The nearly forgotten Independence: The hour is near when Nigeria must decide. We have to either cast off the foolishness of drunken middle age or don the armour of dignified adulthood. We will soon get to that crossroad at which nations decide to become wise old men or perennial drunken middle aged jesters. This is the tragic essence of the forgotten 65th Independence anniversary.
By Chidi Amuta
Nigeria may not be the world’s best showpiece of democracy and political freedom. But Nigeria can easily win a contest of the country that celebrates democracy related matters most loudly.
65 years of independence. 25 years of uninterrupted democracy after four decades of military autocracy. Democracy Day, the day the military disengaged from direct politics. June 12, the date the military held and cancelled the best election that annoyed a section of the country. Second anniversary of the installation of the Tinubu administration. We could go on and elongate the list. Each of these landmark occasions is greeted by a roll out of state pomp and pageantry. Traditional rulers and their colourful entourage, dance troupes from all over the country, gala nights that feature music and dancing as well as lengthy foolish speeches about nothing serious!
Of this gamut of anniversaries and memorials, perhaps the annual October 1, Independence Day is perhaps the most consequential. That is the day the British Union Jack came down and in its place was hoisted the new drab green-white- green of independent Nigeria. For those Nigerians in their 60s, that date remains important as a watershed and marker of the emergence of independent Nigeria. Perhaps the only date that could compete with October 1, is January 15, 1970, the date Nigerian military factions decided to end the civil war they started most senselessly.
This last week’s 65th Independence anniversary was largely forgotten for no clear reason. There were no police and military parades. Schools and colleges marked the event by mandating kids to wear outfits that remind them they are Nigerians and nothing else. But the state looked the other way. A state that seizes every small opportunity to stage a lavish party decided there would be no parade, no gala night or festivities. The usual reasons included a need to save money! A government that routinely buys $1 million apiece SUVs for politicians that already have over 20 limousines in their garages suddenly wants to save money from champagnes and musicians! Anyway, there was no party. The 65th Independence anniversary was largely forgotten or omitted.
There was of course the usual presidential speech and foolish messages from illiterate politicians and hungry clergy of all faiths. The president disrupted the morning sleep of a public holiday with the mandatory speech. I have been phoning round my friends to see what they remember or something quotable or new from this year’s Independence speech. Most have told me it was same as before: the need to rededicate ourselves to the nation, to renew hope, to obey the rule of law if it favours you, to love thy neighbor in the night and demolish his house in the day. It was a speech like most others about patriotism, the need to worship as many gods as possible on political occasions and import expensive Marabouts from Mauritania paid in dollars to bury live cows to ensure your opponent loses the next election or catches epilepsy.
Otherwise, the 65th independence was edited out. No military parades. In any case, why parade pot-bellied soldiers who have been outgunned by bandits? Why put on display second hand helicopter gunships bought from the black markets of Libya and Syria? What if they crash on the heads of well-dressed dignitaries and their damsels? The low key 65th anniversary was a wise decision, the wisest by a government that prices Indonesian noodles lower than Ijebu gari.
Those of us in our 60s are entitled to our nostalgia about Independence. We were the Independence generation. We were raised in hope, nurtured in expectation and raised in optimism. The British were leaving. Heaven and earth would be ruled by our own brothers and sisters. Fat new lawyers sweating it out in London suits. We rehearsed and sang their praises. They would bring on the New Jerusalem. Our mothers wore ‘ankara’ outfits with imprints of the new men of power. Our mothers were ordered to file into the arena in every village to rehearse the songs of freedom. As children, we were drilled on how best to greet our new masters since the whites were leaving.
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On the appointed date, we filed out in line to wait at the roadside to greet the new gods. The heat of the sun burnt out tender skins. We sweated like goats about to go to hell. But we were taught patience for those who want good things must learn patience and endurance. Later in the afternoon, the new messiahs sped past, waving absent mindedly at village children lined on both sides of the road.
Then came the speeches by the politicians. Heaven was coming to earth. Everything we wished for would now come in tenfold. We were handed tiny plastic flags of the infant nation. This was accompanied by grey plastic cups. One teacher from the village school explained the symbolism of the cups. It was the cup of passion of our Lord in the garden of Gethsemane before he gave up the ghost at the execution ground of the crucifixion. With this cup, you children shall always repeat: “It is finished” at the height of every trying moment and your solution shall come delivered.
The festivities of independence came and went. We waited. Heaven did not come. We still went down the hill to the river in search of dirty water. When Papa’s thatched roof was leaking, we converged in the corner where the roof was still intact. Life remained hard. The boys who returned from holidays in the town told worse stories of suffering. The whites had packed and left. Their quarters were abandoned for new black overlords. The refuse dumps piled up. Pot holes came all over the streets. Politicians divided out the plots of the European quarters among themselves and renamed streets after themselves. Wilberforce Avenue became Ogbonnaya Road. McJohnson Street became Uwaezuoke Road.
In anger, our elders from the village sent a delegation to Enugu to ask our parliamentarian what happened to the promises of independence. Our elders on the delegation slept in the open. At daybreak when it was their turn to see our man, a staff in khaki uniform came out of the iron gate of the house, accompanied by two giant Alsatians. “Oga is not in…” He clamped the gate back shut. Our delegation was over. Oh Independence! Where is thy sweetness and the honey of the New Jerusalem?
