I have a fair knowledge of how we got here
Seventy two hours before the first ballot was cast in anger at the last Presidential elections, I put a call through to my folks in the countryside.
“Hello Judey!”, It was my Mum. (Mum is by the way, the only female who retains that ‘sexy’ tinge to her voice while pronouncing my name).
“Hello Mum”, I all but cooed into the mouthpiece. “Who will you be voting for, Mum?”
“Goodluck Jonathan…he is our Man from the South-South….Goodluck to us, Goodluck to all of you in Lagos…Goodluck Nige—reee..yaaaah eh!” (Mum got that last bit from the incumbent President’s campaign jingle at the time).
I had fought back a grimace on the other end of the line. Mum had made her choice of Presidential Candidate, I mused. And if the enthusiasm I discerned from her tone as she broke into that campaign song was anything to go by, I would be better off not convincing her to vote otherwise. So, hoping for the best, I rang my Dad two hours later.
“Hello, Jude”, the old man bellowed. Before I could go on, Dad had reeled me with stories of the marginalization of the South South Region of Nigeria, and how Goodluck Jonathan was going to become an answer to prayers. Dad kept me on the phone for ten minutes, lecturing me in that professorial and all knowing tone, before rounding off with the following lines: “The North and the South West have held us by the jugular for far too long. Convince your friends to vote for Jonathan. Who else would have orchestrated his ascension to the throne after Yar’adua died ,but God? This is indeed the Lord’s doing, My Son!” Schooled in the finest traditions of the Law, my Dad often fancies himself as the Senior Advocate of Nigeria (SAN) that never was. You never won an argument with him, and I quite frankly hadn’t fancied my chances.
Moments after speaking to my Parents, it dawned on me that I had just thrown some precious call time up in the air. Fifteen minutes of being campaigned to was not exactly how I had looked forward to spending my day…..
I have a fair knowledge of how we got here
Seventy two hours before Nigerians took to the polls last April, I was engaged in a political discourse with a few of my colleagues in the office at lunch time. After dissecting all the Presidential candidates on offer, it was evident that the least competent of them all, on paper at least, was the Man from Otueke. A few days before, we had watched in bemusement as he avoided all Presidential debates on TV, only to appear on the NTA a few days later, debating with no one else but himself—it was a monologue which still bores the hell out of me till this day.
“So who are you chaps going to vote for?”, I enquired from my colleagues with an air of triumphalism.
“Well, you know Buhari is a Religious Bigot and Ribadu only fought Obasanjo’s enemies…. The rest are okay”, One of them said, “ but I will vote for Dr Jonathan and not his Party”.
“Why?” I had asked, almost choking now in between mouthfuls.
“He looks gentle, he possesses a Doctorate, and he is from our part of the country—The South South”.
Others didn’t demur. They all hailed from Dr Goodluck Jonathan’s region of the country. Tribalism is still a sad factor in Nigerian politics. I had just been defeated again. At home and abroad, I was becoming a sore loser.
I have a fair knowledge of how we got here
Seventy two hours before polling days in Nigeria, the major Political Parties recruit young men, hand them a pittance and arm them with weapons. Their job description entails ( but is not limited to), snatching ballot boxes into the bushes and stuffing them with already thumb printed ballot papers as the Police watches over them from a safe distance. The Political Party with the most stuffed ballot boxes emerges winner at that polling unit.
A few hours before polling, our country’s major political parties storm the villages with bags of Rice, Maggi, Indomie, Bags of Beans and some cash. Inside local huts and dingy apartments, Ward Chairmen summon the Villagers to appear with bowls and basins. The denizens of the community hearken to the call, pick their share of the ‘booty’, arrive at the polling units on polling days and vote for the ‘Umbrella’( for instance) who gave them the food items a few hours before. On the sidelines, Ward Chairmen dish out instructions on how to vote, to the barely literate men or women.
I have a fair knowledge of how we can get out of here
At some point, we may need to leave the Internet, have a cessation from our ‘annoying rants’ on Twitter and Facebook, desert our smart phones and the comfort of our homes and hit the streets. We may need to hit the streets and scream for change. It won’t arrive easy—this was never going to come as gift-wrapped—but at this point, we have little choice. We have to set ourselves a task of enlightening those men and women who mortgage their franchises for a few morsels of Rice or paltry cash.
We have to hit the streets and set ourselves the task of sensitizing the young men and women about the power of their votes. We have to let them know that for every misplaced vote, the consequence arrives four years later in the form of bad roads, little or no Power supply and poor governance. If one person talks to one person each day, the change we desire may not appear so forlorn after all.
I have a fair knowledge of how we can get out of here
We all have to get politically active again. We must register to vote credible persons, monitor our votes and ensure transparency at the ballot. We have to empty onto the streets on Polling days and quit watching football or movies on the day(s) our collective futures are being decided at the ballot. Our destinies, going forward, lay in our hands.
I have a fair knowledge of how we can get out of here
If over seventy per cent of our country’s Demographics are indeed young people, then we have nothing to fear. Doubtless, we live in an insane society. But this should only spur us on to have a say in sanitizing the system and having our names engraved on the sands of time. I interact with a lot of young people on Social Media daily, and I see and feel the hope in our land. We are like a flush of spring on a very dry land—the last berth and vestiges of hope for our country.
Before 2015, we have to choose between emancipating this land with a spring in our steps or watch the land of our fathers, continue on the path of infamy. We have to decide on whether we want to leave a better country for our Children, or stand at akimbo and watch as our country is being raped before our eyes.
My friends and I will be on the streets in a series of door to door campaigns aimed at restoring the ‘Soul’ to the land of our birth…..Will you join us? Could you please come with us? Could you please join your hands and faith with ours?
The Writer is on Twitter @egbas
No comments:
Post a Comment