Article written by award winning
writer, Chimamanda Adichie. Please read and share your thoughts..
As soon as he opened his eyes, he
felt it. A strange peace, a calm clarity. He stretched. Even his limbs were
stronger and surer. He looked at his phone. Thirty-seven new text messages –
and all while he was asleep. With one click, he deleted them. The empty screen
buoyed him. Then he got up to bathe, determined to fold the day into the exact
shape that he wanted.
Those Levick people had to go. No more foreign PR firms.
They should have made that article in the American newspaper sound like him,
they should have known better. They had to go. And he would not pay their
balance; they had not fulfilled the purpose of the contract after all.
Continue...
He pressed the intercom. Man Friday
came in, face set in a placidly praise-singing smile.
“Good morning, Your Excellency!”
“Good morning,” Oga Jona said. “I had a revelation from God.”
Man Friday stared at him with bulging eyes.
“I said I had a revelation from God,” he repeated. “Find me new Public
Relations people. Here in Nigeria. Is this country not full of mass
communication departments and graduates?”
“Yes, Your Excellency.” Man Friday’s eyes narrowed; he was already thinking of
whom he would bring, of how he would benefit.
“I want a shortlist on my table on Wednesday,” Oga Jona said. “I don’t
want any of the usual suspects. I want fresh blood. Like that student who asked
that frank question during the economic summit.”
“Your Excellency… the procurement rules…we need somebody who is licensed by the
agency licensed by the agency that licenses PR consultants…”
Oga Jona snorted. Man Friday used civil service restrictions as a weapon to
fight off competition. Anybody who might push him out of his privileged
position was suddenly not licensed, not approved, not registered. “I don’t want
you to bring your own candidates, do you hear me? I said I want fresh blood,
I’m not joking.”
“Yes, Your Excellency,” Man Friday said, voice now high-pitched with alarmed
confusion.
“Put that DVD for me before you go,” Oga Jona said.
He watched the recording on the widescreen television, unhappy with his
appearance in the footage. His trousers seemed too big and why had nobody
adjusted his hat? Next to The Girl from Pakistan, he looked timid, scrunched
into his seat. She was inspiring, that young girl, and he wished her well. But
he saw now how bad this made him appear: he had ignored all the Nigerians
asking him to go to Chibok, and now The Girl From Pakistan was telling the
world that he promised her he would go. He promised me, she said. As if
the abducted Nigerian girls did not truly matter until this girl said they did.
As if what mattered to him was a photo-op with this girl made famous by
surviving a gunshot wound. It made him look small. It made him look
unpresidential. It made him look like a leader without a rudder. Why had
they advised him to do this? He pressed a button on his desk and waited.
Violence was unfamiliar to Oga Jona. Yet when Man Monday came in, his belly
rounded and his shirt a size too tight as usual, Oga Jona fought the urge to
hit and punch and slap. Instead, he settled for less: he threw a teacup at Man
Monday.
“Why have you people been advising me not to go to Chibok? Why have you people
been telling me that my enemies will exploit it?”
“Sah?” Man Monday had dodged the teacup and now stood flustered.
“I am going to Chibok tomorrow. I should have gone a long time ago. Now it will
look as if I am going only because a foreigner, a small girl at that, told me
to go. But I will still go. Nigerians have to see that this thing is troubling
me too.”
“But Sah, you know…”
“Don’t ‘Sah you know’ me!” This was how his people always started. “Sah, you
know…” Then they would bring up conspiracies, plots, enemies, evil spirits. No
wonder giant snakes were always chasing him in his dreams: he had listened to
too much of their nonsense. He remembered a quote from a teacher in his
secondary school: ‘The best answer to give your enemies is continued
excellence.’ What he needed, he saw now, was an adviser like that teacher.
“Sah, the security situation…”
“Have you not seen Obama appear in Afghanistan or Iraq in the middle of the
night to greet American troops? Is Chibok more dangerous than the war the
Americans are always fighting up and down? Arrange it immediately. Keep it
quiet. I want to meet the parents of the girls. Make gifts and provisions
available to the families, as a small token of goodwill from the federal
government.” He knew how much people liked such things. A tin of vegetable oil
would soften some bitter hearts.
