Nigeria Content Online

The federal cabinet
may roar back to life soon as Acting President Goodluck Jonathan is set
to retain some of the 42 ministers relieved of their jobs following the
dissolution of the Executive Council of the Federation (EXCOF).

We learnt the list
of the 21 nominees to be retained will be forwarded to the Senate
anytime from now for confirmation. We also learnt that the Presidency
is considering six names as likely replacement for Professor Maurice
Iwu as Chairman of the Independent National Electoral Commission.

According to
sources in the Presidency, names being considered as likely replacement
for Iwu include Attahiru Jega, a former president of the Academic Staff
Union of Universities; Jibrin Ibrahim; rtd. Ishola Williams, retired
Major General and president of Transparency Nigeria; Dora Akunyili,
immediate past Information and Communications Minister; Abubakar Umar,
former Military Administrator of Kaduna State; Olisa Agbakoba, Senior
Advocate of Nigeria and former Nigeria Bar Association, NBA president.

Dora Akunyili? Who
will want to appoint Dora into any sensitive position in Nigeria again?
Have we not seen enough of her? The Akunyili I know now worship power,
and she worships it with her whole body, her whole heart, her whole
spirit and, in fact, her whole being. For her, nothing is too small or
too great to do to acquire power and flaunt it. Her love of publicity,
is part of her endless scheming for power. Once she grabs it, Mrs
Akunyili immediately and unceremoniously abandons all who helped her.
Our Dora at every turn reminds me of the proverb about the man who on
using a ladder to climb to the top quickly destroyed it so that no
other person could benefit from it. If she can betray the Yar Adua’s
that appointed her as minister, why say she won’t betray Goodluck
Jonathan .

I have been on one
of Dora’s fans when she was head of NAFDAC. I was prepared to die
defending her. But honestly, since she accepted the office of the
Information Minister for President Yar Adua led government in her
desperation to continue to be in office, she has become a shadow of
herself. She went about telling Nigerians lies upon lies, defending
government failures and deceits with pride. Even when there was
billions of naira budgeted to provide us with darkness, she kept
defending the government. Then she was never guided by the Holy Spirit
to tell us the truth.

Remember when she
came out shamelessly to tell the world that as a minister for
information, her job was only to help the Nigerian Television Authority
(NTA) carry their files to the president without making an input at
all. This was when she desperately attempted to exonerate herself from
the high level fraud that greeted the contract award for procurement of
broadcast equipment for NTA for the just concluded U-17 FIFA football
tournament hosted by Nigeria. That is the ‘saint obi’ of a woman.

As if that is not
enough, she was the same person who came openly to defend the so-called
cabal’s insistence on President Yar Adua’s right to govern from
anywhere in the world. That he is medically fit and all there was to be
told. But about some weeks ago, Professor Akunyili wrote a memo to her
cabinet colleagues asking them to make Vice President Goodluck Jonathan
the Acting President in accordance with Section 145 of the
Constitution. Nothing is wrong with making Jonathan the Acting
president but it was a dramatic volte face for someone who had on two
previous occasions after the Executive Council meetings addressed the
press where she strongly defended Yar’Adua’s fitness for the country’s
leadership.

Dora made it the
first time in our history where council Memo became public knowledge no
sooner than it was written, let alone submitted. Even directors in the
Ministries who normally prepare such memos swear to an oath of secrecy
before working on them.Dora broke the oath of secrecy . Dora’s reasons
for sending her memo to every media were for her to be seen as a
fanatical supporter of Dr Jonathan—the new kid on the block– so that
she could retain her cabinet membership, and to regain her public image
which has been declining disastrously since she became the Minister of
Information. Not satisfied with the plethora of articles she and her
numerous aides have been churning out every second eulogising her for
her so-called courage in breaking ranks with her colleagues over
Yar’Adua’s health status, Mrs Akunyili went on a whistle-stop campaign
of media interviews castigating her colleagues dubbed by the press as
the cabal for hiding the president from everyone.

