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The
wife of the outgoing Greek ambassador, Mrs. Eva Dafaranos, was quoted
as having said the following about her experience in this country:
“When I came to Nigeria…I said to myself: the Nigerian people are so
happy. There is something different about Nigeria; no matter the
diversity, the people are happy. They are kind to each other and they
believe in God. I feel Africans and Nigerians are the best of the human
race.” This characterisation brings to mind a similar one made by the
former Secretary General of the United Nations, Mr. Boutros Boutros
Ghali,who is said to have called Nigerians the happiest people in the
world and would wish to be born a Nigerian, were he to have a second
life. The BBC also reported in October 2003 that a study of more than
65 countries suggested,“the happiest people live in Nigeria”.

When those
statements were made years ago I felt rather good about them, believing
that they paid tribute to our resilience as a people, able to keep
their spirits up even in rather trying circumstances.

We’re obviously a
fun-loving people, drumming and dancing, seeking every opportunity to
throw a party, and apparently quick to shrug off whatever problems
assail us as God’s will. Life must go on.

This time around,
however, reading Mrs. Dafaranos’ declaration, I felt very bad indeed,
almost insulted. Six good years have gone by since 2003, and I wonder
if that characterisation still holds – or indeed, whether it is proper
for it to still hold. Those of you reading these lines, are you happy –
truly happy – about our current situation as a country?

Actually, I hold no
grudge against Mrs. Dafaranos; I am sure she is paying us a sincere
compliment. The problem is, I wonder whether this might not actually be
an indictment on us? That is, with all the difficulties facing us now
as a nation, we still come across as a happy people! Is something wrong
somewhere?

To my mind, there
are at least two ways to explain this phenomenon. The first is that
such characterisations might be based more on observations made on the
minority, party-throwing Nigerian population. After all, which category
of Nigerians do ambassadors hobnob with? Certainly not the ordinary
people on the streets! I am not sure that happiness is so easily
discernible on the face of the labourer struggling hard to eke out a
living, going home to his family of five at the end of the day with
less than the equivalent of one dollar in his pocket.

When the minister
of education feels comfortable enough to throw a lavish party at a time
when all the public universities in the nation are closed, then he must
be an incorrigibly happy person. When leaders celebrate their
children’s weddings with sums of money that far exceed the budgets of
federal institutions (hospitals, universities, etc), then they must be
truly happy, for they obviously see themselves as having been so well
favoured by their circumstances (that is, the public positions they
occupy), and they just have to let it be known.

The second possible
explanation might be even more worrisome, for it suggests that we are a
bunch of unthinking people, unable to recognise or feel the gravity of
our situation and act accordingly – and this is not limited to the
leaders or the society’s crème de la crème, sadly. It’s like we’re
morons living in an unreal world, a world of make-believe. We close our
eyes to the reality and continue on our happy-go-lucky way.

Many of us fall
under this category. We readily overshoot our financial abilities when
there’s an occasion to celebrate, mortgaging children’s school fees and
other important considerations in favour of a talk-of-the-neighbourhood
party.

We decide on an aso
ebi that is beyond the reach even of some members of the immediate
family – but they just have to find a way to pay for it, and they do!
People travel five hundred kilometres in ramshackle buses on terrible
roads for the burial ceremony of their boss’ friend’s husband’s
grandfather, telling themselves that they absolute have to be there.
Some of us cannot survive a party-less weekend; we are addicted to
pleasure – and the country might fall apart if it pleases! I wonder,
how did Ghana manage to turn things around for itself – by pursuing the
happiness road? I remember that when I was an undergraduate in the
seventies some Ghanaian students once came for the West African Games
and their situation was so pitiful, we had to contribute money to buy
soap, toothpaste and other basic needs for them to take back home.

Now, thirty years on, Nigerian children are applying to study in
Ghanaian schools because we have chosen to leave our own educational
institutions to rot. And I’m being told we’re a happy people! A version
of this article was first published on July 23, 2009

At
a time when Nigerian politics, education, and social life are in great
travail, especially because of wrong decisions or even lack of
decisions on the part of those who play important roles in these
sectors, one is led in the search for ideas to “dying” indigenous modes
of articulating the problem of decision-making.

