God. Even then, mutual acceptance is the shortest route to peaceful co-existence and the survival of a multi-cultural and multi-religious nation such as ours. Tolerance is the effective management of our short fuses. Tolerance restrains us from acting disorderly or illegally to the behaviors we dislike or disagree with. It is the capacity to endure pain or hardship arising from differences in opinions, beliefs and practices.  Even then, we cannot prevent conflict altogether because as humans the mismanagement of our misunderstanding is inevitable. A nation that is not committed to resolving its religious and other conflicts by following due process is without a soul and will take its ignoble place among the banana republics of this world. 

Happily, the two major religions in Nigeria preach tolerance and abhor violent attacks on non-adherents for whatever cause. At least, as enshrined in their holy books. Christians, for one, are enjoined to love their enemies and pray those that despitefully use them. Koran, according to informed Islamic scholars, has no record of injunction to Moslem faithfuls to retaliate on behalf of Allah when under blasphemous provocation by people of other faiths.

Which means that Deborah’s life was cut short in its prime by criminals hiding under religion. You might say, death is death. But Deborah’s death is the saddest display of our beastly nature and the worst case scenario of man’s inhumanity to man. Think about it, she was snatched from the custody of the College’s security, dragged like a criminal into the waiting arms of an intolerant mob, beaten black and blue by lawless people, and burnt like a sacrificial lamb by some of the worst specimens of our nation. 

Since then, there has been a cacophony of noises, from the sane to the insane, from the sublime to the ridiculous. A religious leader and a college don openly supported the dastardly act. Miscreants took to the streets denouncing, my apologies, defending the gruesome murder and demanding the release of the arrested suspects. In one rarity, a presidential candidate allowed his humanity to take preference over his religion and politics. But as soon as he was threatened with a loss of a million votes, he denounced his denouncement. It is a season of fear as most other presidential candidates have avoided the issue of the murder like a plague. Even the judge sitting over the case of the two suspects hides behind anonymity for fear of backlashes. But unlike the politicians and the judge, the team of 34 lawyers defending the suspects boldly announced their appearance. Such audacity only lends credence to the fact that the miscreants are not without backers in high and low places. 

Which makes Deborah Samuel Yakubu’s untimely death a blight on a nation that calls on its people to arise as compatriots to obey a National call. Obviously, compatriots we are not, and the National call we are flaunting is hard to sell, having been dampened by ethnic and religious bigotry. Until and unless Deborah’s killers are treated as criminals and the law enforcement deploy its full strength to prosecute them, the National call will continue to be a mirage. 

In the meantime, let it be known to all that the blood of Deborah is on the hands of all those that excuse criminality on the altar of religion and all the faint hearted that keep quiet for fear of retribution.

Enough!

One word strikes at the heart of the situation you detest and the change you earnestly desire. Enough! That word, uttered from a determined heart, moves God and the universe into action. 

All of a sudden, the impossible becomes possible. You stand up with gusto ready to dare the demon that has long tormented you. You witness the momentous switch as the tormentor becomes the tormented. From that point, you take every step with courage, charge like a wounded lion and move ahead with fortitude. In the end, you create a new narrative, a new future. 

In your reflective moment, you look out of your window and wonder how far saying the word, ENOUGH and meaning it, has taken you. As the music blasts from your phone, you laugh heartily at yourself, striding into a new life and into an uncharted but exciting future. You are ready and happily so.

Nigeria’s 2023 Presidential Elections Nominations - The Theatre of the Absurd

The drama is playing out before our very eyes. The race for the presidential nominations of the ruling party and the main opposition party is assuming a comical, if not a tragic, dimension. Fifteen candidates have cleared the first hurdle towards the nominations under the banner of the Peoples Democratic Party (PDP). Each had coughed out N40 million ($68,376). As at the time of writing, about twenty candidates of the ruling All Progressives Congress (APC) have paid N100 million ($240,884) each for the nominations. It’s been speculated that about ten more may pick the nomination forms before the close of the exercise today. 

The wanton display of the nomination forms in photo ops on Instagram and other social media platforms is bizzare, if not scandalous. The parties are cashing out bigly while the nation’s inflation is in double digit and its poverty index is on a downward trend. The Naira rain is being staged in the middle of unbridled insecurity and as the government - funded universities are closed for more than a quarter of the year. 

