VALENTINE: MY STORY

‘Happy valentine’ she echoed with a broad and charming smile from a distance, she had expected an equivalent response from me. But she received the shock of the century as my response sent her smiles back to the part of her body they had originated from. Her hands were not spared from the shock waves her brain just learnt, as they were raised up speedily to wave at me but they went down instantaneously; of course not with the same velocity with which it went up, this time a lot slower. Shocked, that is.

‘I don’t celebrate valentine’ ranged on her ears like an old village gong. Her redly painted lips felt the idleness of my response. She had smeared her lips with a quench of red colored pineapple flavored lipstick, the exact look alike of my kindergarten crayon. She had short lips and this made her beautiful. In my much younger age, this type of a lady made me run out of the football pitch. Yes, whenever I sighted them coming towards me, I fled. As chicks do, at the sight of the black feathered predator.

During my secondary school days, a female classmate has said to me in the presence of my peers, “Ezekiel, I saw someone like you close to my house on Saturday, but as I tried to notice the person properly he started running. Were you the one”? She had asked the question smiling, meaning she was almost certain that I was the one.

I was almost embarrassed. I had seen her on Saturday but because I had put on a faded trouser, I ran. Yes, I literally ran as if I was chased by a mob. I had to take a different route to my destination on that sunny afternoon. I didn’t care. All that mattered was that I avoided all forms of embarrassment associated with putting on faded clothes.

I had to look for a way to overcome the ensuing disgrace she was about to unleash on my reputation in the presence of my peers. The following discussion then followed.

‘How can I run from you, are you a lion’?
‘No’
‘Are you a dog’?
‘No’
‘Then why should I run from you’.
‘Sorry, I thought it was you. But just tell me, were you the one?’
‘Are you now a masquerade that people run from?’
‘No’
‘Can you beat me?’
‘No’
‘Am I owing you any money?’
‘No’
‘Then I don’t see any reason why I should run from you’.

My friends actually knew that I could be easily provoked to run at the sight of ladies. But they made sure this girl believed I was not the one who ran away from her and immediately she left the scene they burst into laughter. Well, I am no longer shy. And I don’t run from anybody anymore.

The girl in the first paragraph drew anxiously to know the reason for my principle of not celebrating valentine; of course, after narrating to her, she replied in indifference and left. Just then I thought some persons don’t care about what they do or what goes on around them, they just follow the multitude and play along; sheer Indifference!

The danger in this type of practices, where we rest inexorably on the strength of the multitude, is that sometimes, unbeknown 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.

I am not against expressing love on February 14. Far be it from that. If it is actually love, then there is actually no cause for this literary boos. But what we see at best is the display of pride, sexuality, and nudeness among our sisters. Kisses and cuddling occurs at every corner of the streets where the trees have decided to offer some shadows against the scorching sun. Ladies become so benevolent with their body parts and carry out scary acts that this writer because of sanity would not dare mention.

Although this writer does not claim to be an emotional virtuoso yet he has failed to see the reasons why some ladies would delight in participating in this yearly routine that constantly feed them with heart breaks and sobs. I cannot help but see the picture of ladies 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 hear of ladies who derive ironical contentment from exchanging romance, kisses and sex with iced creams and stale meat pies. Yet they condemn Brother Esau for exchanging birthright for porridge. My readers may want to compare the financial and economic value of Porridge and meat pies. You will find out that Esau would be a saint when compared to these soulless ladies.

Most bitterly is that some religious body have joined in the disappointing milieu of the rancid indiscriminate undisciplined cry of ‘Valentinic love’. And they organize pharisaical love feast, which I suppose is a subtle means to induce compliance among lust lovers. You may never want to remain a Christian if you dare attend these love feasts organized by these Churches. Religious hypocrites and spiritual apparatchiks!

There are a thousand and one reasons to classify this said date with the day of hatred, anarchy, tears, and immoral imbalances. Innocent girls get heartbreaks, guys do a whole lot to please their girlfriends thereby committing all sorts of moral grievances. They use words, deceitful words, lying words, hypocritical words to deceive these innocent sisters. It baffles me, how they knavishly propagate poetic lines to infest and deceive the hearts of these young, innocent and beautiful girls.