“Sah…”
“From Borno we go to Yobe. I want to meet the families of the boys who were
killed. I want to visit the school. Fifty-nine boys! They shot those innocent
boys and burnt them to ashes! Chai! There is evil in the world o!”
“Yes Sah.”
“These people are evil. That man Yusuf was evil. The policemen who killed him,
we have to arrest them and parade them before the press. Make sure the world
knows we are handling the case. But it is even more important that we tell the
true story about Yusuf himself. Yes, the police should not have killed him. But
does that mean his followers should now start shedding blood all over this
country? Is there any Nigerian who does not have a bad story about the police?
Was it not last year that my own cousin was nearly killed in police detention?
Let us tell people why the Army caught him in the first place. He was evil.
Remember that pastor in Maiduguri that he beheaded. Find that pastor’s wife.
Let her tell her story. Let the world hear it. Show pictures of the pastor. Why
have we not been telling the full story? Why didn’t we fight back when The Man
From Borno was running around abroad, blaming me for everything when he too failed
in his own responsibilities?” Oga Jona was getting angrier as he spoke, angry
with his people, angry with himself. How could he have remained, for so long,
in that darkness, that demon possession of ineptitude?
“Yes Sah!”
“You can go.”
He picked up the iphone and spoke slowly. “I want to expand that Terror Victims
Support Committee. Add one woman. Add two people personally affected by
terrorism. How can you have a committee on terrorism victims with no
diversity?”
On the other end of the phone, the voice was stilled by surprise. “Yes Sah!”
Finally emerged, in a croak.
He put down the phone. There would be no more committees. At least until he was
re-elected. And no more unending consultations. He picked up the Galaxy,
scrolled through the list of contacts. He called two Big Men in the Armed
Forces, the ones stealing most of the money meant for the soldiers.
“I want your resignation by Friday,” He said simply.
Their shock blistered down the phone.
“But Your Excellency…”
“Or you want me to announce that I am sacking you? At least resignation will
save you embarrassment.”
If those left knew he was now serious as commander-in-chief, serious about
punishing misdeed and demanding performance, they would sit up. He ate some
roasted groundnuts before making the next call. To another Big Man in the Armed
Forces. They had to stop arresting Northerners just like that. He remembered
his former gateman in Port Harcourt. Mohammed, pleasant Mohammed with his buck
teeth and his radio pressed to his ear. Mohammed would not even have the liver
to support any terrorist. He told the Big Man in the Armed Forces, “You
need to carry people along. Win hearts and minds. Make Nigerians feel that you
are fighting for them, not against them… And when you talk to the press and say
that Nigerians should do their part to fight terrorism, stop sounding as if you
are accusing them. After all, let us tell the truth, what can an ordinary
person do? Nothing! Even those people who check cars, if they open a boot and
see a big bomb, what will they do? Will they try to subdue an armed suicide
bomber? Will they pour water on the bomb to defuse it? Will they not turn and
run as fast as their legs can carry them? Let’s start a mass education
campaign. Get proposals on how best to do it without scaring people. When we
tell Nigerians to report suspicious behavior, let’s give them examples.
Suspicious behavior does not mean anybody wearing a jellabiya. After all, was
the one in Lagos not done by a woman?” He paused.
“Yes, Your Excellency!”
“As for the girls, we have to go back to negotiation. Move in immediately.”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
“I should not have listened to what they told me in that Paris summit. Why did
I even agree to follow them and go to Paris, all of us looking like colonised
goats?”
From the other end, came a complete and lip-sealed silence. The Big Man in the
Armed Forces dared not make a sound, lest it be mistaken as agreement on the
word ‘goat.’ Besides, he had been part of the entourage for that trip and had
collected even more than the normal fat juicy estacode.
“I don’t want to hear about any other mutiny,” Oga Jona continued. “You will
get the funds. But I want real results! Improve the conditions of your boys. I
want to see results!”