It would seem the aspirants or the pretenders don’t give any qualms about our sensibilities. Each claims to have come out after consultations with stakeholders, even when they had only conversed with their shadows and dialogued with their ambitions. In what is a dubious and self-deceitful posture, most of them claim the nomination forms were paid for by some faceless supporters or coalitions of interest groups. One aspirant in charge of the nation’s critical economic institution is still seeking a divine direction even though he has already registered as a party member in his ward and has obtained a nomination form. And you wonder why only a quarter of the so-called aspirants are actually traversing the nation, connecting with and wooing the delegates. 

Which begs the question: have the parties settled for a coerced consensus as against direct or indirect primaries during their forthcoming conventions? And could that be why each candidate in APC has been allegedly compelled to sign a ‘voluntary’ withdrawal form?  Is there a hidden agenda in the proliferation of candidates from the South to give the North the advantage of crowning a malleable Southerner? With the Northerners at the helm of the two parties, the natural reasoning is that the the parties are poised to produce Southern presidential candidates. But will crass opportunism and brazen regional jingoism cloud reason and keep the presidency in the North for additional eight years? 

Meanwhile  Nigerians are immersed in the theatre of the absurd with a mixture of disbelief, distrust and disinterest. They hope the pretenders will leave the stage for the serious contenders. They pray that the crafty will be taken in their own craftiness, that the hands of the deceitful will not be able to perform their enterprise, and that the evil men will grope in the day as if it were darkness. In agony, Nigerians hope and pray for rejoicing in the land as righteous and visionary leaders bestride their political landscape in 2023. 

Will their hope and prayers make the difference? How long more shall Nigerians wait?

Putin’s Macabre Dance

He arrogantly jumped out of the starting block long before the gun roared. He was deluded into thinking the race was a sprint but now, he is faced with an agonizing marathon. Yet, he rages on like a bull in a china shop, shattering windows of hope and breaking the utensils of peace. In his recklessness, he displays no regard for lives, both of his own people and of his opponents. In his unpreparedness, he underestimated his opponents’ will to resist his tyranny. In his hurried adventure, he disregarded his forces’ morale and bungled logistics. He is frustrated to see his firepower curtailed and his aggression repelled by what he thought was a ragtag army. His military reverses belie his claim to a world power status. In place of victories, he is counting corpses and hauling his men into hospitals at unprecedented rates. Out of desperation and to assuage his people’s restlessness, he placed price tags on the dead and the wounded. Yet, like the historical Pharaoh, he doubles down on his misadventure, driving his forces furiously to the edge of the precipice. 

Putin is in a macabre dance urged on by fewer drummers than he had anticipated. Having been isolated into a pariah status, he goes cap in hand, begging for supplies and trade. How are the mighty fallen? In the meantime, he emasculates the growing opposition at home and feeds his dominated sheep with unbalanced hay of propaganda.  

Sure, his end is near. His dark cloud of terror will not long possess the sky. There shall be a rain of joy and the dawn of peace. He will drink from the cup of his fury and stray into the pit of destruction he dug. And, to be sure, Ukraine shall know peace, and Russia shall be free.

GRACE

Undeserved, yet given.

Unmerited, yet bestowed.

Unimaginable, yet granted. 

Unsought help,

Unexpected intervention. 

Stranger than fiction;

Unbelievably true. 

Grace pushes the envelope,

Erases history,

Cheers the present,

Redefines the future. 

It’s water in a wearied desertland,

A light in the dungeon,

A hope that despatches despair,

A strength that trumps weakness. 

It’s futile trying to unravel God’s grace -

It’s way beyond the realm of humans. 

It’s just enough to enjoy it.

It’s just okay to bask in its glow.

Lord, Have Mercy On Twitter

Lord, have mercy on Twitter, for it has sinned. The proud and arrogant Twitter has dared to fiddle with the tail of a cobra. Basking on the euphoria of its successful ban on Donald J. Trump – the then most powerful man in the world, Twitter has last week moved to quickly delete the Nigerian President’s harmless tweet.  Twitter has sinned and must crawl on its knees for mercy. Twitter has an exaggerated opinion about its self-importance and powers. Just because its annual turnover of $3.72 billion is 10% of Nigeria’s 2021 budget does not give it the audacity to vet our President’s tweet.  Not even the fact that its army of 353 million daily users overwhelms Nigeria’s projected population of 200 million gives Twitter the effrontery to challenge our highly revered leader.  It was a gross miscalculation on Twitter’s part. The company should have known it could only flex its muscles in climes where institutions were strong and where human rights were inalienable rights. 