Come to think of it, if love were to be in colors, would it be in red? White would still be preferable. If red is the color of love then what color would be its opposite hate, white? Why would red stand for stop in the traffic light, danger in the road signs and love in social life? It simply does not follow.

For the ladies, I don’t know how you would feel if someone appears in your dream dressed in a red gown and then gives you a wedding ring that is colored red. I believe when you wake up, you would well sharpen your cutlass and give your grandmother a visit. You may want to have her head for dinner.

The day is one of the most controversial dates as classified in history dot com from which I quote “…the confusion over its (Valentine’s day) origin led the catholic church in 1969, to drop St Valentine’s Day from the Roman calendar of official worldwide catholic feasts”. Various episodes of the origin of the celebration abound, some of which are;

A priest in the Roman Empire who persecuted Christians during the reign of Claudius 11, was thrown in jail and later beheaded on February 14. Another episodes has it that, a catholic bishop of Terni who was beheaded during the reign of Claudius 11. The last was, someone who secretly married couples when marriage was forbidden, or suffered in Africa, or wrote letters to his jailer daughter, and was probably beheaded.

The question now is, who among these legends are you celebrating? Assigning a day for love is hypocritical. Live love daily and you would love to live. Visit the fatherless, give to the motherless as frequently as you can. Do not engage in any sort of immoral actions on this day of February 14. Do not be deceived, true love is not once in a year.

Stories used in this piece are hypothetical.
Ezekiel, 400 level Pharmacy, UNIBEN.

WANTED: AN IMPARTIAL UMPIRE

SOURCE: The Nation Newspaper
Thursday, 12th of February 2015.


BY: Ezekiel Efeobhokhan


Readers who are familiar with the football parlance would understand what the Spanish word el clasico means. The games tagged el clasico never fails to thrill football fans worldwide . In the like manner , the hot contest between the two main political parties in Nigeria – Peoples Democratic Party (PDP) and All
Progressives Congress ( APC) – could be termed a political el clasico . Just as it is in soccer , supporters of these parties have not failed to express their solidarity for their choice candidates in the coming presidential election . It has been a show of wit and strength . The have engaged themselves in mudslinging . They use unprintable words to paint the other side bad. They propagate propaganda with the speed of light.


Their needless abuses are not limited to conventional media alone; they have taken to social media to continue their frivolous arguments. Yet, the candidates may not be aware that these activities are going on in their names. They may not be aware that their supporters’ actions may turn what is supposed to be a  peaceful civil exercise to a full - blown acrimony . But because these candidates may not have something to offer to the people , some of them resort to name- calling and abuses .


The PDP candidate , President Goodluck Jonathan, has been described as a great transformer by his supporters, and he is compared with the likes of Barrack Obama and Lee Kwan Yew. But, is there anything that justifies this comparison ? Jonathan must have achieved some good things but he is nowhere near transforming the country . This writer is yet to see how and where transformation is taking place.


Would it be transformation, that Nigeria has turned to a jungle under the watch of President Jonathan? In one swoop, 219 schoolgirls were herded into the bush by a band of criminals and some nine months after , we are yet to rescue them from their captors.

Or is it transformation that oil price is dropping and there has been no commensurate crash in the pump price of petrol ? Or what do we call the subsidy scam on kerosene and petrol ? Power supply is worse than it has ever been.


Our savings at the World Bank has been depleted in a manner we have never
seen before . Corruption thrives under this administration while many officials go away with administrative recklessness.
What is the price of a bag of cement now ? This commodity has increased in price by more than 75 per cent against what the president promised us . How can an economy that has been undergoing transformation suddenly slump into a depression at the fall of oil price in crude market?


The ‘transformation ’ train has also hit our anti- graft agencies , making them ineffective to fight corruption . Even , there is an official imprimatur in support of graft and this is confirmed with a statement credited to the president : “ stealing is not corruption”. What is it then ?


We have seen unresolved corruption cases increasing and gulping our resources . We are yet to see the end of $ 620, 000 Farouk Lawal bribery scandal, the N 4 trillion subsidy scam , the N 60 billion police pension scam , the N 225 million Oduagate, the N 10 billion Alison Madueke’ s jet scandal and the missing $ 20 billion oil money at the nation ’s oil corporation .