In the indigenous
Igbo world, one model of decision-making, which is perhaps considered
the most faulty as well as the most risky, is the Tumbom Tumbom.
Usually enacted with the recitation of “Tumbom tumbom nkwa nwa isi
eregede, nge!” the Tumbom Tumbom is a formula often applied in the
local Igbo setting whenever a person is confronted with the difficult
task of choosing from among several options that have little or nothing
to differentiate them.

The process is
simple: the finger of the chooser is made to travel from one option to
the other in the physical space, and wherever the song ends, or where
the word “nge” falls, that is considered the inevitable choice ordained
by Fate.

Related to the
tradition of casting lots, this approach to decision making is not
really determined by any supernatural intelligence. From a simple
understanding of kinesics and spatiality, the onset point, to a large
extent, determines the termination point, or just to say, the beginning
determines the end, or rather, the end is in the beginning.

The Tumbom Tumbom
model is risky, for it makes one’s decision subject to chance. But it
is not as risky as the Zero Option one encounters when one is
challenged to handle a dilemma, “Leta ira Mbajiaku na ikwu eriri, were
otu” (Choose between making love to Mbajiaku and committing suicide).
Mbajiaku was a mad woman with sores all over her body.

Her sad condition
made people avoid her completely, and so the question of a sane man
wanting to make love to her was considered inconceivable.

To be asked to
choose between making love to her and committing suicide is to be put
in a situation where it is impossible to make any choice, assuming that
the person asked to make the choice is still sane. Making love to
Mbajiaku is as horrible as killing oneself, at least in the
understanding of the local community in whose discourses the narrative
features sometimes.

The English would
call this dilemma “being between the devil and the deep blue sea”. For
the local Igbo community, the Mbajiaku script presents a situation they
can relate with as well as use in representing helplessness in the
selection of a suitable option. In a sense, it is a script used for
humiliating and subjugating an addressee.

Is one being unfair
to Mbajiaku? Is one merely exploiting her condition as a semiotic of
the reject, without a humanistic consideration about her right to
association, to company, and even to sex? Perhaps. And this means one
has to interrogate the assumptions in the cultural interpretation of
Mbajiaku, especially her representation as the outsider, as one
undeserving of what other human beings use in constructing and
maintaining their humanity. So, we must recognise the weaknesses in the
local Igbo use of the expression.

But in spite of
such weaknesses, one can still recognise the Mbajiaku script as an
important cultural statement on dilemmas in decision making, especially
in relation to crucial matters of societal and individual survival.

It is a great
misfortune for a society to find itself in a situation where, in
electing its leaders, it has to choose between making love to Mbajiaku
and committing suicide outright. One has to become like Mbajiaku in
order to be able to make love to her. She still has her teeth and could
bite. She still has her talons and could scratch. And she still has
some other “goods” she could “sell” to her crazy partner to help him to
kill himself sooner. Indeed, one has to become an Mbajiaku to be able
to approach an Mbajiaku for sexual favours. For if what the
psychoanalyst tells us about the relationship between the sex instinct
and the death instinct could be accepted, it is easy to kill oneself in
having sexual union with Mbajiaku at both the interpersonal and
societal levels.

I think that
Nigerian voters have for a long time been subjected to situations where
they have to apply the Tumbom Tumbom model of choice as well as perform
the Mbajiaku script. Sometimes they are asked to choose between two
retired military dictators who are known for their disrespect for human
freedom and human life. Sometimes they are asked to choose between an
Ivan the Terrible and a crook that loved money so much that he gave his
only begotten son in a money ritual.

It seems to me too
that when Nigerian voters are confronted with the Mbajiaku script, they
often find themselves applying the Tumbom Tumbom model, which produces
the predictable result of killing the self in the risky “either/or”
that the Mbajiaku script imposes.

