PDP FC VS APC FC

– BY @EZEKIEL EFEOBHOKHAN

MARCH 27, 2015

Those of us familiar with the football parlance would understand what the Spanish word el clasicosuggests. The game never fails to thrill football fans worldwide. But this, PDP vs. APC, is a political contest. Hence, a political el clasico; a show of sheer brawn.

It is a game of franchise and anthropological significance. Just like in football, supporters of these two parties have not failed to vehemently express their stern solidarity for their choice candidates in this forth coming election. Political fans have embroiled themselves in the oral battle of name calling. They use words – uncouth language, that is – to run down their political opponent. It baffles me, how they knavishly larch on propaganda to spread their guile. All like wild fire. From Whatsapp, Facebook, Twitter and down to checking your airtime balance.

Footballers are usually known by their soccer skills. Every player ought to possess a particular skill in order to make his side be at an advantage to win. Although this writer does not claim to be a political virtuoso, yet he has failed to see any political skill that any of our top presidential aspirants possesses. What we have at best is just senseless dribbling and indiscriminate volleys that result in worrisome goal kicks.

Unlike Lionel Messi who is usually known for his speed and quick moves with the ball and his rival Cristiano Ronaldo who is known for his pace and logarithmic step-overs, I have not seen any skill so far. Yes, no skill, in any of the two top contenders for the presidential elections. You can quote that!

Almost all the time, President Goodluck Jonathan of the People’s Democratic Party PDP is usually referred to as the great transformer, and he is equated with the likes of President Barrack Obama and Mahatma Ghandi of India; no thanks to our television and radio stations who take delight in filling our ears with all sort of numerical garbage. Jonathan must have done many good things in office but he is nowhere near transforming it. No, not the country that still imports peanuts, rice and other petty things like rat poison. This writer can’t just understand how and where this transformation had taken place.

Was it in the sudden and sorrowful transformation of our hapless sisters, the Chibok girls, from the cool warmth of their parents to a God-knows-where location? Or the transformation of our costly oil into a haven of black and worthless fluid? Is it the kerosene that now sells for N130 per liter if you are lucky enough to find it in our filling stations?

Truth be told, Jonathan had transformed our positive savings in World Bank by adding a negative sign. Our debts are sky rocketing. I almost forgot the megawatts of darkness routinely harvested from our estranged power distribution company who derive joy in distributing darkness to all nooks and crannies of the country.

My readers may want to confirm the price of a bag of cement. Did I hear someone say N1800? That’s more than a 75% increase to what our president had promised. How can an economy that has been undergoing transformation suddenly slump into a depression? Are these the type of transformation skills he’s got?

The transformation train surely had a stop at our anti-graft agencies, as we now recently saw the difference between corruption and grand theft! Yet, Nigerians still have some scary questions to ask. Questions like, what happened to the $3 million Farouk Lawal bribery scandal, the $6.8 billion petroleum subsidy scam, the N60 billion police pension scam, the Oduah N225 million car scandal, the N10 billion Allison-Madueke’s jet scandal, and the missing $20 billion from the federation account. Stealing or corruption, we actually don’t care anymore, just bring back our money!

Let’s come over to APC, the self-acclaimed agents of change. This party is currently filled with political hangers-on who for the sake of power had betrayed the PDP for APC. A larger percent of the political aspirants of this party are political prostitutes who had dined and wined under the PDP umbrella only to later discover how important the broom was. Remember, when a stubborn and rebellious student changes his institution of learning, it does not simply guarantee that the student had automatically changed his wayward ways. Only uniform is changed and not attitude.

Mohammadu Buhari, the APC presidential candidate was formerly a chieftain in the allegedly corrupt People’s Democratic Party. So, who is the change? The party or the aspirants? APC is currently flooded with PDP deserters. Buhari is often referred to as a disciplinarian. But judging from antecedent and critical examination, this writer has failed to see any iota of discipline in any of his recent or past actions.