The APC on the other hand prides itself as a party of change. It has been promising change away from the maladministration of the PDP. But, can the party truly effect the change when some of its members were part of the people who enthroned PDP to lord it over us? A larger number of APC candidates defected from the ruling party because they were sidelined in the PDP.
Even, the antecedent of the APC presidential candidate is still being contested in the court of public opinion , whether he truly represents the change we desire. General Muhammadu Buhari ’s action as Head of State is still creating fear in the heart of many, who experienced his jackboot rule in 1984 .



Why is Nigeria always getting first- hand disappointment from political leaders? Why is this country always finding itself between the devil and the deep blue sea ? That , out of the avalanche of corrupt and morally degraded
politicians , we are stuck in-between two
side distractions - bad political clubs with bad and expired players.


Most of the time , we are caught between laughing off self-inflicted crises plaguing this country or resorting to
laughter as a form of catharsis to blurt out the gory affairs of a nation that has refused to grow out of the embryo of bad leadership in which it has been trapped since ages past.


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 take education as a priority and do everything to forestall further academic
strike? Who will create jobs for the teaming youths ? Who will give education grants to students and make Nigerians
have interest in education again? These are not too much to ask from these two aspirants in case any eventually becomes
president .


On election regulation, should we expect the Independent National Electoral Commission (INEC ) to remain true to its
name – independent? Would Prof Attahiru Jega be bold enough to tame the excesses of the candidates without
fear of favoritism?

Well, INEC should know that the masses, the jobless ones that fill our beer parlour,
the men that cluster around newsstand to argue for a better country, want their
votes count.

INEC should also be cautious to know that the unity of the Nigeria depends on how free and fairly this election is conducted.

The electoral umpire should beware that el classico
such as this could be volatile and may
turn violent if the fans dare smell any foul .

Many times, aggrieved fans do not mind beating up the referee alongside the opponents. A word is enough for the wise.


• Ezekiel , 400 -Level Pharmacy, UNIBEN

THE SEARCH

I hurriedly left the house again, a habit which has characterized my exit from the house in recent times. Unable to visit a friend the day before, I concluded that nothing would stop me from fulfilling my promise this afternoon.

It was about to rain and the wind spoke expressly that the downpour would be heavy. I defied all temptations to stop my journey since this visit was a test of my friendship. My friend, Odafe, would always query that if I regarded him as a friend, I would visit him more frequently than the way I did. I rarely visited him.

Getting to the road, I jumped into a bus, still in a hurry. The driver had his hat turned backwards like those black American gangsters, his motor boy popularly called conductor was nowhere different from his boss as he had an earring stuck to his left ear. The leather cover of the seat of the bus was very much intact; the car stereo was oozing out little tweets as if trying to whisper to the driver. The chauffeur nodded his head rhythmically to this hissing sound. The phrase ‘No food for lazy man’ was written boldly on the uppermost part of the windscreen.

I sat comfortably at the back seat between an elderly man and a beautiful young girl. I intentionally refused to exchange greetings with them because I thought I didn’t have the time. I looped them off. My journey was going on fine and smooth as if I was in my future dream car; Lamborghini Bugatti or the self-acclaimed Toyota highlander, except for the fact that I felt the absence of an intricate part of the vehicle– the shock absolver– as I was lifting at every rising of the partially completed Benin/Lagos road. And just then, the rain began to pour down heavily.

Not until I heard the coarse voice of the conductor asking for his fare, I would still be in my dream state. Immediately, as if it was reflexed, I dashed my hands to the back of my trousers. Behold! My wallet was found wanting. My heart made a big throb; the young girl beside me would have heard the throb if not for the earphone plugged to her ears. No wallet means no money, I thought. I had initially made a vow not to put cash anywhere except in my wallet. A previous experience had made me practiced such.

The conductor noticed the change in my facial expression; an expression which seemed like someone who instantaneously received the call of nature at the middle of a final year examination.