With the 2011
federal elections getting closer, one is watching to see whether
Nigerians would prefer to perform an Mbajiaku script in the Tumbom
Tumbom mode, or choose to undermine and reject the electoral suicide
principle entirely.

More than a year ago the then Attorney
General and Minister of Justice, Michael Aondoakaa, wrote a letter to
his counterpart in the US asking for the names of the implicated
Nigerians. This paper also reported that the Senate and House of
Representatives also wrote to US authorities requesting the list.

In April 2009 Mr. Aondoakaa told
journalists “we are going to constitute a committee … that will be
charged with the responsibility of gathering information. If the
quality of information we receive internally is sufficient for us to
commence prosecution, we will commence prosecution.” Mr. Aondoakaa also
added that the prosecution would be dependent “on the cooperation we
have from the U.S. government.”

At the time that Mr. Aondoakaa was
blowing hot and cold NEXT had already published exclusive reports
listing some of the most prominent Nigerian beneficiaries of the
bribes, based on court documents obtained in the US, UK and France.
They included at least three former Nigerian Heads of State – the late
Sani Abacha, Abdulsalam Abubakar and Olusegun Obasanjo, a former
Petroleum Minister Dan Etete and a former Group Managing Director of
the Nigerian National Petroleum Corporation, Gaius Obaseki.

Nigerian authorities as is their
custom pretended to be unaware of the widely available evidence, and
appeared more interested in writing letters to foreign authorities and
blaming them for not cooperating. At that time we observed, in a news
report, that “our law enforcement authorities, notably Attorney General
Michael Aondoakaa, have lately been making noises but have in reality
done little to pursue those indicted in this scandal, which reveals us
as a nation that fully justifies its reputation as one of the world’s
leading cesspits for corruption and unrestrained graft.”

In the months since then nothing has
changed. Nigeria is no closer to getting to the roots of that scandal,
or to prosecuting the implicated officials than it was when the news
broke. This is in spite of the fact that the other countries whose
nationals were involved in the scandal have since taken action and
meted out necessary punishments. Mr. Etete, sentenced to three years in
prison by a Paris criminal court in 2007, was in 2009 fined $10.5
million by a French Court of Appeal after he was convicted of money
laundering.

The money in question is believed to be
part of the Halliburton bribe payments. In September 2007, just before
this conviction, Mr. Aondoakaa wrote a letter to French prosecutors
requesting that the prosecution of Mr. Etete be suspended.

Mr. Etete has been on the run from
French authorities, and was convicted in absentia. If anyone thought
that his conviction in Paris would spur the Nigerian authorities to
bring him to justice at home, they were wrong. From all available
evidence Nigeria’s law enforcement agents are neither interested in Mr.
Etete, nor in making efforts to ensure that he is extradited to France
to face his jail term.

Mr. Aondoakaa inaugurated the
Halliburton probe Committee on April 21, 2009, and gave it eight weeks
to complete its assignment and submit a report.

Today, one year later, the Committee
has yet to submit its report. As expected, all that is coming from the
government is more empty words. “If the report gets to him, I can
assure you the Attorney General will act on the recommendations and
based on what the law says,” a spokesperson for Bello Adoke, the new
Justice Minister (who replaced Mr. Aondoakaa) said last week.

These facile assurances from Nigerian
authorities have gone on for far too long. If Acting President Jonathan
is indeed serious about making a difference in government and tackling
corruption, he should not only order the immediate release of the
Halliburton report, but also issue a query to the Committee for sitting
on the report for this long.

When Abiodun
Kumuyi, wife of the General Superintendent of the Deeper Life Christian
Ministry passed on April 11 2009, very few sensed that she had
unobtrusively left behind lofty precepts far beyond the precincts of
church business. Fewer still were aware that although these ideas were
bred in a humble religious cradle they represented an answer to the
suffocating sophistication of a secular man.

