Wanted, a ban on native foreigner criticism
It is obvious that of all critics, the ones that irk the shitstem most are those living outside the country. Especially those living ‘in the abroad’. For God’s sake, if you have escaped the living hell, leave criticism for those who are condemned to live in it. If you are so concerned about happenings at […]
It is obvious that of all critics, the ones that irk the shitstem most are those living outside the country. Especially those living ‘in the abroad’. For God’s sake, if you have escaped the living hell, leave criticism for those who are condemned to live in it. If you are so concerned about happenings at home, come back and face the same problems. This is most logical.
It takes a lot of resources to buy a ticket these days, thanks to the effective management of the economy. But then I’m jumping over myself here. I am assuming that everyone has the capacity to raise owo oniru, owo oniyo (money from all sources) and jump on a plane. I forget that getting a visa is something for which babalawo, boka, dibia and prophets have built entire ministries.
While thousands of dollars go into visa application fees, the number granted on the green passport are few. Our gods of men have turned visa issuance into prayer points. Only the swiftest to say ‘amen’ while angels are scrutinizing offering and tithe records get divine approval.
It is absolutely difficult to transfer from what a vlogger has described as the neighbourhood of heaven and still bother to comment on things happening in the gateway to hell. When you have had your passport stamped, something usually tells you that most of your troubles are over. Although you’re wary of them, there are no area boys holding on to the carts.
If you are unfortunate not to have a relative pick you up or a driver holding up your name, taxi drivers don’t harass you. While most commercial drivers seem to share the same crooked ancestry, you’re more likely to get to your destination. As you settle down, you quickly rush to charge your phone, being used to Fashola rationing DISCO’s 6,000 megawatts. As you watch the battery indicator rise, something reminds you that no power failure in the gateway to heaven.
Even if you had landed at the Queens or Limerick aka Stab City, you’re reassured that your disappearance is likely to make it to the evening news setting a manhunt in motion. Compared to the ease with which Pa Bubu loves to attend peace conferences while his technically defeated Boko Haram massacres his citizens, you are reassured of what a normal society is like.
If you have a work or a study permit with work provision, you settle to the ubiquitous bills. These guys tax even the air you breathe. You are on a clean bus that makes citizens angry because it sometimes arrives five minutes late and you remember molue and bodaboda. You do grocery shopping and realize that nothing is as advertised – there’s a tax. For those taxes you get what you need when you need it all year round.
You commute and see that half the road is closed – due to construction. With time you realize that the county has sent advanced warning of the closure. That notice says when work begins, how long it would last with apologies. As you settle down, you forget your gateway to hell until you get the first bad news.
Someone is in need of cash to pay school fees whereas here citizens complain about readily available school loans. You receive notice of a relative dying of diseases that this world has forgotten and you realize that people have health cards and health insurance. You hear that a relative has been kidnapped and your 24-hour freedom to roam without molestation is generally guaranteed.
The first time you make inter-city travel, you take a copy of your passport and a copy of the authorization to reside here. You go to the bank and make a withdrawal in small denominations conscious of the culture of checkpoints. In the course of travelling, you fall asleep and wake up at your destination without checkpoints.
At this point, the visit that should make you happy begins to annoy you. You realize that every ruiner of your country’s destiny has travelled, trained and lived in these climes. Yet they overpromise and under perform. You realize that most of these countries don’t even have a feasible natural resource. You start asking yourself what you have done to be cursed with vast resources and a visionless leadership. You come online and see compatriots hailing Trader-Moni and N5,000 grant and Mai Gaskiya’s anti-corruption drive with ruling class rogues immune from investigation and prosecution.
You unleash your bile on the exchange of one clueless group with another incompetent assemblage. You remember you have never been run out of the road by sirens other than the ambulance. You watch citizens bicker over whose side wins the support of children of your most notable ruiners. Anger rises as you wonder when your country would move to the purgatory between heaven and hell if it can’t be the neighbourhood of paradise. You don’t have the patience of those who are satisfied with tokens.
Whether Satan or Lucifer wins in 2019, they should place a ban on native foreigner criticism. Nothing do Naija as it is!