The bus had already gone too far, hence, I could not alight without paying. I thought of varying options on how to get myself off this psychological fisticuffs. There was now uneasy silence in the bus, as I was the only passenger who had not paid his fare. I had no other option but to begin to plead for assistance. But, how would I get financial aid from these persons I initially had no time to exchange greetings with?

I started with the elderly man. I had this impression that he would understand my plight more than the female teenager.

“Good afternoon sir” I greeted, slightly bending my shoulder as if trying to prostrate. I made my voice sound very nice and consciously exposed my tooth just to further express a superficial humility. I added the ‘sir’ title in order to evoke the grace of his church-mind as my friend Victor usually puts it. Victor never fails to add the church-mind phrase whenever he needed a favor from me. The phrase was like my Achilles heel. I hoped this elderly man uses his church-mind, that is, if he has one.

“Thank you”, he said, answering my greeting with absolute absentmindedness. And just then, he fixed his gaze outside the vehicle trying to observe the rain.
“Please sir, I need a little help from you, I forgot my wallet in the house” I added.

This time, I caught his attention. His eyes were now locked in mine. His hairs were dark, too dark to be natural, the color were obviously from synthetic hair dyes used to conceal his grey hairs and the vanity of his age. Maybe he was a civil servant and was trying to avoid early retirement.

“You liar and thieves! You enter the bus to beg; you better go and look for something to occupy yourself with, jobless thieves”.

Ha! He shouted as if he had recognized my face from an initial crime scene. All the passengers in the bus had turned to see this ‘jobless thief’.

“Conductor, make sure this boy pays you his fares, if not seize his trousers”. He added.

My trousers? Why not my shirt or my phone! I wondered. He had not just also called me a thief but a jobless one! This man was a typical misanthrope.
The rain poured down more heavily accompanied with thunder and lightning as if trying to confirm this man’s allegation. The chauffeur drove slowly.

A passenger sitting in front just beside the driver added his worsening remark, “these young boys may be agents of those fetish native doctors who make rituals, after giving them your money you wouldn’t know where your misfortunes start coming from. You will just end up broke”. As he said this, he tried to wind up the windscreen to prevent the rain from reaching him.

“Why would someone enter a bus without checking his pockets?” added another passenger, a woman. She had also told the driver to completely wind up his glass because the rain was hitting her. This woman was fat, very fat that she encroached into the seating portion of other commuters, this made them complain about the seat being very tight for them. In fact a young boy had threatened not to pay his fares because his buttock was not touching the seat. He was suspended between two passengers.

I was shocked and terrified by their comments. Although some persons actually do these things they complained about; they should not be too quick to generalize. I almost got annoyed by their remarks but since I needed a helping hand, I remained mute and played it cool. I smiled with mixed feelings at their ignorance. Took a deep breath and then turned to the girl beside me.

“Good afternoon” I said with a large smile, trying very hard to prevent the insult just loaded on me from affecting my cheerful expression. She had her ear-phone tucked in her auricles, hence she couldn’t hear any of the initial comments of those unkind passengers.

Removing her earphone, she asked:

“You said what?”

Her voice sounded like those Automated Teller Machine saying, ‘Please wait while your transaction is processing’. Sharp, smooth and tiny! With this tiny voice, I presume, she was just a teenager.

I gave a broader smile and stuttered, “good afternoon”.

She replied shabbily. Maybe she thought I was trying to generate a talk with her because of her beauty. Her distended jaw and pointed nose made her attractive. She was not from around here, maybe a hybrid between an Iranian mother and a Nigerian father—I thought.

I knew I had to get the money from her or face the wrath of the conductor whose mind had been poisoned by those callous passengers.

I explained my situation to her, the unkind elderly man watched and listened attentively as I started and ended my gist. He had not been so attentive when I initially asked him for help.

“Don’t give him any money there,” the man shouted referring to me. “Do you know him before?” The girl replied.

“I don’t need to know him,” she quipped without hesitation.

The old man retorted: “He is a thief, a liar and a beggar, a stubborn child who has no respect. He couldn’t even greet when he entered the bus”. He carelessly engaged his oral gear.

I waited patiently for the man to end his long speech, I wanted to reply his unkind words. I initially held my peace because I respected his concealed grey hairs, but the way he was going, he may eventually make me lose my trousers as he had initially proposed.