There is no serious
government anywhere in the world where cabinet members attack
themselves in the open. The doctrine of collective responsibility, for
instance, makes it mandatory that ministers defend government policies
in public, including those they may have opposed strongly as
individuals during cabinet discussions. Dora when she got facts that
president Yar adua was not to recover on time to resume office as they
expected, immediately tried to outsmart Nigerians by defecting to the
winning siding claiming to be standing for the truth and insisting the
Nigerian Constitution be complied with after serving Nigerians with
lies. This is crass opportunism and greed for power.

After the 2009
Anambra governorship election which saw the lost of PDP, the world was
shocked to see Dora Akunyilli summon and sponsor a so-called Anambra
State PDP stakeholders reconciliation meeting where she passionately
regretted the loss of PDP and begged them to walk together for the
progress and interest of PPD alone. Is this the kind of person that
should replace Iwu as INEC boss? How can she then lead INEC to deliver
free and fair election that will ensure the rejection or failure of PDP
if Nigerians so insist and desire?

In her desperation
to remain politically relevant, she has only few days ago got the
Catholic Women Organisation to honour her with an Award of
“Incorruptible mother”. Who conformed that she is incorruptible? EFCC,
ICPC or NASS? Has she been investigated? How did she manage the
billions of naira spent so far for her Nigeria “rebranding” campaign?
This is very important to Nigerians to know how she disbursed the funds
and to who she gave the contracts. How transparent was it? Honestly,
for me, Akunyili has failed and hurt Nigerians so badly that she must
never be allowed to lead any organ or agencies of our father land again.

-Kenneth Uwadi writes from Mmahu-Egbema, Imo State, Nigeria

I
was born a Catholic in a village full of gods. I inherited Catholicism
from my older siblings as a way of life. If you weren’t a Catholic in
my village as a young boy, you were destined to doom, so we were made
to believe. I was more attuned to the festivals defined by Catholicism
than those defined by the ancestral traditions of my grandfather. Life
as a believer was bittersweet, for it was not easy for a young boy to
resist the scent of stewed chicken on the grounds that it was prepared
in the name of grandpa’s gods.

Before I entered
secondary school, I could no longer stand my baptised playmates who
were receiving communion while I sat in the audience mournfully. Though
I didn’t know the full meaning of communion, I yearned for the raised
round white wafer to touch my young tongue, while the priest mumbled
“Body of Christ”. So I took the crash course in catechism both in
English and Esan and got baptised and I started “receiving” too.

Most of my early
teachers, headmasters and principals were all Catholics, so were most
schools in Esanland, named after every saint imaginable.

We trusted every
catechist’s teachings, worshiped the ground that white reverend fathers
walked on and prayed for the Pope endlessly.

We never had a
resident priest. I actually thought the oyinbos that came to say the
masss every now and then lived in heaven. A well-grounded senior member
of church or a catechist named Michael Oboh conducted our regular
Sunday services. . It was the family tradition of the Obohs to be
catechists; his father was my senior brother’s catechist. And Mr.
Michael was a mean Son of God, one of the strictest disciplinarians
that ever liveth. One snicker from you and you will never forget Mr.
Michael’s knuckles that reminded you of your heathenish behaviour.

This never
discouraged us. We bought into everything Catholic and bought
everything Catholic, from rosaries that glowed in the dark to Sunday
Missals.

About three times
or so a year, a white priest (usually Irish) would come to my village.
His visit would be announced weeks ahead, so farmers could prepare
their best yams, plantains, and goats, and women keep crates of scarce
eggs as love offerings for the priest. And the buzz in the village
about the visiting priest surpassed that of Obama’s visit to Ghana.
Come the Sunday of Ifada’s (Ifada is Esan name for white reverend
fathers) visit, Mr. Michael would be tripping over himself a hundred
times, making sure everything was alright for the white priest. We the
children would be elated and wear pure white khaki shorts and shirts, a
sign of purity.