The Big Man in the Armed Forces started saying something about the Americans.
Oga Jona cut him short. “Shut up! If somebody shits inside your father’s house,
is it a foreigner that will come and clean the house for you? Is Sambisa on
Google Maps? How much local intelligence have you gathered? Before you ask for
help, you first do your best!”
“Yes Your Excellency.”
“And why is it that nobody interviewed the girls who escaped?”
There was a pause.
“By tomorrow night I want a report on the local intelligence gathered so far!”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
Oga Jona turned on the television and briefly watched a local channel. Who even
designed those ugly studio backgrounds? There was a knock on the door. It had
to be Man Thursday. Nobody else could come in anyhow.
“Good afternoon, My President,” Man Thursday said.
Short and stocky, Man Thursday was the soother who always came cradling bottles
of liquid peace.
This time, Oga Jona pushed away the bottle. “Not now!’
“My President, I hope you’re feeling fine.”
“I received a revelation from God. From now on, I will stop giving interviews
to foreign journalists while ignoring our own journalists.”
“But My President, you know how useless our journalists are…”
“Will Obama give an interview to AIT and ignore CBS?”
“No, Your Excellency.”
“I know some of our journalists support Bourdillon, but we also have others on
our side. I will beat them at their game! I want to do interviews with two
journalists that support us and one journalist that supports Bourdillon. Find
one that will be easy to intimidate.”
“But…”
“I want names in the next hour.”
“Yes, Your Excellency.” Man Thursday now stood still, lips parted in the slack
expression of a person no longer sure what day it was.
“Tell the Supporters Club to change their television advertisements. They
should stop mentioning ‘those who are against me.’ I will no longer give power
to my enemies. They should mention only the things that I am doing. I like that
one with the almajiri boy. It shows Nigerians that I have helped with education
in the North. They should make more advertisements like that.”
In response, Man Thursday could only nod vigorously but mutely.
Later, after eating vegetable soup with periwinkle and a plate of sliced fruits
– he was determined to keep himself from looking like Man Monday – he asked
Sharp Woman to meet him in the residence. Not in the main living room, but in
the smaller relaxing white parlor. Sharp Woman was the only one he fully
trusted. He had sometimes allowed himself to sideline her, when he had felt
blown this way and that way by the small-minded pettiness of other people. She
was the only one who had not allowed him to dwell too much on his own
victimhood. Once, she had told him quietly, “You have real enemies. There are
people in this country who do not think you should be president simply because of
where you come from. Did they not say they would make the country ungovernable
for you? But not everything is the fault of your enemies. If we keep on blaming
the enemies then we are making them powerful. The Bourdillon people are
disorganized. They don’t have a real platform. Their platform is just anti-you.
They don’t even have a credible person they can field, the only major candidate
they have is the one they will not select. So stop mentioning them. Face your
work.”
He should have listened then, despite the many choruses that drowned her voice.
It was she who, a few days later, and after the four rubbish candidates
stage-managed by Man Friday, brought the new PR people, Kikelola Obi, Bola
Usman and Chinwe Adeniyi – when he first saw their names, he thought: and some
crazy people are saying we should divide Nigeria. They were in their early
thirties, with rough faces and no make up; they looked too serious, as if they
attended Deeper Life church and disapproved of laughter. They started their
presentation, all three taking turns to speak. They stood straight and
fearless. Their directness and confidence unnerved him.
“Sir, we voted for you the first time. We felt that you would do well if you
had the mandate of the people instead of just an inherited throne. We liked you
because you had no shoes. We really liked you. We had hope in you. You seemed
humble and different. But with all due respect sir, we will not vote for you
again unless something changes.”
He nearly jumped up from his seat. Small girls of nowadays! They had no
respect! As if to make it worse, one of them added that if the election were
held today, the only person she could vote for was The Man From Lagos. Oga Jona
bristled. That annoying man. Even if a mosquito bit him in his state, he would
find a way to blame the president for it. Still, Oga Jona could see why these
foolish small girls were saying they would vote for him. The man had tried in
Lagos. But their mentioning The Man From Lagos was now a challenge. He would
rise to the challenge.