Before I could reply the man, the girl said, “He needs help, he may be saying the truth after all, let me help him, his face looks innocent and by the way he has a very nice smile”.

She gave me a shiny N200 note. She was very bold to have complimented me that way. My smile was in the broadest form as far as I could imagine. The word ‘thank you’ came out with great speed, frequency and emotion. The man’s face was now looking pale. He had lost the battle.

The conductor collected the currency from me and said, “Na your girlfriend save you so oh”. The girl smiled lightly at his remark. I smiled too. Yet I frowned that I smiled at what he said.

I didn’t meet Odafe in the house. I had to enter the heavy rain back home. Getting home, I saw my wallet on my reading table, as if trying to say, “I called at you when you were about to leave but you didn’t hear me”.

I hurriedly opened it but there was no money in it. Ha!
I then carefully checked the trousers I wore to visit my friend. There, the ever eluding N500 seated comfortably.

Although my wallet was not with me but my money was. I was made to beg in the midst of abundance. 

Make haste slowly.

LETTER TO CHIBOK GIRLS

BY EZEKIEL EFEOBHOKHAN

SOURCE: THE NATION NEWSPAPER, 17^TH OCTOBER 2014.

My Dear Chibok girls, I write to apologise for our failure and to ask for forgiveness of the misdeed by the whole country, for being unable to rescue you from Sambisa Forest, where you are being held by criminal elements that do not want you to go to school. I praise your sacrifice. It was six months yesterday since your freedom was curtailed by Boko Haram, a sect that detests western education. For keeping you away from school and your families; you have not only been psychologically defiled, you are also being exposed to monstrous ideology of a group of barbaric elements.

Your abduction was seen as the most shocking single kidnap in Nigeria’s annals because of your number – 219. There has been a sustained pain in my heart since you were herded into the bush. You have been kept in absolute confinement and servitude. Pain and fear are part of the realities you have been coping with. They botched your happiness and zeal to acquire formal education. No hope, no help, you had waited for so long for salvation to come but it seems the more you wait, the more the society forgets your tribulations.

We thought our country is a civilised nation but your mass abduction indicates that we were still wallowing in the river of barbarity. We have disappointed you. We have failed our conscience; we have betrayed your trust, your love and dreams. Worse, the government has denied you of your right to live freely in any part of the country.

Concerned parents have been out in the cold and intense heat, clamoring for your release. They created a hash tag “#BringBackOurGirls”, which went viral on the social media to draw attention to your plight. This achieved its purpose for a period but we were confounded when the people who are supposed to rescue you created a misnomer of the hash tag and politicised its essence.

While we were yet to come to term with the psychological depression you were subjected to by your captors, Ebola, a dreaded disease, found its way into the country. The whole country was in in a state of fair because of the rapidity of Ebola spread. We all thought about your wellbeing in the cave you are kept. “What if the disease breaks out in the forest where you are being held, where would the bloodthirsty terrorists get vaccine to treat you?” We prayed and hoped this should not happen. We lost eight lives to this deadly disease, including our heroine, Dr Stella Adadevoh.

When all hands should be on deck to rescue you from the Boko Haram’s den, our leaders have stepped up their political games, forgetting that some 219 girls are in the trenches.

Christian Association of Nigeria (CAN) lost its moral conscience in the narrative. The umbrella body for the Christians is presently enmeshed in politics and a failed cash-for-arm deal. Pastors don’t preach about salvation again. For them, money lubricates the bicycle of gospel. They never preach from Bible again; they preach according to their thought.

While we are yet to bring you back to your parents, the Federal Government considered it necessary to shower its friends with national honors. Let us admit that there was an imperative for the government to hold the ceremony, but many of the honorees are underserving individuals whose actions contribute to the challenges facing the nation. No one remembered Dr Adadevoh, who saved millions of Nigerians from Ebola disease by her heroic action to stop the late Patrick Sawyer, the Liberian-American, who brought the disease to the country. Majority of the awardees are members of the political hangers-on whose achievements only brought woes to the country.

Although there are deserving people, such as Umeh Uusah, a taxi driver that returned N18 million left in his car by a foreigner and Solomon Dauda, a traffic warden, who dances when performing his job.