Was it by using his political influence to inflict exaggerated penalties on his political opponents? Or by jailing a political thief for up to 66 years even after knowing that the soul of such individual would not last another decade in its mortal body? Or was it the disciplinary measures meted out to the then Emir of Kano for exercising his freedom of movement to Israel because Nigeria and Israel were not on good diplomatic relationship as at that time?

Buharists have never failed to amaze me as they continue to rant this discipline as if they needed a Pharaohic taskmaster at their behind whipping their way into a painful and hell-like regime. Or do these political fanatics forget that there is a stark difference between a disciplinarian and a fanatic? The danger in this manner of thinking, in resting inexorably on the strength of one’s strong false convictions is that sometimes, unknown to us, we may just be sitting on a stock of timed explosives; or worse, we may get locked up in our own maximum prison. Consider the mirthless incongruity of having to tear down a prison door to save a prisoner from himself.
Recall the judicial processes undergone by the septuagenarian Chief Adekunle Ajasin. He was arraigned and tried before Buhari’s punitive tribunal but acquitted. Dissatisfied, Buhari ordered his re-trial. Again, the tribunal could not find this man guilty of a single crime, so once again he was returned for trial, only to be acquitted of all charges of corruption or abuse of office. Was Chief Ajasin thereby released? No! He was ordered detained indefinitely, simply for the crime of winning an election and refusing to knuckle under Shagari’s reign of terror. I am sure that’s the kind of ‘discipline’ we do want! Abuse of judicial processes, huh?

Most bitterly is that some writers have joined in this disappointing milieu in the recent indiscriminate cry of their “Mr. Disciplinarian”. I cannot help but see the picture of writers behind bars noodling away in their quiet, lonely world. No, not quite like Kirikiri, Nigeria’s hell-hole misnamed maximum security prison, but a windowless semi-lit enclosure, where a self- imprisoned, languid inmate finds peace and liberty. This is the inescapable image that forms in my mind when I read the works of those writers, who for sentiments, project a particular aspirants in their literature.

Why is Nigeria so blessed with first hand disappointment as political leaders? Why on earth, is the country always seated comfortably between the devil and the deep blue sea? That, out of the avalanche of corrupt and morally degraded top politicians we have, we are stuck with these two side distractions! Bad political clubs with bad or expired players!

Most of the time, you are caught between laughing off the multi-dimensional crises plaguing this country or employing laughter as a form of catharsis to blurt out the gory details of a nation that has refused to grow out of the embryo of bad leadership. Who will point the way toward a glorious Nigeria, where there would be power stability, elimination of Boko Haram, job creation, zero tolerance for corruption and the likes? Who will recognize our education as a priority and do everything in his power to forestall further academic strike? Who will create jobs for our searing labor market? Who will give more grants to students and make education free for Nigerians? This is not too much to ask from these two aspirants in case any eventually becomes president.

Now, would the Independent National Electoral Commission remain truly independent? Would Prof Attahiru Jega be bold enough to contain these two aspirants without fear of favoritism and ethnicity? INEC should know this: the common man wants his vote to count. As we cast out votes today, INEC should be cautious enough to know that the unity of the Nigeria depends on how free and fair this election is conducted.

Lastly, INEC should beware that an el classico such as this could be volatile and may turn out violent if the fans dare smell any partial decision by the umpires. A word is enough for the wise.

LIKE A THIEF

I ate by 2AM. I could only eat by this time in the hostel. This could not happen back home. Allowing any solid food to pass through your esophagus any time past 7pm would attract lashes of varying intensities, the rod of correction would be used, just to ensure that, such gross indiscipline as papa usually puts it, do not repeat itself.

Whenever those strokes were given, I would run to mama for succor, of which, I usually get equivalent rebuke. This made me understand that my parents were unified in their decisions. The sooner I got used to that, the better. I then discovered safer places to run to when whipped, of course, outside the compound!

I ate very slowly, grinding every chunk with utmost precision in order to get maximum satisfaction. I had not eaten since the previous day afternoon; having felt the pangs of hunger, I joyfully ate the cold rice. I held the pot with great jealousy while I initiated the mashing and swallowing process.