Upon seeing or
hearing the sound of a Volkswagen Beetle, the atmosphere in the church
would change. Mr. Michael would hurry out to help usher in the visiting
priest and his young Mass Servers. There is no way you can measure the
envy I had for those black boys in their long white togas topped with
red capes. They rode with the priest and carried the priest’s
portmanteau that was filled with mystery. They would hand the priest
bits and pieces of his priestly regalia, clean his golden chalice, wipe
his crystal goblets and smoothen the surplice before he put it on. I
would watch with open-mouthed awe at the efficiency of these young boys
who weren’t older than me.

How privileged, I
would say to myself. They were so blessed to get so close to a white
man, who said mass in Latin to villagers who barely spoke a world of
the coloniser’s English. The only chance I had of getting close to the
white priest was during “confession”. Even at that I could never stare
at the priest while saying, “Bless me father for I have sinned” and go
on to tell him how I had looked at Josephine sinfully during Physical
Education.

More than any
other dream as a kid, I wanted to be a Mass server. I wanted to stand
close to Ifada, carry his portmanteau and learn all the secrets of
assisting him in every way, possibly even sleep in the same mission
house as the Mass servers. Such was the innocence of my childhood. We
focused on the white priests and paid little attention to the God that
sent them.

Did they also forget the God that sent them sometimes, we couldn’t tell then.

Recently, CNN has
been going gaga about pedophilic priests and the young boys they abused
in the West. The Vatican has paid millions to many of these confessors
and even more to bury some cases. The high and mighty Pope has been
forced to apologise on behalf of the badly behaved priests in America
and Europe. Yet I can’t stop wondering- was Africa so lucky that there
were no pedophiles among the thousands of white priests that came with
the colonisers and remained after independence? Or is it a case of
Africans don’t talk about “such things”? Would the Pope apologise to
Africans if “such things” were to surface tomorrow, or will it be given
the slavery treatment of “we owe you no apologies”?

If thinking that there might have been pedophilic priests in Africa is a sin, well, forgive me father for I have sinned.

Oga me, you dey
dia? Help me thank God Jehovah Almighty Jah o, wey nor let shame catch Zazu
Katelmega of Congo Brazzaville via Saudi Arabia to Abuja o.

Zazu my guy, nothing
do you. Na you biko..shege Zazu, dan buroba Zazu! Nack me gist abeg. My ears
dey burn for good news since wey this Lagos weather nor let man see road. Dem
don cut for you from the national cake abi dem don submit your name for mini-star
position?

Oga why you dey
talk like this, nor be me Zazu Katelmega dey submit people name to Active Presido. I dey kankpe jor. Congratulate
me, I don comot for Camp of No Action finally.

Which one be
that again, na everyday you dey come with new one.

I don comot for
Baba Go Slow camp. Na yesterday I resume my new duty for Goodluck side. I nor
fit tanda dey watch motor wey nor dey move and dey listen to cabalious complain.
Everyday na im fallen cabal dey come wail for madam, like say madam na Wailing
Wall for Israel abi where that wall dey sef. I never see beggy beggy men before
like this cabal people. The time wey dem think say na dem be god for Saudi
Arabia to Abuja, I nor see any of them cry like this o. Now wey God don dey
butter Zazu bread and im real man, Dr. Jonathan Ebele Esangbedo Osenobua-obulu Nigeria-onibaje
Goodluck, don enter throne na im dem wan come begin cry like small pikin wey im
rice throway. Abeg make dem carry go.

So you mean say
none of the ex-cabal go smell Goodluck government?

Oga paper wey
dem take clean yansh, dem dey take am wrap akara? Abi you don hear where man
cook pounded yam and okporoko-ogbono soup for person wey thief im wife? Small
pikin wey climb tree dey abuse im papa don forget say im go must come down
today. No, none of them wey disrespect my able chairman go smell Villa, as long
as me Zazu Katelmega remain the new CSO to Active Presido.

Ewooo…Jesus
Christ saviorize and baptize me in River Niger o! Zazu, dem don make you Chief
Security Officer?