Don’t you also deserve a national award in absentia for defying the guns and bombs and went to school in a community where girl-child education is seen as unnecessary?

The West African Examination Council (WAEC) has released results and as usual many candidates failed. Whose fault? Of course, we should know the attitude of the government towards education. Education is no more that important sector needed for national growth.

Educational standards have been on a free fall, while infrastructure is on steady decay.

We have praised the bravery of our soldiers in their efforts to rescue you. Some of our best military officers have died in the battles and some were kidnapped in the process. All in the effort to restore your dignity and bring you back to your parents. We will continue to hope and pray for your safe return.

We will never forget Chibok. This is an open wound on the nation’s conscience and humanity. We

will remain guilty of negligence until the day we safely bring you back to the society.

My heart is with you my sisters. I can hear the echo of your scream. God be with you till we meet again. Your resilience, zeal and courage will continue to be a reminder that about 219 of you are still being held in captive by the enemies of our nation.

Yours Sincerely,

Ezekiel, 300-Level Pharmacy, UNIBEN

MESSENGERS OF MEN

MESSENGERS OF MEN

I never liked sitting in front of the class, hence I carved out a niche at the 3rd row towards the end of the class. I usually go very early for my night reading, as early as 5pm. This is because I detest reading in a class with a chockfull of students. I was perhaps the second student to arrive the class. It was already 25 minutes past 10pm. I was tired of reading hence I started a chat with a friend.

My chatting friend, Benedicta

I thought our conversation would be awkward and boring but thankfully it wasn’t. I did not want unnecessary silence during the discussion hence I drafted out the agenda for my discussions on a small sheet before meeting her. My friends, especially Victor, have the habit of making fun of me for not being able to sustain a discussion with a lady for more than a minute.

After a chat for about 35 minutes with Benedicta, there was a long silence which lasted for nearly 45 seconds, I scratched the back of my head as if it would help me recollect any forgotten chatting skills, but it didn’t. Anyway, I knew victor would be proud of me, as I had made a new ‘chatting record’.

“I am off to my seat, see you …,” I tried to terminate the protracted silence. “Osahon, which church do you attend”? She cuts me off before I completed my sentence. She usually calls me by my middle name, adding that my first name —-Ezekiel, does not sound well on her tongue.

My very good friend Victor.

“The name of my church is, The Church of God…, please do not add mission, just, The Church of God,” I said, looking straight into her eyes. The eye contact lasted for a few seconds before she turned her eyes away. Victor had also taught me to maintain eye contact when chatting with anyone especially ladies. “Eye contacts show how virile you are as a man” he would say.

Just then, a student walked in, his hairs were as black as the suit he put on. He had a red colored bible in his axilla and with just three swift strides he was at the front of the class. A young girl stood beside him.

“Good evening all, I won’t take more than 5 minutes of your time…, let us prays”. He was the 3rd preacher to patronize this class. Most night class preachers usually don’t finish on time, as they commonly promise, let alone this preacher who gave himself just 5 minutes.

His female partner was a little taller than he was; her complexion resembled that of the branded butter—blue-band. Her attached hair almost got to her waist at the point where her trousers seemed unironed. Her shirt was colored like the sky when the sun shone in its full strength.

The color of her hair was lightly brown like someone who consistently used locally made soda to bathe. Her trousers were saggy, the tighter it became as the trousers traveled towards her foot. Her facial expression and the color of her eyes showed that she was still in her teens, she looked innocent and precise.

Her eyes scanned through the class before her colleague started praying. Her ‘Amen’ was the loudest, she had a Yoruba accent that unnecessarily stressed the first syllable of the word, sounding like; ‘Are….min’. Her English was a faded lilt.

The first two buttons of her shirt were opened as if she was trying to expose something on her chest. A light incision was made on her left cheek, like an exclamation turned upside down. The mark made her beautiful but not as beautiful as Benedicta.

Benedicta

Benedicta was a slim beauty. She hid her smiles behind her face and her set of neatly spaced tooth were exposed whenever she smiles. Her hair was long, each of the braids that hung down to her neck ended in a soft fuzz. She smiled easily; her teeth were the same bright white of her eyes. She wore a short sleeve shirt that look crisp from ironing. Her high level of intelligence was reflected on her spoken English as she utters every word with composite inventiveness.