Apart from her
husband Pastor W.F. Kumuyi, their two children Jerry and John along
with a cluster of brethren who worked with Biodun or watched her at
close quarters there was probably no other person (or group) in the
church that had an inkling of the great work she was doing as she paced
the grounds of Deeper Life Bible Church, Gbagada, Deeper Life Christian
Centre, Lagos-Ibadan Expressway and International Bible Training
Centre, Ayobo, and as she travelled worldwide with her spouse.

The majority of
Deeper Life Church members and of the larger world may be forgiven if
we did not discern her contribution in her lifetime.

This world of
decadent values is given to recognising only the voluble and
voluminous. Our age contemns those who shroud what they do in
simplicity and meekness. Society approves the showy and upbraids the
lowly. It enlists a juggernaut to crush those who stand for
self-effacement.

But to be sure
Sister Biodun Kumuyi did not seek man’s approbation. There’s no record
she did, nor is there any that she lamented the lack of social
recognition. She couldn’t have, otherwise we would charge her with
being a closet Pharisee.

Starting with her
involvement with the Christian Women Mirror Magazine, Mummy (as she was
fondly called by the church folk) assembled a team of keen
professionals who of course were in the first instance genuine
believers. They shared her vision of delivering a monthly journal that
would cater for the interest of the women in the church.

We must quickly
address a point here to draw an enduring bestowal in this field.
Although the magazine started in October 1992 as a forum for the
sermons of the pastor, Biodun moved beyond that vision to accommodate
other features needed to build a woman into an all-round Christian
homemaker. Under her supervision as she heeded the plan of God for the
magazine, the publication became a quiet weapon of evangelism.

By the time Biodun died last year Christian Women Mirror had become a must-have in almost every Christian home!

Although it’s a
Deeper Life Christian Ministry effort, it has ceased to be a
denominational journal. The reason is because its contents are
Catholic, rooting fundamental Biblical teachings into everyday
practical use for the woman, her home, church and society.

Absolute credit for
this success must of course be given to God. But He used Biodun Kumuyi
as a vessel. He considered her a worthy of the vision. It was a high
calling which would have instilled in others a false sense of
self-esteem and achievement. Others would have flaunted the success as
a personal one. The manifestation of this elsewhere would be the ornate
display of the photograph of the woman behind the pastor. But Biodun,
out of deference to what the Bible teaches about the place of woman in
church, operated silently behind the scenes.

This style in no
way reduced her impact or influence. It rather was responsible for the
giant strides of her work, both in church, among the women and in the
society. It couldn’t have been otherwise.

Her modus operandi had divine approval!

Her work in the
Women Ministry of the Church was no less phenomenal. She was reputed to
have designed, planned and executed enriching programmes for women. For
this class of citizens who the society and government had neglected or
marginalised, the programmes offered hope and a sense of worth and
belonging.

Countless testimonies have streamed in since the woman’s death of how she demonstrated a squared understanding of the Bible.

In her usual quiet
and unassuming way, she was able to reach out to a many widows and
trained large numbers of fatherless children. She started women in
small-scale business through a scheme whereby they took loans and paid
back as their businesses grew. They didn’t pay any interest and for
some she wrote off their loans. Those who were genuinely struggling
with financial problems had a listening ear with her.

It is obvious that
death can’t destroy this noble pitch of servant hood, discipline,
humility and submissiveness wrought in a churchyard.

In turn these
affirmations of Sister Biodun’s work represent a stinging vote of
censure on our governments and institutions whose enormous resources,
aren’t deployed to the service of the common man, but rather are
ploughed into the coffers and interests of a selfish thieving class.

Ojewale, a Media Executive lives in Onibukun, Ota, Ogun State.

Is it something
deeply rooted in our DNA or is it something learned: this ability we
have to be aggressive about the most mundane of things but docile about
very important things? When a driver overtakes us on the road in a
manner we consider improper, or someone gives us a look we don’t like
or understand, or speaks to us in a manner we consider rude, the
average Nigerian will aggressively confront the behaviour he has
identified as unacceptable. Brawls on the streets and markets are
common place, as is the parlance, ‘do you know who I am’ once the
gloves are off.