Gbam! At once,
with alacrity na im dem gusau me into the position. Na so Villa dey shake since.
Abeg after make you help me thank aunty Patient o. That woman na able leader,
Mama P – P for prosperity, P for the people, P for power, P for Petroleum, P
for President, P for …

Eh eh Zazu e don do. Na so you first hail the other madam
so tey her head come swell pass gele, come begin take us do yeye. Abeg take am
easy with this new position wey you get so.

Ok Oga, I hear,
but helep me thank God o. This new regime dey sweet me too much. As I kak for
my new office na so people from all over the country dey come fill our office
like say na rag day for university. All of them dey beg – make my brother
minister, make my uncle minister, make my pikin SA, make my party member PA,
market nor be like that o. Na so oga Active Presido go just dey look them zooooo,
like fly wey enter man pikin palmwine glass. Im go just dey shake head. When
dem comot, im go call me and General…

Zazu who be
general?

General Gusau na,
haba! Anywho, na so AP go ask us wetin we think about the people. Na so General
go take head nod me make I use my special talent. My work na to reveal all
their secrets and wetin dem tell my former madam for Saudi Arabia. I go tell
oga say, nor mind that thief or nor mind that liar…na double agent or na
Man-must-wack im be. Na so AP go just put bad for the name with red biro like
headmaster wey dey mark arithmetic.

But Zazu, nor be
bad thing be this so? This people wey trust you before, now you dey reveal dem
secret wey go make dem nor be minister.

Oga nor be me
kill wetin dey smell o. Shebi we want make this country move forward? Me I don
tire to dey waka like snail. But sha o, if you see any ogbonge man wey fit sunction
something to close my mouth I go chill small.

So you want take
bribe Zazu?

Oga na the habit
wey I learn for the other side o. Abi you get any medicine wey go cure am for
me?

But you know say
oga Goodluck and Aunty Paypay nor like bribery?

Hahahahehehehahhaha-
Oga this na the thing wey I dey warn you put, the thing wey your eye nor see
nor dey talk am.

Ok, I understand
sha. So who dey the list?

I go holla you
tomorrow. Madam original parrot don enter our office. Make I hear the kain yarn
wey she go yarn now, so that I go nack NAFDAC number put for oga Active Presido.

Ok, goodnight
Zazu.

(Woman’s Voice)
But your Excellency, you know I was the only one that spoke out when others
were shilly-shallying – you can’t do
this to me, I have to have something meaningful for all the work I did for you…

I
was born a Catholic in a village full of gods. I inherited Catholicism
from my older siblings as a way of life. If you weren’t a Catholic in
my village as a young boy, you were destined to doom, so we were made
to believe. I was more attuned to the festivals defined by Catholicism
than those defined by the ancestral traditions of my grandfather. Life
as a believer was bittersweet, for it was not easy for a young boy to
resist the scent of stewed chicken on the grounds that it was prepared
in the name of grandpa’s gods.

Before I entered
secondary school, I could no longer stand my baptised playmates who
were receiving communion while I sat in the audience mournfully. Though
I didn’t know the full meaning of communion, I yearned for the raised
round white wafer to touch my young tongue, while the priest mumbled
“Body of Christ”. So I took the crash course in catechism both in
English and Esan and got baptised and I started “receiving” too.

Most of my early
teachers, headmasters and principals were all Catholics, so were most
schools in Esanland, named after every saint imaginable.

We trusted every
catechist’s teachings, worshiped the ground that white reverend fathers
walked on and prayed for the Pope endlessly.

We never had a
resident priest. I actually thought the oyinbos that came to say the
masss every now and then lived in heaven. A well-grounded senior member
of church or a catechist named Michael Oboh conducted our regular
Sunday services. . It was the family tradition of the Obohs to be
catechists; his father was my senior brother’s catechist. And Mr.
Michael was a mean Son of God, one of the strictest disciplinarians
that ever liveth. One snicker from you and you will never forget Mr.
Michael’s knuckles that reminded you of your heathenish behaviour.