“Sir, the good news is that Nigerians forgive easily and Nigerians forget even
more easily. You have to change strategy. Be more visible. Stop politicizing
everything. Stop blaming your enemies for everything. You have to be, and seem
to be, a strong, uniting leader. Make sure to keep repeating that this is not a
Muslim vs. Christian thing.”
Oga Jona cut in, pleased to be able to challenge these over-sabi girls. “You
think Nigerians don’t know that it is mostly Christian areas that they are
targeting in Borno? And what about all those church bombings?”
The three shook their heads, uniformly, like robots. They were sipping water;
they had declined everything else.
“With all due respect sir, if you look at the names of bombing victims, they
are Muslims and Christians. If God forbid another terror attack occurs, you
have to come out yourself and talk to Nigerians. Stop releasing wooden
statements saying you condemn the attacks. We will prep you before each public
appearance. You have a tendency to ramble. That’s the most important thing to
watch out for. Be alert when you answer each question. Keep your answers short.
You don’t have to elaborate if there is nothing to elaborate. Stick to the
point. If they ask you something negative, be willing to admit past mistakes
but always give the answer a positive spin. Something like ‘yes, I could have
handled it better and I regret that but I am now doing better, and am
determined to do even more because Nigerians want and deserve results.’ You
have to start reaching out beyond your comfort zone. Nigeria has talent. Look
for the best Nigerians on any subject at hand, wherever they may be, and
persuade them to come and contribute on their area of expertise. Especially the
ones who have no interest in government work. Even one or two who don’t
completely agree with you. Think of Lincoln’s Team of Rivals.”
“What?”
“Don’t worry, sir. The important thing is to reach out beyond your circle. Oga
Segi was not a calm person like you. He even used to threaten to flog people. But
he had a good network. Jimmy Carter is his friend. If he needed expertise from
a university in Zaria or Edinburgh or Boston, he would pick up his phone and
know somebody who knew or somebody who knew somebody who knew. But with all due
respect, sir, you don’t have that. Bayelsa is a small place.”
These girls really had no respect o! He glared at Sharp Woman, who shrugged and
muttered, “You said you wanted people who would tell you the truth.”
But he listened.
In his first interview, the words rolled off his tongue. Those girls had made
him repeat himself so many times. “I want to apologize to the Nigerian people
for some actions of my government. We could have done better. No country
fighting terrorism can let everything be open. But we owe our country men and
women honest, clear assurance that we are taking decisive action, with enough
details to be convincing. I ask for your prayers and support. I have directed
the security services to set up a website that will give Nigerians accurate and
up-to-date information about our war against terrorism. I have also hired
specialists to manage the flow and presentation of the information.”
And the words came easily when he shook hands with the parents in Chibok,
simple polite people who clutched his hand with both of theirs. He should have
done this much earlier; it was so touching. “Sorry,” he said, over and over
again. “Sorry. Please keep strong. We will rescue them.”
The words were more reluctant when he wore a red shirt and asked to be taken to
the gathering of The People in Red at the park. But he cleared his throat and
urged himself to speak, particularly because, as he emerged from within his
circle of security men, the People in Red all stopped and stared. Silence
reigned.
“I came to salute you,” Oga Jona started. “We are on the same side. My
government has made mistakes. We are learning from them and correcting them.
Please work with us. Together, we will defeat this evil.”
They were still silent and still staring; they were disarmed. He thanked them
and, before they could marshal their old distrust, he turned and left. That
night, as he sank to his knees in prayer, he heard the muted singing of angels.
Chimamanda Adichie is an award winning writer and author of bestsellers
including Purple Hibiscus, Half of a Yellow Sun, The Thing Around Your Neck and
Americanah.
Posted by
Article written by award winning
writer, Chimamanda Adichie. Please read and share your thoughts..