Dear Lord, have mercy on Twitter, for it has sinned.  By its unpardonable sin, Twitter has angered our nation’s indefatigable Minister of Information and frustrated our cerebral Attorney General and Minister for Justice. These are men that are not just in government but also in power. They are the very best of our nation and speak the truth eloquently and consistently on behalf of the government and the people. To anger them is to court our trouble.  Nigerians are ready to take up arms in defense of these men who have the ears and the mouth of our president.  Which explains why Nigerians are as mad as hell. In their anger, they have been using VPN to bypass the Twitter ban just so they can lambast the micro blogging site and praise the action of their quiet and uncompromising leader and his cohorts. Twitter should have let the sleeping dog lie and not disturb the celebrated pace of our nation’s legendary go-slow and laissez-faire governance. 

Lord, have mercy, for Twitter did not only sin, it has caused our respected Pastors Enoch Adejare Adeboye and Williams Folorunso Kumuyi to sin against you and the divine authority. They each twitted in defiance of the ban instead of praying for God to prolong the life of the president. They should have seen that the president meant well with his timely tweet that only disgruntled elements consider an insult on the nation’s  sensibilities. This unscrupulous Twitter has made two of the nation’s most popular clergies find their voices and fight on the side of the people - a feat that the seeming collapse of the security apparatus and the dehumanizing economic woes could not achieve. 

Dear Lord, have mercy on Twitter for deleting our leader’s tweet. Have mercy on our leaders for deleting ‘we the people’ from being their first constitutional responsibility.  Have mercy on us all for deleting our leaders as inconsequential to our individual and national aspirations.  Lord, have mercy!

NIGERIA @ 61: A Curtain Drawn

I see a curtain drawn

On drift and graft;

On indiscipline and inefficiency;

On shame;

On poverty. 

I see the Light shining in, 

Displacing the thick darkness. 

I see the sickening cloud 

Giving way to abundance of rain. 

Hope in the horizon

Makes my heart glad. 

God forbid that I curse

A nation the Lord has blessed;

That I contribute to your pain;

Or, hasten your slide into perdition. 

I pledge to be a foot soldier, 

Displaying and promoting the best of you. 

Till the promised deliverance I see. 

Happy Independence to all that work and wait for your rising.

I’VE GOT TO BE RICH - The Confession of a Nigerian Teenager

What’s the hullabaloo about the teenage secondary school boys that recently killed a girlfriend for rituals in Abeokuta? And what’s the noise about the three boys (14-16 years) that left Delta State for Edo State, with alleged knowledge of their parents, to hustle and get a share of a multi-billion naira Yahoo-Yahoo business?

Let me introduce myself. I am a Nigerian teenager with only one swan song: “I’ve got to be rich.” The music is sweet to my ears; its lyrics drive me crazy. I go into a frenzy thinking about it. My heart pounds with ecstasy just imagining what it will be like to be rich. What else can I be if I am not rich? A scumbag? A rejected cornerstone? An example of a son you pray not to have? I vehemently reject those descriptions. They are not my portion in Jesus’ name!

I’ve got to be rich. And that’s it! I need money to win the hearts of my family members. Yes, I mean that, as sacrilegious as it may sound. Let’s be honest, principled parents are an endangered species. The good ones are old and locked in their rooms - too fragile to discipline, too vulnerable to wield any influence. All the grandpas and the grandmas do now is eat, sleep and recall the good times. It looks to me like the sheep of integrity and patient endurance have all abandoned the staple, leaving behind ravenous wolves. Today’s parents have no qualms. They are an anything-goes generation. The child that brings in the most money wins their hearts and gets celebrated. The family bond is no longer held by unconditional love but by performance. To be sure, performance parameters have shifted from academics to money. I know that. My friends know that. We know the way to the hearts of our parents and by extension the hearts of our siblings. When they tell us to remember the sons of whom we are. We know what they mean - go out there and make it big, whatever it takes. Who will blame us for pandering to the ones we love the most?

I’ve got to be rich. It is settled. The society has no enviable place for me without money. Nobody judges the contents of your character anymore. Everyone looks at your dress, your car, your house… It’s about the outward. It’s about what you have now. Dreams are considered inconsequential and hopes are in relegation. It’s the now that matters. So, process has been consigned to the dustbin of history and results have taken the centre stage. The end, as they say, justifies the means. Examples of this maxim abound in our politics, in our communities and in the marketplaces. So, what’s wrong in me mirroring the societal values? Can one tree make a forest? How do you survive in a culture of unbridled embezzlement by politicians and public officers? How do you handle the endemic corruption on our highways, at our borders, in our schools, and in our offices? I beg, I am not seeking to be a saint. Saints are usually canonized after they die. I doubt if anyone in this century is thinking of sainthood. The hood of money is too alluring and far more relevant now than the pain of a futuristic sainthood.