Nations grow in age grades. When they are young, they are heavens of promises. When they attain middle age, they behave like adults and do the things that make the age grade proud. They grow their economy, make the people rich, build good schools, fix the roads, encourage trade and chase away thieves and criminals. They become Singapore, Indonesia, Malaysia, South Korea and Cyprus. A few more decades down the road, the nations that knock on the doors of a century go two ways. They either ossify or get stiff in the knee, incapable of moving any further. They become, Greece, Portugal, Egypt or Ethiopia. Or they push on as centenarians and stand out in competition to graduate from nations into civilizations: China, India, America, Japan, etc.
The hour is near when Nigeria must decide. We have to either cast off the foolishness of drunken middle age or don the armour of dignified adulthood. We will soon get to that crossroad at which nations decide to become wise old men or perennial drunken middle aged jesters. This is the tragic essence of the forgotten 65th Independence anniversary. End!
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Apologies for a social media catastrophe
On the many misreadings of this Facebook calamity, I deeply regret and sincerely apologize to my friends, readers and associates who have read the various mangled misrepresentations of the Facebook sharing fiasco. I promise to show a better homegrown sensitivity to our sense of humour next time. I hope we can lay this nasty social media ghost to rest at last. If the social media is to continue to play its role in our national life, both the audience and practitioners need a higher level of perceptiveness and also a more sophisticated sense of humour.
A purported ‘news story’ posted by a certain Ola Fapson on Facebook early last week has got me into a perception calamity.
It carried the “news” that former Governor Okezie Ikpeazu of Abia State has been condemned to death after being found guilty of corruptly siphoning the impossible sum of N1 trillion belonging to Abia State away to an impossible destination of Australia or New Zealand! Social media fiction does not come in a fatter dose!
I immediately saw this phantom ‘news’ as a typical example of what damage the social media could do if allowed unfeterred flowering in our media space. For me, here was an example of how fiction can graduate into fact for the ignorant. It needed to be shot down before fiction graduates into dangerous viral menace. I just thought the best thing to do is to share this ‘news’ as a joke so that we could laugh it out of existence.
First, where would Abia State find the spare N1 trillion? Which court sentenced the poor man into oblivion? There is no law in our books that stipulates the death penalty for corruption, common stealing in Nigerian parlance. Even if such a law existed, the investigation of such a mega crime would involve the Nigeria Police, the EFCC, the NSA’s office etc. Most tiers of the judiciary must have heard and ruled on the case etc. The case must have been headline news for months and years. I concluded that this was classic foolish social media humour that could entertain my fellow Facebook people. So, I decided to share the joke and silly humour on my page on Facebook so that I could get more dimensions of the humour! I did not want to laugh alone in these sad times!
With hindsight, sharing the joke was my big error. The response was instant and acidic. The insults rained from everywhere. Responders forgot the original author of the ‘news’ story. People even forgot that I am not a reporter but an opinion columnist. They even wanted to hang the stupid story around my neck by all means. Some of them quickly edited out the name of the original author of the toxic piece. Chidi Amuta was conferred with the authorship of a piece he knew nothing about. I became the direct target of the toxic verbal missiles.
All manner of urchins could now pronounce my name. Everything was an instrument. Friends, associates and readers literally from the whole world called to find out if I was okay in terms of mental health since most of them had come to associate me with more common sense than to author such idiocy under a pseudonym. I then read the original post and found the name of the author.
I hardly use pseudonyms. I directly criticize or condemn whoever I am unhappy with without fear. I have written about practically every major personality on earth in the last four decades. I have directly interviewed, face-to-face, over a dozen heads of state including those who welcomed me into their offices with pistols out of holsters! In one case, I had to scale a hurdle of fierce tanks to enter the interview venue.
In all of my 40 years in journalism, this is the first time I have had to explain my action or judgment in print. Secondly, I have never had to retract a story or column. I write what I believe in in the best words I possibly know how to.
In terms of the present situation in Abia State, I am even more embarrassed. I know both former Governor Ikpeazu and incumbent Governor Alex Otti. I regard both as my junior brothers. Each of them has been free to attend my events or call on me in the house in Lagos.
I do not have and never had any business or financial dealing with either man or with Abia State in any form, shape or scope. I am not a politician by any stretch. I am not a contractor, supplier or brief case carrying agent. I am a merchant of light and ideas, an intellectual and journalist in the best global tradition. I of course have respectable business interests which pay my bills and assure a comfortable existence.
Therefore, all imputations of personal interest behind the Facebook catastrophe are misguided, mischievous and uninformed about my person or circumstances. I have no need to praise or condemn any politician for personal financial gain.
On the many misreadings of this Facebook calamity, I deeply regret and sincerely apologize to my friends, readers and associates who have read the various mangled misrepresentations of the Facebook sharing fiasco. I promise to show a better homegrown sensitivity to our sense of humour next time.
I hope we can lay this nasty social media ghost to rest at last. If the social media is to continue to play its role in our national life, both the audience and practitioners need a higher level of perceptiveness and also a more sophisticated sense of humour.
Chidi Amuta