Compare this to our
attitude when it comes to holding our leaders to account and demanding
good governance. On that score we are fast earning the reputation as
the most docile people on earth. We seem to have lost not only our
ability to feel outrage at the most outlandish things, but also the
stomach to speak out and if necessary, protest against these things.

In Thailand, the
Red Shirts, the name given to the anti-government United Front for
Democracy against Dictatorship (UDD) have been demonstrating for over a
month now. Their aim is to force the immediate dissolution of the Thai
government. Mostly poor and rural, the protestors are exerting a huge
price on the Thai economy as they have invaded business districts and
are doing all they can to make the country ungovernable. The numbers of
these protestors have been estimated at about 90,000 people. Try and
imagine this, a crowd of that magnitude who feel so strongly about
their country and the political process that for a month they have been
taking to the streets to show their displeasure.

What is impressive
about what is happening in Thailand has nothing to do with the
rightness or wrongness of the course the Red Shirts are fighting for.
The willingness though, to be mobilised, to be galvanised in such
numbers is striking. It is a clear indication of deep engagement of a
people with the destiny of their country and preparedness to influence
the process of governance in spite of the sacrifices this entails.

It is passion like this that builds great nations.

In Iran last year,
a similar spirit was on display. The country went to the polls in
unprecedented numbers. When the result of the elections was released,
supporters of the opposition candidate Mir-Hossein Mousavi believed a
fraud had been perpetuated and despite the obvious risk in publicly
protesting, they refused to slink away quietly to mourn and lament
their loss in their homes.

Instead they took
to the streets, in their thousands. They were tear gassed, bludgeoned
by police batons and some 72 people were killed, but still they kept
coming out, to protect their votes, to fight for a democratic society,
to help build a country they can all be proud of. When they held a
candle light vigil in Tehran to mourn those killed in the protest, they
numbered 100,000 strong.

We have had our
share of street protests in Nigeria in the last few months. The last
one was two weeks ago when Nigerian youths decide to march under the
banner of ‘Enough is enough’ as a way of insisting on electoral reforms.

Despite the
publicity that preceded the protest, and the organisers’ utilisation of
social media websites like Facebook and Twitter to call people out,
only 1,000 people showed up for the match. Another dismal turnout was
recorded at the Save Nigeria demonstration in Abuja and Lagos. Despite
the presence of notable personalities like Nobel laureate Wole Soyinka,
the people that showed up numbered only 5,000.

When exactly did
the culture of mass protest die in Nigeria? As an undergraduate student
demonstrations were a regular part of my university life. We believed
in our right to protest against the ills in our society. Led by an
active union at the local and national level, the street was our arena
to air our grievances against bad governance. We became experts not
just at soaking hankies and towels in water to protect our mouths and
noses against noxious tear gas that was a staple at these protests, but
also in guerrilla tactics.

Many of us were
excellent swingers and would throw stones and other missiles at the
wall of faceless and well equipped mobile policemen who were always
sent to stamp out our protests forcefully. Once we got our shot, we
would sprint away from the swinging batons to get temporary relief from
tear gas before returning to try and once again fight for our right to
peaceful protest against a tyrannical government.

This was the era of
military rule where dissent was not only not tolerated, but sometimes
met with death by bullets. It didn’t stop us though; we protested
whenever we felt there was a need. In fact, there was something almost
exhilarating about thumbing our noses at dictators who could only stay
in power because they had guns.

As we prepare for election in 2011, the question has to be asked,
are we prepared to put our necks on the line to protect the integrity
of the electoral process? Unless and until a substantial number of
Nigerians answer in the affirmative, changes that are necessary for the
advancement of this society will continue to elude us.

Our former military
President Ibrahim Babangida is one individual about whom it is
difficult to be neutral. His many loyalists say they are willing to
follow him into the pits of hell-fire. His fans are all over the world,
ranging from a wealthy Jewish commodities magnate I met in Antwerp to a
former Guinean minister I met at a conference in Libreville and a
leading Cameroonian banking colleague in Paris, His foes are also
legion. And they swear that the hottest parts of sheol are reserved
precisely for his type. “Even when they cannot get their wives
pregnant, they say it is because of IBB”, he once lamented.