As soon as he opened his eyes, he
felt it. A strange peace, a calm clarity. He stretched. Even his limbs were
stronger and surer. He looked at his phone. Thirty-seven new text messages –
and all while he was asleep. With one click, he deleted them. The empty screen
buoyed him. Then he got up to bathe, determined to fold the day into the exact
shape that he wanted.
Those Levick people had to go. No more foreign PR firms.
They should have made that article in the American newspaper sound like him,
they should have known better. They had to go. And he would not pay their
balance; they had not fulfilled the purpose of the contract after all.
Continue...
He pressed the intercom. Man Friday
came in, face set in a placidly praise-singing smile.
“Good morning, Your Excellency!”
“Good morning,” Oga Jona said. “I had a revelation from God.”
Man Friday stared at him with bulging eyes.
“I said I had a revelation from God,” he repeated. “Find me new Public
Relations people. Here in Nigeria. Is this country not full of mass
communication departments and graduates?”
“Yes, Your Excellency.” Man Friday’s eyes narrowed; he was already thinking of
whom he would bring, of how he would benefit.
“I want a shortlist on my table on Wednesday,” Oga Jona said. “I don’t
want any of the usual suspects. I want fresh blood. Like that student who asked
that frank question during the economic summit.”
“Your Excellency… the procurement rules…we need somebody who is licensed by the
agency licensed by the agency that licenses PR consultants…”
Oga Jona snorted. Man Friday used civil service restrictions as a weapon to
fight off competition. Anybody who might push him out of his privileged
position was suddenly not licensed, not approved, not registered. “I don’t want
you to bring your own candidates, do you hear me? I said I want fresh blood,
I’m not joking.”
“Yes, Your Excellency,” Man Friday said, voice now high-pitched with alarmed
confusion.
“Put that DVD for me before you go,” Oga Jona said.
He watched the recording on the widescreen television, unhappy with his
appearance in the footage. His trousers seemed too big and why had nobody
adjusted his hat? Next to The Girl from Pakistan, he looked timid, scrunched
into his seat. She was inspiring, that young girl, and he wished her well. But
he saw now how bad this made him appear: he had ignored all the Nigerians
asking him to go to Chibok, and now The Girl From Pakistan was telling the
world that he promised her he would go. He promised me, she said. As if
the abducted Nigerian girls did not truly matter until this girl said they did.
As if what mattered to him was a photo-op with this girl made famous by
surviving a gunshot wound. It made him look small. It made him look
unpresidential. It made him look like a leader without a rudder. Why had
they advised him to do this? He pressed a button on his desk and waited.
Violence was unfamiliar to Oga Jona. Yet when Man Monday came in, his belly
rounded and his shirt a size too tight as usual, Oga Jona fought the urge to
hit and punch and slap. Instead, he settled for less: he threw a teacup at Man
Monday.
“Why have you people been advising me not to go to Chibok? Why have you people
been telling me that my enemies will exploit it?”
“Sah?” Man Monday had dodged the teacup and now stood flustered.
“I am going to Chibok tomorrow. I should have gone a long time ago. Now it will
look as if I am going only because a foreigner, a small girl at that, told me
to go. But I will still go. Nigerians have to see that this thing is troubling
me too.”
“But Sah, you know…”
“Don’t ‘Sah you know’ me!” This was how his people always started. “Sah, you
know…” Then they would bring up conspiracies, plots, enemies, evil spirits. No
wonder giant snakes were always chasing him in his dreams: he had listened to
too much of their nonsense. He remembered a quote from a teacher in his
secondary school: ‘The best answer to give your enemies is continued
excellence.’ What he needed, he saw now, was an adviser like that teacher.
“Sah, the security situation…”
“Have you not seen Obama appear in Afghanistan or Iraq in the middle of the
night to greet American troops? Is Chibok more dangerous than the war the
Americans are always fighting up and down? Arrange it immediately. Keep it
quiet. I want to meet the parents of the girls. Make gifts and provisions
available to the families, as a small token of goodwill from the federal
government.” He knew how much people liked such things. A tin of vegetable oil
would soften some bitter hearts.