This never
discouraged us. We bought into everything Catholic and bought
everything Catholic, from rosaries that glowed in the dark to Sunday
Missals.

About three times
or so a year, a white priest (usually Irish) would come to my village.
His visit would be announced weeks ahead, so farmers could prepare
their best yams, plantains, and goats, and women keep crates of scarce
eggs as love offerings for the priest. And the buzz in the village
about the visiting priest surpassed that of Obama’s visit to Ghana.
Come the Sunday of Ifada’s (Ifada is Esan name for white reverend
fathers) visit, Mr. Michael would be tripping over himself a hundred
times, making sure everything was alright for the white priest. We the
children would be elated and wear pure white khaki shorts and shirts, a
sign of purity.

Upon seeing or
hearing the sound of a Volkswagen Beetle, the atmosphere in the church
would change. Mr. Michael would hurry out to help usher in the visiting
priest and his young Mass Servers. There is no way you can measure the
envy I had for those black boys in their long white togas topped with
red capes. They rode with the priest and carried the priest’s
portmanteau that was filled with mystery. They would hand the priest
bits and pieces of his priestly regalia, clean his golden chalice, wipe
his crystal goblets and smoothen the surplice before he put it on. I
would watch with open-mouthed awe at the efficiency of these young boys
who weren’t older than me.

How privileged, I
would say to myself. They were so blessed to get so close to a white
man, who said mass in Latin to villagers who barely spoke a world of
the coloniser’s English. The only chance I had of getting close to the
white priest was during “confession”. Even at that I could never stare
at the priest while saying, “Bless me father for I have sinned” and go
on to tell him how I had looked at Josephine sinfully during Physical
Education.

More than any
other dream as a kid, I wanted to be a Mass server. I wanted to stand
close to Ifada, carry his portmanteau and learn all the secrets of
assisting him in every way, possibly even sleep in the same mission
house as the Mass servers. Such was the innocence of my childhood. We
focused on the white priests and paid little attention to the God that
sent them.

Did they also forget the God that sent them sometimes, we couldn’t tell then.

Recently, CNN has
been going gaga about pedophilic priests and the young boys they abused
in the West. The Vatican has paid millions to many of these confessors
and even more to bury some cases. The high and mighty Pope has been
forced to apologise on behalf of the badly behaved priests in America
and Europe. Yet I can’t stop wondering- was Africa so lucky that there
were no pedophiles among the thousands of white priests that came with
the colonisers and remained after independence? Or is it a case of
Africans don’t talk about “such things”? Would the Pope apologise to
Africans if “such things” were to surface tomorrow, or will it be given
the slavery treatment of “we owe you no apologies”?

If thinking that there might have been pedophilic priests in Africa is a sin, well, forgive me father for I have sinned.

Madam
come, see if e go size you, try now e fit size you….” This was a shoe
seller at Balogun Market enticing me to take a seat in his tiny shed
and try on a pair which he proceeded to place on the ground over a
carefully spread sheet of paper to protect his inventory from the dirt
of Lagos. It is a novel concept is it not? This idea that the shoe has
in some way to conform to your perfect foot. It has to fit you, not the
other way round.

This is almost as
plaintive as that other typical Nigerian construction. “I came to your
house the other day, but I met your absence.” There is something so
poetic about the sound of that. It conveys in such a dignified way the
regret at not finding you home, without suggesting any remission on your
part for not being there.

In the same vein
comes: “How is your mother, say me well to her when you see her.” This
could mean speak well of me to her, but the real import is give her my
good tidings and that is so much more than say hello to her or greet her
for me.

Then there are those
constructions that we have seized on and sized to fit our usage. We
have an intermittent relationship with electric power, and exercise
whatever control we can by ‘oning’ it and offing it, with a vengeance.
Nothing so genteel as switch it off or turn it on, we dispense with all
protocol and off it or on it, snatching those brief opportunities we
have to do so.