I’ve got to be rich. And no one should try to stop me. The last time I was in church, which is going to months now, the pastor mentioned money more than he mentioned Jesus. Aren’t we being hypocritical when we say, ‘What God cannot do does not exist’, when in reality we mean money and not God? To this generation, the love of money is not the root of all evil but the beauty and the essence of all life. That’s why rich people have the ears of the religious leaders and earn the respect of the faithfuls. Even in the religious houses where all men are supposed to worship God as equals, the rich still call the shots. It is obvious the rich are more equal than the rest of us. Would you blame me if I do all I can - legal or illegal, decorous or obscene- to be rich?

I’ve got to be rich. I shall spare no effort, reject no trick, and exhibit no conscience. I shall fear no danger; not even death. Afterall, what’s more dangerous than living without money? And isn’t a poor man a corpse walking on two legs?

I’ve got to be rich. Please wish me luck.

Victory In Defeat

When you are the mighty pitched against the weak, you have to be careful how you win. A massive win by you might be the very loss you detest. You are left fuming at your victory parade, alarmed that no one is applauding. You wonder why the shouts of your victory are drowned by the cries of your atrocities. You wonder why your huge victory pales into insignificance when compared to the feeble but determined resistance of the weak. You ask why yours is might and his is right. You ask again why yours was an ignominious victory and his was an honourable defeat. You are left wondering why the weak, battered and shattered, limps to the wild applause of your friends and foes. You watch with disdain your defeated opponent smile in pain as he takes a lap of honour. You suspect foul play as the ‘loser’ revels in your lack of discretion and of a clear endgame. Silently, you regret your thoughtless action. But you are too much of an arrogant dog to apologize and change course. Your dog, destined to be lost, is deaf to the sound of the hunter’s whistle. You are discredited and stripped of your last ounce of honour. 

You are Russia, he is Ukraine. And you have just suffered a heavy defeat in victory.

————

Please pray for peace in Ukraine.

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This Thing We Call Love

What’s this thing we call love?

The romantic feeling that overwhelms our system?

That raises our heart beat?

The endless cuddling?

The passionate kisses?

The gazes that go on and on?

The sweet and endearing words?

Sometimes love is inexplainable;

Oftentimes, uncontrollable.

Boughed by this ecstasy,

We look for a forever feeling,

Thinking this love thing will never wane.

As push turns to shove,

Masks are off and

Pretense gives way to reality.

We query love’s claims and

Doubt its enduring power.

Destructive words fly like saucers.

Hand in gloves ready to punch.

Hearts ripped apart.

Off to the divorce court

Forever lovers become sworn enemies.

The end of a bittersweet affair.

Shouldn’t love be viewed from the prism of the Maker?

The One called Love?

The Lover that never quits?

Doesn’t every frail human lover need

A perfect Lover?

Doesn’t the imperfect need the Perfect?

Then, two imperfect lovers

Can risk loving each other

Through the thick and the thin;

A forever feeling,

Moderated by their mutual submission to each other

And to their forever Lover.

Defying the Night

My feet are sore. 

My breath ebbs away. 

I sit on the bed of depression;

My strength failing, my joy gone. 

I tell my soul: ‘You have my permission to let sorrow into your hitherto guarded space.’

No more restraints. 

To hell with drawing strength from the inner voice - 

God’s still small voice that used to urge me on, 

Saying, ‘Wait a little longer, dream some more, don’t give up the fight...till you win.’

Look, I am losing my mind. 

And who will blame me for ending it here?

Life’s been so unfair. 

More tears, less smiles. 

The cock has refused to crow; 

My dawn is locked up in the night, 

Never to herald the day. 

I crawl out of the bed to stare into the darkness. 

The pitch darkness of the night is a metaphor for my soul. 

But, wait, what’s this I am seeing? 

The stars in the sky, shining brighter than I ever saw. 

Not even the darkness could dim their light. 

The stars defy the darkness; 

Riding on the crest of the night to shine.

Look, what’s happening to me? 

Is my mind betraying me? 

Who are you to compare me with a star that defies the night? 

How dare you ask me to start running again! 

And what’s this smile, this new hope, this new strength?

Could it be true I am a star that defies the night? 

I return to bed, beaming with hope. 

I no longer fear the night; I fear me. 

I hold the ace. 

I define the night, and can defy it. 

It is my call. 

The night has all along been waiting for my command. 

Rising from the bed, I say defiantly to the darkness, ‘I am a star!’

‘The darker you are, the brighter I shine. So, bring it on!’