I was concentrating too hard on the eating process, hence I couldn’t hear the first knock on the door. All my roommates were asleep, the electric bulb in my corner was dim, dimmer than those kerosene lamps used in some western villages, but it was bright enough to see the food.

The knock came again but this time, more subtle, and inconsistent as if the person at the door was dithery. Who will be at the door by this time? I thought. I stopped chewing and hurriedly swallowed the food in my mouth so I could quickly reply this unwanted visitor.

“Who is that?”

There was absolute silence; absolute enough to hear the seconds’ hand of the wall clock race to eternity, the snore of my roommate which was initially not audible now sounded like an embarrassing ‘a cappella’; the snore simulated the screeching sound of a vehicle trying to avoid a stray dog. A troubling mouse ran across my legs as if the visitor at the door was coming for it; troubling, because it took delight in stealing my foodstuffs. If not for this night visitor, today would have been its day of reckoning.

“Who are you looking for?”

“Francis, I am looking for Francis”. He said.

There was no Francis in this room. My name was Ezekiel, middle name Osahon and my alias was Trisler, my bunk mate had Joshua as his name. We were 10 in the room. We had stayed in the room for more than 4 months hence no one would bear any name as of Francis without me knowing.

Knocking at the wee hours of the day, and not mentioning the correct name could be a death sentence in this part of the country. Many thieves before entering the room would knock for a number of times and if there was no answer they would be rest assured that no one was awake, they then sneak into the room to claim their spoil. Thieves usually have no mercy, they rob you of everything available, even down to your underwear.

“There is no Francis in the room please leave the door”, I said.

Almost immediately, Samuel jumped down from his bed, opened the door, dragged the night visitor inside the room and bolted the door. Samuel’s phone was recently stolen and he was ready to vent his anger on this suspect, at least, if he could not give any logical reason why he knocked on the door at 17 minutes past 2AM.

“Who did you say you were looking for?” Samuel raised his voice like those village town criers who made eerie announcements under the scorching sun. His voice made Akpan stop snoring.

‘Fraaanciiss’ the boy stuttered.

The young lad was already frightened by the way Samuel drew him in; like a hawk stealing a chick from mother hen. This boy was tall, taller than Sammy but he had a baby face.

“What is the room number of the Francis you are looking for?”

“I don’t know his room number”.

Oh! That annoyed Sammy, he opened his locker, took a wire and was ready to hit this suspected thief, but I instantaneously dropped my almost emptied pot of rice, rushed to Sammy and held the wire with my left hand, this reduced the impact of the wire on the suspect.

“You don’t start beating anyone like that” I said in a harsh tone. I had not used that harsh tone for a very long time; for over 4 years now; since when I stopped shouting at my younger ones, since when I stopped playing football with gamblers and touts, and since when I started reading spiritual books especially, ‘The way of truth’.

“Why would a student forget his room in the middle of the night?” Samuel was furious, his side moustache were darkly colored like the underneath of my almost finished pot of rice. Even if I frequently wash the back of this pot, it always got blackened by my stove; the stove blackens my pots as if its function was to blacken and not to heat. Samuel was chesty, and he was a good goalie. He usually calls me his mentor yet I never knew what I mentored him on.

The shout of the boy from the little impact of the wire woke the rest boys. When they inquired the cause of the hullaballoo, they commanded the suspect to sit on the bare floor. I warned them that, no one was going to lay hands on this suspect at least not until he was proven to be a thief. I hated jungle justice.

They interrogated this suspect with anger and fury, and surrounded him like a group of hen feasting on a dead cockroach. The suspect had more than enough question at a time to answer than the number of his tooth. If Akpan, Sammy and other roommates would maintain decorum for a second, the heartbeat of this suspect would be as loud as the drum used during the praise and worship sections of those new generational churches. If sound could generate electricity, the noise from my room would solve Nigeria’s power problems.