Likewise, or should I
say, in this wise, we get to the kernel of the issue. Why else would
one sit around cracking palm nuts? The British coined the phrase, To be
forewarned is to be forearmed, whereas, we just know that to be for war
is to be for army. Finish. Case closed! Think before you enlist.

Not to put too fine a
point on it, Lagos is a city where traffic takes such a toll on our
time there is little left for other things. Subsequently getting to the
point quickly and efficiently is an important part of any discourse. You
want that goat leg cut into pieces? Don’t confuse the butcher, just ask
him to “pieces it”. Much quicker; three words versus two.

Driving along Broad
Street many years ago, and searching in vain for a parking spot, my
father pointed to what he thought looked like an available space, but
the driver knew better. “Oga there is no true fare there,” he
volunteered. Of course he was right. It was supposed to be a
thoroughfare but the Lagos municipality in its infinite wisdom had
blocked the road off with giant cement boulders. There truly was no way
for a car to get through to that tempting parking space.

And while we are on
the subject of driving and looking for destinations, there is nothing so
taxing as trying to find an address in a country that is still very
much a work in progress, a construction consistently under different
management, plans incomplete, or new wings abandoned: this house in not
for sale! So there is this story of asking for directions somewhere in
the middle of a busy metropolis, just about mid south of anywhere in
this blessed land…

“E dey for alon.”
“Which side for alon?” “Dhown.” “Which side for dhown?” “Dhown,

dhown.” Believe it
or not this is clearer than asking about an address and being told to
drive “two poles.” What in the name of sweet tombo is a pole?

Ours is a society
with such a multiplicity of cultures that we have honed the ability to
convey a world of meaning with the simple, curt, phrase. A good and
homely wife, anxious to fulfil her maternal instincts and envelop her
home with the sound of many children’s voices, literally drags her
abstemious spouse to her gynaecologist because he won’t ‘do’ to her
satisfaction. The embarrassed man offers this one explanation to the
doctor’s gentle enquiry.

“I am tinkin.”
Determined not to let the issue die the wife counters:

“You are tinkin?
What are you tinkin?” This is akin to that example of Lagos road rage,
“What are you driving?” which has nothing to do with the make of the
car.

What indeed.

Now if this were a
case of, “I am reading,” all Madam Missis would have to do would be to
off the light and proceed to pieces the whole argument.

The times are too interesting to take certain liberties; for
instance, lazy unsophisticated Nigerian food lingua franca.

An oblong loose-skinned tomato with ribbing is a Hausa tomato. A
large green banana that never goes yellow at any stage is an Igbo banana. A small
scraggly banana with yellow and green blotches that looks like it needs to be
thrown out is a Yoruba banana. The aromatic, yellow scotch bonnet is called
Igbo pepper. A goat that stands tall, lean and shaggy is a Hausa goat.

Two weeks ago, at the peak of very primitive and treacherous
public rumours, someone told me that people were travelling all the way from
the Northern states of Nigeria in large uncovered trucks for the sole purpose
of positioning wheelbarrows of fruit in front of churches and poisoning
Southerners! “Don’t buy the oblong Hausa tomatoes because those are the ones
that have been poisoned by Northerners!”

It made writing this week’s column uncomfortable because I want
to talk freely about Nigerian bananas. We have always labelled them for where
they “come from”. Labels that are informal and jovial, silly even, yet in times
like this when our cultural differences are being emphasised for mischievous
purposes, not very cheerful or appropriate to use. I did consider phoning up
the eminent Professor Obot of Wildlife Conservation to ask for biological names
of bananas, but how wearying that would have made the whole thing.

In order to talk about bananas, I must tangentially talk about
my maternal grandfather who used to drive trains in the days of the steam
locomotive. He was called Baba Loco for that vocation. Intense, disagreeable,
extremely intelligent and a stammerer, he preferred to be left alone, a
difficult thing if you are Yoruba, and therefore one of “that people” who like
to effusively greet everything that moves.