“The love of God is wonderful, it is powerful, it makes you express yourself to God because God is Love and Love is God. That was the reason he sent his son to die”… I followed his message with rapt attention. He sounded like the pastors of these new generational churches. No wonder his hairs were permed and oily curled. His gesticulations made his tie swing this way and that.

“Love makes you free, free from the chain of the law”… he continued. “You are free, don’t let anybody tell you that you can’t put on trousers as a lady or you can’t put on earrings as a boy, these things affect only the flesh and not your spirits”, as he said those words he moved away from the front of the class and was walking in the aisle towards my seat. My ears tingled, and I wondered if the love of God makes us ‘free’ to put on earrings?

This rhetorical question was written on my face as I stared at this educated ignoramus. He had drawn the attention of the whole class including Benedicta’s. Everyone looked at him in awe.

After several episodes of ranting, he progressed further into another unknown direction, “there is a boy here, your name is, no… no… noooo”! He stressed the last “no” like someone being scared out of his sleep by an evil spirit. “…

You are in 300 level and you are being caged, spiritually, financially and academically. God is telling me to call you out”. This caused a little stir as a student cried “please, tell us the name of the student”?

This student wore a black polo, the name ‘2 PAC’ was written boldly on the shirt, he had the hair style people commonly referred to as ‘afro’. He was dark in complexion, very dark indeed; just like the back of a roasted yam just after pouring water on it. His lips were big; maybe that was why he had the courage to challenge this controversial preacher to tell us the name of this “financially, spiritually, and academically challenged 300-level student.” The preacher continued as if he never heard the comment.

Just then NEPA interrupted power. Hisses and sighing followed the ensuing darkness.

This preacher never relented as he raised his voice as if the power supply to the class was channeled to his voice. The preacher was still speaking in loud tune when the school generator was turned on. The fluorescence above his head refused to come on and it threw a glassy shadow on his face.

A while later, a female student walked out of the class. She wore a mini-skirt, a sleeveless top with long earrings, her hairs were loosely tied and seemed unkempt, and her hand bag was hung on her right arm. Her mouth moved from side to side in a slippery manner, perfectly simulating ruminants when performing their regurgitating schedule. She was chewing a gum. The male student who was seated beside her accosted her as she made her way out.

A few moments after they passed, the preacher commented, “They are going to commit iniquity, children of Jezebel!” the whole class erupted in laughter. I almost joined in the laughter but when I noticed Benedicta didn’t join the crowd I sealed my lips.

“Bariskamadaaadevus”… still lost in his unknown world. He suddenly stopped as if trying to hear from an esoteric force. He swayed his body back and forth, jerked forward and bent over the young lady sitting in front.

He screamed, “You!” His index finger was firm in my direction. His eyes were annoying and he was sweating profusely. I imagined his heart beating so fast, and he expressed anguish in his face like someone having a running stomach and unable to get to the convenience.

His suit has been flung opened as a result of his boisterous gesticulations, revealing his inner white shirt. I looked at Benedicta to confirm if I was the one he pointed at, she wore a warm smile which indicated she knew the finger was for me. I touched the left part of my chest and nodded lightly, “Me”? “Yes, yes, you”. The whole class turned to my direction.

“You have a sister who wrote UNIBEN Post JAMB, her score was not up to the cut off. I want you to tell her that, she would be admitted with that score”. I smiled, and tried very hard to cover for his lies. I never had a sister, not to talk of one who couldn’t pass UNIBEN Post JAMB.

These young preachers who want to imitate their pastors embark on a lost pursuit of fame and miracles. When God has not sent them, they would run; when they didn’t hear from God, their voice would be the loudest; they claim to be men of God when actually they are men of men!

Yours sincerely, Osahon.

“Osahon, why did you lie to me, why did you tell me that you didn’t have a sister”? I had to convince Benedicta that the preacher was seeking cheap popularity by showing her a family photo; of which she could not find any female except my mom.