“Where are you coming from?” Osas asked. His voice was now the loudest, Osas’s expensive suit, as he usually puts it, was stolen from the line a fortnight ago. I knew the suit would not cost more than a ten thousand naira, yet, any time he refers to the suit, he never fails to attach the word ‘expensive’, as if the suit cost a lot more.

“I am coming from the school auditorium”.

The school auditorium was close to the main gate and it was a 10 minutes’ walk from the hostel.

“What would a student be doing at the school auditorium by 2AM”, added Joshua, a medical student who was still on his bed. I knew he would not join in beating the suspect even if he was proven to be a thief.

Just then, I noticed that my pot of rice was still opened, with the stranded meat at the center of it. I covered the pot, drank a little water and observed as this kangaroo court tried very hard to bring out the thief in this suspect.

They found two blackberry phones in his bag.

“These are stolen phones”, “he stole them”, “and this one has a lady as the wallpaper”, “what will you be using two blackberry phones for?” All these questions and statements left the suspect confused. All he was now saying repeatedly was, “I nor be thief, are beg nor beat me”.

Just then, Akpan gave him a hard slap; those slaps that fell under the category of dirty, those slaps that go along with lightening and also induces transient blindness. But he got an equivalent push from me. The push hit him so hard that he fell with his buttock to the ground, he almost retaliated but Emmanuel came to my rescue. The push was an armor for my fear. I knew that, except they saw me act in anger, they would never take me seriously.

“You are not allowed to lay your hands on him” I reiterated.

The suspect was now sweating in the cold night, and his eyes were clouded with tears. He never had the opportunity of answering any of the questions completely. I took the phones from my roommates and noticed that both of them were locked. I then gave the unlock the phones.

He took the first blackberry with quaky hands, the phone had a glossy look, it was new, and had a female picture as the wall paper. The girl had a broad smile, smiling like I usually do when I receive a favor from a lady. He tried to unlock the first phone, but it showed a wrong password notification. Everyone was now ready to start the beating process.

“He is a thief, Ezekiel allow me teach this boy a lesson”. Shouted Akpan.

Even if I was trying to help this suspect, I would be entirely helpless if he could not give the correct password on a second try.

“Calm down, your hands are shaky”, I bent down, took the phone from him and ordered him to call the password for me to help him input them.

As I typed the last letter, I really hoped it worked. But, even if it didn’t, I would never allow this suspect to be beaten, my roommates would have to beat me up as I was ready to defend this handsome and baby-faced lad. If I condemn jungle justice, then I should be ready to walk the talk.

Alas! The phone was opened. My heart beat reduced drastically, and my shaky hands were now stable. I saw the shameful look on Akpan’s face, his fair complexion was now reddish; the bulb was not bright enough to see the color of his pupil, it must have had ‘shame’ written all over it.

The hapless suspect cried like a baby. I was almost moved to tears. I felt his pain. He was a newly admitted student and he stayed off campus. He had spent the night in the class studying and decided to sleep in his friend’s room. The room he was supposed to enter was 104 and my room was 103. He had mistakenly knocked on our door because it was dark.

He was actually coming from the faculty of engineering which was close to the school auditorium, hence he said ‘auditorium’, thinking it would make us believe him. We didn’t give him time to explain. Moreover, his friend Francis, having heard his name frequently mentioned in our room, came to find out why he became so popular in the middle of the night but found his friend at the judgment seat, pleading for mercy.

As he hugged me, hot tears gathered in my eyes, and they poured out as soon as I squeezed them. I had never been this emotional. If no one had stood for him, he would have explained himself in the grave like the ‘Aluu four’, or more lightly in the hospital like many other victims of jungle justice.

Sammy and Akpan gave shallow apologies, explaining that if I had my phones stolen before now, I would have behaved worse than they did.

But was lynching the way forward? Was mobbing the solution, were there no other means to justice and equity? Was equity not best achieved by dialogue and peaceful resolutions? This were my musings as I lay back on my bed. I had forgotten my pot of rice and the stranded meat.

From a true life experience.