One day, an acquaintance saw him shovelling coal into the bowels
of the train – this was what he did before graduating to driving one. He
proceeded to greet him with the words “O kare awe, yio gbe lomo lowo!” The
man’s greeting showed that he was in awe of the locomotive. It was an exuberant
“Well done Scholar, you will pass this vocation on to your children!”

My grandfather was livid. He shovelled the lumps of coal and
threw them at the man. Pass it on to his children indeed! My grandfather had
passed all the necessary exams but couldn’t go on to university because his
father, who had been wealthy but also indiscriminately polygamous couldn’t
afford to pay for him to go. It was for as long as I knew my grandfather, a
touchy point, and that man on that day had chosen the most inappropriate of
greetings.

You might well ask what my grandfather put in his six
children’s’ hands? The best education here and in foreign universities; and
food, varied, rich, lavish: delicately smoked fish from Jebba,

loaves of Shackle ford bread, poultry, beef, eggs…nothing was
too good for his children to eat. By the time his grandchildren were born, he
had nothing more to prove.

He brought us sugarcane and bananas from his farm. He brought
two types of bananas, the Latundan type banana that was vibrantly yellow,
short, fat, very sweet and not very creamy; and also the typical “Yoruba
banana” which is my absolute favourite.

And I have eaten bananas on three continents. The Yoruba banana
is only sold by one old lady in the whole of the Lekki new market and is a
scarce commodity until one reaches Lagos Island. It can be the ugliest most
dejected looking thing, the Yoruba banana. Rarely large, long, yellow or
“clean” (it always seems to have some organic matter hanging off it) but it is
beautifully creamy in texture. It is sweet but not too sweet.

The “Igbo banana” which is light green when ripe; larger in
generalised comparison; more attractive and easier to find, sold even in Lagos
traffic, has never done anything exciting for my taste buds. The word that
comes to mind whenever I eat one is “soap”.

What I am referring to as banana ice cream is neither ice cream
nor my own recipe. Health food buffs have been talking about it as an
alternative to dairy ice cream for many years. The thing is, it hits the same
cold creamy sweet spot as ice cream does. A couple of firm ripe bananas are
peeled and placed in the deep freezer until frozen.

They are brought out and
put in a blender by themselves or with a tablespoon of almond butter (I have
only found almond butter in Lagos on one occasion, so just putting them in the
blender by themselves is more realistic), or with some fresh ripe avocado. They
are blended (with great perseverance!) and eaten immediately, possibly accompanied
with a drizzle of honey, lime juice or homemade citrus biscuits.

The federal cabinet
may roar back to life soon as Acting President Goodluck Jonathan is set
to retain some of the 42 ministers relieved of their jobs following the
dissolution of the Executive Council of the Federation (EXCOF).

We learnt the list
of the 21 nominees to be retained will be forwarded to the Senate
anytime from now for confirmation. We also learnt that the Presidency
is considering six names as likely replacement for Professor Maurice
Iwu as Chairman of the Independent National Electoral Commission.

According to
sources in the Presidency, names being considered as likely replacement
for Iwu include Attahiru Jega, a former president of the Academic Staff
Union of Universities; Jibrin Ibrahim; rtd. Ishola Williams, retired
Major General and president of Transparency Nigeria; Dora Akunyili,
immediate past Information and Communications Minister; Abubakar Umar,
former Military Administrator of Kaduna State; Olisa Agbakoba, Senior
Advocate of Nigeria and former Nigeria Bar Association, NBA president.

Dora Akunyili? Who
will want to appoint Dora into any sensitive position in Nigeria again?
Have we not seen enough of her? The Akunyili I know now worship power,
and she worships it with her whole body, her whole heart, her whole
spirit and, in fact, her whole being. For her, nothing is too small or
too great to do to acquire power and flaunt it. Her love of publicity,
is part of her endless scheming for power. Once she grabs it, Mrs
Akunyili immediately and unceremoniously abandons all who helped her.
Our Dora at every turn reminds me of the proverb about the man who on
using a ladder to climb to the top quickly destroyed it so that no
other person could benefit from it. If she can betray the Yar Adua’s
that appointed her as minister, why say she won’t betray Goodluck
Jonathan .