“Sah…”
“From Borno we go to Yobe. I want to meet the families of the boys who were
killed. I want to visit the school. Fifty-nine boys! They shot those innocent
boys and burnt them to ashes! Chai! There is evil in the world o!”
“Yes Sah.”
“These people are evil. That man Yusuf was evil. The policemen who killed him,
we have to arrest them and parade them before the press. Make sure the world
knows we are handling the case. But it is even more important that we tell the
true story about Yusuf himself. Yes, the police should not have killed him. But
does that mean his followers should now start shedding blood all over this
country? Is there any Nigerian who does not have a bad story about the police?
Was it not last year that my own cousin was nearly killed in police detention?
Let us tell people why the Army caught him in the first place. He was evil.
Remember that pastor in Maiduguri that he beheaded. Find that pastor’s wife.
Let her tell her story. Let the world hear it. Show pictures of the pastor. Why
have we not been telling the full story? Why didn’t we fight back when The Man
From Borno was running around abroad, blaming me for everything when he too failed
in his own responsibilities?” Oga Jona was getting angrier as he spoke, angry
with his people, angry with himself. How could he have remained, for so long,
in that darkness, that demon possession of ineptitude?
“Yes Sah!”
“You can go.”
He picked up the iphone and spoke slowly. “I want to expand that Terror Victims
Support Committee. Add one woman. Add two people personally affected by
terrorism. How can you have a committee on terrorism victims with no
diversity?”
On the other end of the phone, the voice was stilled by surprise. “Yes Sah!”
Finally emerged, in a croak.
He put down the phone. There would be no more committees. At least until he was
re-elected. And no more unending consultations. He picked up the Galaxy,
scrolled through the list of contacts. He called two Big Men in the Armed
Forces, the ones stealing most of the money meant for the soldiers.
“I want your resignation by Friday,” He said simply.
Their shock blistered down the phone.
“But Your Excellency…”
“Or you want me to announce that I am sacking you? At least resignation will
save you embarrassment.”
If those left knew he was now serious as commander-in-chief, serious about
punishing misdeed and demanding performance, they would sit up. He ate some
roasted groundnuts before making the next call. To another Big Man in the Armed
Forces. They had to stop arresting Northerners just like that. He remembered
his former gateman in Port Harcourt. Mohammed, pleasant Mohammed with his buck
teeth and his radio pressed to his ear. Mohammed would not even have the liver
to support any terrorist. He told the Big Man in the Armed Forces, “You
need to carry people along. Win hearts and minds. Make Nigerians feel that you
are fighting for them, not against them… And when you talk to the press and say
that Nigerians should do their part to fight terrorism, stop sounding as if you
are accusing them. After all, let us tell the truth, what can an ordinary
person do? Nothing! Even those people who check cars, if they open a boot and
see a big bomb, what will they do? Will they try to subdue an armed suicide
bomber? Will they pour water on the bomb to defuse it? Will they not turn and
run as fast as their legs can carry them? Let’s start a mass education
campaign. Get proposals on how best to do it without scaring people. When we
tell Nigerians to report suspicious behavior, let’s give them examples.
Suspicious behavior does not mean anybody wearing a jellabiya. After all, was
the one in Lagos not done by a woman?” He paused.
“Yes, Your Excellency!”
“As for the girls, we have to go back to negotiation. Move in immediately.”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
“I should not have listened to what they told me in that Paris summit. Why did
I even agree to follow them and go to Paris, all of us looking like colonised
goats?”
From the other end, came a complete and lip-sealed silence. The Big Man in the
Armed Forces dared not make a sound, lest it be mistaken as agreement on the
word ‘goat.’ Besides, he had been part of the entourage for that trip and had
collected even more than the normal fat juicy estacode.
“I don’t want to hear about any other mutiny,” Oga Jona continued. “You will
get the funds. But I want real results! Improve the conditions of your boys. I
want to see results!”
The Big Man in the Armed Forces started saying something about the Americans.