When you meet him
in person you will find him to be disarmingly charming, elegant and
witty. A man of good taste, he is unostentatious and unfailingly warm
and courteous — a good listener. He radiates a self-command and
charisma that one is likely to find only in the truly great. A
Bonaparte in a brown skin is the first impression I had when we first
shook hands. Some of us mourned with him and with Mohammed, Aminu,
Aisha and Halima when the agelessly beautiful Maryam went the way of
all flesh.

Even Babangida’s
worst enemies must get it very clear that he reserves a constitutional
right to aspire to any position in our fledgling democracy. Whether he
has a moral right to do so is another matter. His many critics have
painted him as this monster that wreaked untold havoc by the agency of
a corrupt and murderous military dictatorship. Much has been made about
the ‘missing’ US$12 billion oil windfall. Dele Giwa’s ghost refuses to
go away. There is also the dilemma of June 12. Others have dug up tales
about Bongos Ikwue and military aircraft that went up only to disappear
into the lagoon. A lot of it is hysterical nonsense.

As combative as the
armoured commander that he once was, Maradona has fired back, daring
anyone to produce evidence linking him to stolen funds. He has denied
ever knowing Dele Giwa. As for June 12, he would like to have us
believe he caved in to certain “powers”; powers that must remain
nameless. He insists he is the man of the hour because “the youths”
cannot save Nigeria.

That unfortunate
obiter from the mouth of our self-described ‘evil genius’ has only
succeeded in further fuelling the embers of mass opprobrium. Many say
they will never forgive him for having destroyed their future only to
turn round and mock them as leadership no-hopers.

For sheer political
shrewdness, few can match the wily Old Fox. But in the here and now, I
believe his dharma is to remain an elder statesman and ‘king maker’. At
three score and ten, he’s had his innings, as the cricket-loving
English would say. He should spend his time mentoring those ‘incapable’
young men that he has unwittingly insulted with such uncharacteristic
indiscretion. Besides, he has enough stocked up in his library to keep
anyone with a minimum of curiosity busy. He still owes us a book of
memoirs. And there are the grand children to dote over and the pupils
from the El-Amin Schools left behind by the immortal Maryam Babangida.
From time to time, government may have cause to use his talents on some
intractable African bushfires as it did not long ago in Guinea-Conakry.

From where I stand,
I see nothing new coming from the man once described as “the Prince of
the Niger”. Almost every misfortune that haunts our generation began
from his time: state-sponsored assassination; oil bunkering; armed
robbery; cultism; the collapse of NEPA; the culture of impunity;
disappearance of the railways; the grounding of Nigeria Airways;
devaluation of the naira; domestication of corruption; privatisation of
government; destruction of the universities; and the wholesale
humiliation of a gifted people.

If, in the vigour
of youth, Babangida led us down the gadarene slopes of collective
ruination, I do not see how, in old age, he can lead us back to glory.
There are many who covet his wealth and would never tell him these home
truths. He may not be the monster that he has been made out to be, but
I am not convinced he can muster the moral and intellectual wherewithal
to lead the New Nigeria of our dreams; a country destined to take its
rightful place among the leading nations of the twenty-first century.

The German-Jewish
literary critic Walter Benjamin, in his ninth thesis on the philosophy
of history, depicts the Angel of History as having turned his face
towards the past: “Where we perceive a chain of events, he sees one
single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage and hurls it in front of
his feet. The angel would like to stay, awaken the dead, and make whole
what has been smashed. But a storm is blowing in from Paradise; it has
got caught in his wings with such violence that the angel can no longer
close them. The storm irresistibly propels him into the future to which
his back is turned, while the pile of debris before him grows skyward.”

The Babangida years began the process that hurled us from the
heights of world-historic ambition to the quagmire of an irresponsible,
beggarly fourth-world nation. He cannot give what he does not have.