I have been on one
of Dora’s fans when she was head of NAFDAC. I was prepared to die
defending her. But honestly, since she accepted the office of the
Information Minister for President Yar Adua led government in her
desperation to continue to be in office, she has become a shadow of
herself. She went about telling Nigerians lies upon lies, defending
government failures and deceits with pride. Even when there was
billions of naira budgeted to provide us with darkness, she kept
defending the government. Then she was never guided by the Holy Spirit
to tell us the truth.

Remember when she
came out shamelessly to tell the world that as a minister for
information, her job was only to help the Nigerian Television Authority
(NTA) carry their files to the president without making an input at
all. This was when she desperately attempted to exonerate herself from
the high level fraud that greeted the contract award for procurement of
broadcast equipment for NTA for the just concluded U-17 FIFA football
tournament hosted by Nigeria. That is the ‘saint obi’ of a woman.

As if that is not
enough, she was the same person who came openly to defend the so-called
cabal’s insistence on President Yar Adua’s right to govern from
anywhere in the world. That he is medically fit and all there was to be
told. But about some weeks ago, Professor Akunyili wrote a memo to her
cabinet colleagues asking them to make Vice President Goodluck Jonathan
the Acting President in accordance with Section 145 of the
Constitution. Nothing is wrong with making Jonathan the Acting
president but it was a dramatic volte face for someone who had on two
previous occasions after the Executive Council meetings addressed the
press where she strongly defended Yar’Adua’s fitness for the country’s
leadership.

Dora made it the
first time in our history where council Memo became public knowledge no
sooner than it was written, let alone submitted. Even directors in the
Ministries who normally prepare such memos swear to an oath of secrecy
before working on them.Dora broke the oath of secrecy . Dora’s reasons
for sending her memo to every media were for her to be seen as a
fanatical supporter of Dr Jonathan—the new kid on the block– so that
she could retain her cabinet membership, and to regain her public image
which has been declining disastrously since she became the Minister of
Information. Not satisfied with the plethora of articles she and her
numerous aides have been churning out every second eulogising her for
her so-called courage in breaking ranks with her colleagues over
Yar’Adua’s health status, Mrs Akunyili went on a whistle-stop campaign
of media interviews castigating her colleagues dubbed by the press as
the cabal for hiding the president from everyone.

There is no serious
government anywhere in the world where cabinet members attack
themselves in the open. The doctrine of collective responsibility, for
instance, makes it mandatory that ministers defend government policies
in public, including those they may have opposed strongly as
individuals during cabinet discussions. Dora when she got facts that
president Yar adua was not to recover on time to resume office as they
expected, immediately tried to outsmart Nigerians by defecting to the
winning siding claiming to be standing for the truth and insisting the
Nigerian Constitution be complied with after serving Nigerians with
lies. This is crass opportunism and greed for power.

After the 2009
Anambra governorship election which saw the lost of PDP, the world was
shocked to see Dora Akunyilli summon and sponsor a so-called Anambra
State PDP stakeholders reconciliation meeting where she passionately
regretted the loss of PDP and begged them to walk together for the
progress and interest of PPD alone. Is this the kind of person that
should replace Iwu as INEC boss? How can she then lead INEC to deliver
free and fair election that will ensure the rejection or failure of PDP
if Nigerians so insist and desire?

In her desperation
to remain politically relevant, she has only few days ago got the
Catholic Women Organisation to honour her with an Award of
“Incorruptible mother”. Who conformed that she is incorruptible? EFCC,
ICPC or NASS? Has she been investigated? How did she manage the
billions of naira spent so far for her Nigeria “rebranding” campaign?
This is very important to Nigerians to know how she disbursed the funds
and to who she gave the contracts. How transparent was it? Honestly,
for me, Akunyili has failed and hurt Nigerians so badly that she must
never be allowed to lead any organ or agencies of our father land again.

-Kenneth Uwadi writes from Mmahu-Egbema, Imo State, Nigeria