Of dollars, chickens and the farmyard of politicians (i)

I imagined what a bedlam the scene would have been that day. Like the magician, he appeared on the rostrum. Seeing him would have sent the hapless masses into a frenzy. They would have shouted; or murmured: ‘it has to be in dollars!’ Thus he was saved the pain of asking them how much it […]

I imagined what a bedlam the scene would have been that day. Like the magician, he appeared on the rostrum. Seeing him would have sent the hapless masses into a frenzy. They would have shouted; or murmured: ‘it has to be in dollars!’ Thus he was saved the pain of asking them how much it would cost him to buy their future. The buyers and sellers, in line with the Quran (Chapter 2:16), of deceit and deception; and corruption. They probably would have chorused in unison: “Two thousand dollars only!” “No!”, another group chorused. “That is too much. Do you want to corrupt us? Two bags of rice would do”. “Yes” They all shouted. Like the Romans in Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar. “Remember to add a 15 litter keg of ground oil, a pack of salt and frozen chicken. This is enough for us. That should be enough for today and tomorrow. It is enough a prize and a price for our future”.

Such is the narrative that democracy writes out of human beings. Such are the characters that populate almost all political gatherings. In democratic practice, they are referred to as ‘the people’. But among ‘the people’ is a minority- intellectuals, academics, experts in various fields of life. This minority usually never get to become sovereigns.  Rather, it is from the majority, ‘the real people’ that society usually elect its sovereigns. ‘No! Five thousand naira should be enough. Remember! The exchange rate has gone up now. We took three thousand naira from him four years ago. Yes. Only two thousand naira was paid to us to vote for him; though we were supposed to have been given five thousand naira each’. Faceless. Hungry. Greedy. Incontinent. Characters whose future lies in their stomach. Like beasts in the jungle- extremely vegetative; like beasts in the wild- they live to eat and be eaten. They live to drink; to copulate. Fodders. Remnants. Garbage. These are their future!

But that it is ‘the beauty’ of democracy; the beauty in the charade call democracy. It is the only system of governance I know of in which madness pays more than reasoning. No other system of governance could make a dancer a legislator; and the village head if you permit. No other form of government could make a sovereign out of the lowly, the iniquitous and the execrable than ‘popular democracy’.

Thus they voted. They voted for ‘stomach infrastructure’. They ate Amala, Tuwo and Isi-Ewu. In return, they enthroned a sovereign who was bearish and boorish. The following morning, they all went to their ‘rest rooms’; they went to the open spaces in the village where human feces and oddities are usually deposited. There they excreted the ’future’, their future, which they ‘ate’ with relish yesterday. They sold their future and in return, the village descended into the abyss of debts, of darkness and infamy. A hundred and twenty billions naira debt. This is the patrimony. This is the heritage.

As it was years ago, so it is today in many parts of the village, your village and mine. Whenever it is the season of politics, my compatriots are usually quick to bring their wares out for sale- the wares of greed and ignorance; the wares of lack of contentment and shortsightedness. The future does not have to be ‘dollarized’ at all- food and drinks are enough. It does not matter if the landscape is pauperized; it does not matter if the village is hungry for water, for light and for bread. We are the masses; they are the politicians; we are like the chickens in the farmyard of Joseph Stalin, the Russian emperor.

In the late summer of 1934, so goes the story, “Russia was in the midst of a period of extreme upheaval and change known as the purges.  Under the guise of progress and modernization the self-promoted leader of the communist party, Joseph Stalin, was systematically killing millions of his own people.  Those whom he did not kill he left broken and scared, striped of their lands, possessions, food, and freedom. Everywhere he went there were large crowds cheering him as he struck impressive and stoic poses for the media.  Numerous events were staged to demonstrate the triumph of communism over poverty, ignorance, and corruption and to portray Stalin as the firm benevolent father. At one such event a small group of state and visiting western media were gathered to memorialize Stalin as a man of the people. He was to tour a local farm, interact with the workers, and answer questions from the press.  All had gone as planned.  The farm was perfectly staged for pictures.  The workers were hand-picked and prepared for their performance.  Stalin’s presence was undeniable as he answered all the prescribed questions given to the media.  Stalin walked casually through the barnyard answering questions and spreading grain to a group of chickens. Then one journalist posed the following question- “Mister Premier,” the journalist said “How long do you think you can keep up this charade?” To which there was no reply.