Oga Jona cut him short. “Shut up! If somebody shits inside your father’s house,
is it a foreigner that will come and clean the house for you? Is Sambisa on
Google Maps? How much local intelligence have you gathered? Before you ask for
help, you first do your best!”
“Yes Your Excellency.”
“And why is it that nobody interviewed the girls who escaped?”
There was a pause.
“By tomorrow night I want a report on the local intelligence gathered so far!”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
Oga Jona turned on the television and briefly watched a local channel. Who even
designed those ugly studio backgrounds? There was a knock on the door. It had
to be Man Thursday. Nobody else could come in anyhow.
“Good afternoon, My President,” Man Thursday said.
Short and stocky, Man Thursday was the soother who always came cradling bottles
of liquid peace.
This time, Oga Jona pushed away the bottle. “Not now!’
“My President, I hope you’re feeling fine.”
“I received a revelation from God. From now on, I will stop giving interviews
to foreign journalists while ignoring our own journalists.”
“But My President, you know how useless our journalists are…”
“Will Obama give an interview to AIT and ignore CBS?”
“No, Your Excellency.”
“I know some of our journalists support Bourdillon, but we also have others on
our side. I will beat them at their game! I want to do interviews with two
journalists that support us and one journalist that supports Bourdillon. Find
one that will be easy to intimidate.”
“But…”
“I want names in the next hour.”
“Yes, Your Excellency.” Man Thursday now stood still, lips parted in the slack
expression of a person no longer sure what day it was.
“Tell the Supporters Club to change their television advertisements. They
should stop mentioning ‘those who are against me.’ I will no longer give power
to my enemies. They should mention only the things that I am doing. I like that
one with the almajiri boy. It shows Nigerians that I have helped with education
in the North. They should make more advertisements like that.”
In response, Man Thursday could only nod vigorously but mutely.
Later, after eating vegetable soup with periwinkle and a plate of sliced fruits
– he was determined to keep himself from looking like Man Monday – he asked
Sharp Woman to meet him in the residence. Not in the main living room, but in
the smaller relaxing white parlor. Sharp Woman was the only one he fully
trusted. He had sometimes allowed himself to sideline her, when he had felt
blown this way and that way by the small-minded pettiness of other people. She
was the only one who had not allowed him to dwell too much on his own
victimhood. Once, she had told him quietly, “You have real enemies. There are
people in this country who do not think you should be president simply because of
where you come from. Did they not say they would make the country ungovernable
for you? But not everything is the fault of your enemies. If we keep on blaming
the enemies then we are making them powerful. The Bourdillon people are
disorganized. They don’t have a real platform. Their platform is just anti-you.
They don’t even have a credible person they can field, the only major candidate
they have is the one they will not select. So stop mentioning them. Face your
work.”
He should have listened then, despite the many choruses that drowned her voice.
It was she who, a few days later, and after the four rubbish candidates
stage-managed by Man Friday, brought the new PR people, Kikelola Obi, Bola
Usman and Chinwe Adeniyi – when he first saw their names, he thought: and some
crazy people are saying we should divide Nigeria. They were in their early
thirties, with rough faces and no make up; they looked too serious, as if they
attended Deeper Life church and disapproved of laughter. They started their
presentation, all three taking turns to speak. They stood straight and
fearless. Their directness and confidence unnerved him.
“Sir, we voted for you the first time. We felt that you would do well if you
had the mandate of the people instead of just an inherited throne. We liked you
because you had no shoes. We really liked you. We had hope in you. You seemed
humble and different. But with all due respect sir, we will not vote for you
again unless something changes.”
He nearly jumped up from his seat. Small girls of nowadays! They had no
respect! As if to make it worse, one of them added that if the election were
held today, the only person she could vote for was The Man From Lagos. Oga Jona
bristled. That annoying man. Even if a mosquito bit him in his state, he would
find a way to blame the president for it. Still, Oga Jona could see why these
foolish small girls were saying they would vote for him. The man had tried in
Lagos. But their mentioning The Man From Lagos was now a challenge. He would
rise to the challenge.