“You were saying something about your church” she said. “Oh, the preacher has made my explanation a lot easier. The preacher is opposite of the Church of God. From his appearance, misinterpretation of God’s love, glossolalia to his false prophesies, all these never feature in the

Church of God.”

 

I gave her a warm hand shake and the broadest of smiles, my smile was ricocheted on her face. We exchanged smiles as if it was the air we breathe. I watched her as she made her way to her hostel. She wanted to know more about The Church.

Would she yield, would she drop the old path for the new, was she really interested in the Church or was she just trying to generate a discussion?

These were my musings as I lay on my bed.

PROFESSIONAL NEGLECT

Are they medical doctors or murderers?

Perhaps a 300-Level Biochemistry student, identified as John, would not have died if the Nigerian Medical Association (NMA) is not on strike. John was allegedly poisoned by a friend at an off-campus hostel. He returned to his hostel in pains, vomiting blood. Immediately, he was rushed to the University of Benin Teaching Hospital (UBTH). On getting there, there was no medical personnel to attend to the dying student. Doctors were on strike, the symphathisers were told. No first aid was administered on him. The poor John was left to writhe in pain.

He was then taken to the university Health Centre. Unfortunately, he gave up the ghost on the way. What a way not to die! What is the meaning of wickedness? How else can the brutality of mankind be felt?

Just because of pride and administrative recklessness, innocent lives are being lost. The President is fighting tooth and nail to end terrorism and Ebola. Now, NMA is pursing another agenda.

It was in grief that I wrote this piece about the ongoing doctors’ strike. If I had not lost a colleague, maybe I would not have given this article a thought.

A philosopher had once advocated death for all men as solution to the mischief they have caused to the world. In his time, corruption was a norm and a way of life. In his own reasoning, he prescribed death as the solution to the trouble he faced.

But it was evident that his solution was synonymous to the cynical attitude of the ostrich who buries his head below the sand in the site of trouble, while its other parts were exposed. This is the part that our Nigerian medical doctors have chosen to plough. The moment they really need their head to think, it is buried!

Doctors, who swore to the Hippocratic Oath to save lives, are the ones snuffing life out of the people through their self-serving strike. Just at the time the nation needs them the most, the doctors turn their back. Threatened by terrorism and the gruesome Ebola, the medical doctors are sitting in their houses while scores are dying. This is exactly what an illiterate man would do and will be termed a murderer. The so-called elite doctors, under the guise of NMA, are doing the same thing, with full immunity. They are well exercising their right to murder!

Since when did the NMA start passing by-laws for para-medical profession, such as Pharmacist Council of Nigeria (PCN) and other health workers association? Are these professions under the NMA? When will these doctors know that lives are more important than any other thing?

They’ve shown gross irresponsibility, fatuous ferocity and crass insolence. Leaving your responsibility as a life saver, all in the guise of helping the patient, you are now sentencing them to their early grave. Has it ever been told where the police force go on industrial action? No matter how corrupt a police force could be, their importance can never be downplayed. They are ‘essential workers’. They know their place.

They said pharmacists should not be called doctors. A pharmacist who graduated with a Bachelor in Pharmacy (Pham B) is not called a doctor, but those with a Pham D would be tagged doctors. They argued that Pham D would bring confusion to the hospital chain of command. Why have we not heard about the confusion in developed countries of the world were Pharm D certificates are also issued? This is nothing but a mere figment of their lustful imagination, driving them to a catastrophic, embarrassing and disappointing end.

Who are mostly affected by these actions? The poor. This is simply because most rich people have their personal doctors and can also afford the exorbitant fees of private hospitals owned by these same doctors who are on strike!

I began to ask myself whether our doctors are truly protectors of life as they claim, or merchants of death. I began to ask myself whether this group is humane or just a bunch of greedy wolves in sheep clothing. It’s really disheartening to know that the health and lives of the poor have been sold on the platform of individualism and overblown ego.

Indeed, strikes are anti-medical profession; this is because the ultimate job of the doctor is to care for the sick and save lives, even in its tiniest form. I have painstakingly read the grievances the doctors tendered for the recent strike. They are not just selfish, but a sign of myopic thinking. Let it be known that whatever you have sown, that you shall reap.