“Sir, the good news is that Nigerians forgive easily and Nigerians forget even
more easily. You have to change strategy. Be more visible. Stop politicizing
everything. Stop blaming your enemies for everything. You have to be, and seem
to be, a strong, uniting leader. Make sure to keep repeating that this is not a
Muslim vs. Christian thing.”
Oga Jona cut in, pleased to be able to challenge these over-sabi girls. “You
think Nigerians don’t know that it is mostly Christian areas that they are
targeting in Borno? And what about all those church bombings?”
The three shook their heads, uniformly, like robots. They were sipping water;
they had declined everything else.
“With all due respect sir, if you look at the names of bombing victims, they
are Muslims and Christians. If God forbid another terror attack occurs, you
have to come out yourself and talk to Nigerians. Stop releasing wooden
statements saying you condemn the attacks. We will prep you before each public
appearance. You have a tendency to ramble. That’s the most important thing to
watch out for. Be alert when you answer each question. Keep your answers short.
You don’t have to elaborate if there is nothing to elaborate. Stick to the
point. If they ask you something negative, be willing to admit past mistakes
but always give the answer a positive spin. Something like ‘yes, I could have
handled it better and I regret that but I am now doing better, and am
determined to do even more because Nigerians want and deserve results.’ You
have to start reaching out beyond your comfort zone. Nigeria has talent. Look
for the best Nigerians on any subject at hand, wherever they may be, and
persuade them to come and contribute on their area of expertise. Especially the
ones who have no interest in government work. Even one or two who don’t
completely agree with you. Think of Lincoln’s Team of Rivals.”
“What?”
“Don’t worry, sir. The important thing is to reach out beyond your circle. Oga
Segi was not a calm person like you. He even used to threaten to flog people. But
he had a good network. Jimmy Carter is his friend. If he needed expertise from
a university in Zaria or Edinburgh or Boston, he would pick up his phone and
know somebody who knew or somebody who knew somebody who knew. But with all due
respect, sir, you don’t have that. Bayelsa is a small place.”
These girls really had no respect o! He glared at Sharp Woman, who shrugged and
muttered, “You said you wanted people who would tell you the truth.”
But he listened.
In his first interview, the words rolled off his tongue. Those girls had made
him repeat himself so many times. “I want to apologize to the Nigerian people
for some actions of my government. We could have done better. No country
fighting terrorism can let everything be open. But we owe our country men and
women honest, clear assurance that we are taking decisive action, with enough
details to be convincing. I ask for your prayers and support. I have directed
the security services to set up a website that will give Nigerians accurate and
up-to-date information about our war against terrorism. I have also hired
specialists to manage the flow and presentation of the information.”
And the words came easily when he shook hands with the parents in Chibok,
simple polite people who clutched his hand with both of theirs. He should have
done this much earlier; it was so touching. “Sorry,” he said, over and over
again. “Sorry. Please keep strong. We will rescue them.”
The words were more reluctant when he wore a red shirt and asked to be taken to
the gathering of The People in Red at the park. But he cleared his throat and
urged himself to speak, particularly because, as he emerged from within his
circle of security men, the People in Red all stopped and stared. Silence
reigned.
“I came to salute you,” Oga Jona started. “We are on the same side. My
government has made mistakes. We are learning from them and correcting them.
Please work with us. Together, we will defeat this evil.”
They were still silent and still staring; they were disarmed. He thanked them
and, before they could marshal their old distrust, he turned and left. That
night, as he sank to his knees in prayer, he heard the muted singing of angels.
Chimamanda Adichie is an award winning writer and author of bestsellers
including Purple Hibiscus, Half of a Yellow Sun, The Thing Around Your Neck and
Americanah.
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Dr. Sheik Umar Khan and health officials dressed protectively against the virus
Sheik Umar Khan, the Sierra Leonean doctor hailed as a “national hero”
for treating more than one hundred Ebola patients, died today of the
same disease.
