Sanusi & Sharia @ CBN. Com
By Sam Onimisi
Sanusi Lamido Sanusi is now a household name in Nigeria, not just because of his signature emblazoned in the country’s currency, but more for his controversial reform in the banking sector of the economy since his appointment over two years ago. He appears to enjoy the eye of the storm and relish in needless controversy. Last month, the Central Bank Governor issued a guideline titled “FRAMEWORK FOR THE REGULATION AND SUPERVISION OF INSTITUTIONS OFFERING NON-INTEREST FINANCIAL SERVICES IN NIGERIA”. It took me time and some efforts to obtain this guideline and I spent some time studying the document upon which I intend to make some comments. Before then, I want to be sure that my readers have rudimentary knowledge of the subject matter, as most of them may not have taken time to read the guideline as I did. Now, lets go.
Before Western or Arabic civilization, the African had what may be called a non-interest banking system through which financial transactions are conducted. This is today conveniently called Non-Interest Financial Institutions, NIFI. It is a practice that abhors interest on lending as its main feature; a system, which makes profit and loss a joint liability of the ‘bank’ and its customers. Before the advent of modern banking, there were people who were charging very high interest rate known as usury and so, at the advent of Judaism which preceded Christianity, the Bible forbade usury in Exodus 22:25, a prohibition repeated in Leviticus 25: 36. This serves to validate the African practice of non-interest banking through esusu, opa, ajo and adashi by various Nigerian ethnic nationalities. This is the periodical monetary contributions of a fixed amount and for a fixed time-period by a group or a number of contributors who takes their own turn as beneficiaries. It has no interest and losses are shared between the contributors and the managers of the fund. Therefore, non-interest financial institutions are not new in Nigeria, as it has come a long way from time immemorial. Even when the system developed and has its interest charging elements, people also took advantage of it as reflected in the Scriptures as captured by Mathew 25:27. While it lasted, both Christians and Muslims took advantage of non-interest banking as well as interest charging banking, inspite of the scriptural prohibition as may be obtained in the Bible and the Quran.
As a matter of fact, the General Ibrahim Babangida administration in an effort to assist the poor, enacted a decree known as the Banking and Other Financial Institutions Act, 1991 i.e., BOFIA. Inspite of his credentials as a devout Muslim who took Nigeria into the Organization of Islamic Countries (OIC); or learning from the crisis that surreptitious entry into OIC brought to Nigeria, Babangida prudently ensured that terms such as ‘Christian”, “Islamic” “Central” “Biblical” or “Quranic” are expressly excluded from the name of any bank that would be registered for the purpose of non-interest financial business. However, the recent guideline issued by the Central Bank on the subject speaks of “Sharia Banking” all through the document. In addition, the Governor of CBN also proposed to establish a “CBN Sharia Council” whose function would be to serve as an advisory board to guide the operation of the non-interest banking, which of course, would now be ‘Sharia or Islamic Banking”. This is certainly against the spirit and letters of the BOFIA 1991 as enacted. This Sanusi “innovation” is bound to generate unnecessary agitation and bad blood for reasons stated here under.
Nigeria as a multi-religious polity has no need for state owned or regulated religious banking as it will be patently a discriminative financial system. There is the fear that the collective funds of Nigeria would be used as a weapon of a back door Islamization of the country unless Sanusi will follow it up with the establishment of an Ecclesiastical Banking Council in the CBN. Our experience of the OIC crisis of 1987 and the year 2000 Sharia crisis ought to have cautioned Sanusi against a Sharia Council in the CBN. But since he is bent on foisting it on the country, he must go the whole hog by establishing its Christian and Animist equivalents. Sanusi Lamido Sanusi may not be a purer Muslim than Professor Muhammed Yunus of Pakistan whose ingenuity gave birth to a variant of non-interest banking known as micro-finance banking. Yet, Professor Yunus’ banking invention is much sought-after and is very successful everywhere it is being practiced as conceived – without a religious bias like the one Sanusi is forcing on our throats.
If Sharia Banking is seen as a cure-all solution to the poverty of a segment of Nigerians, this should be left to the private sector and Muslim investors or entrepreneurs who should invest their funds in establishing Sharia-compliant banks devoid of riba and haram-both of which are forbidden in Islam. Moreover, using riba-riddled and haram infested oil money to establish Sharia Banking is nsot a holy way to entrench Islam or help Muslims – especially by a pure Muslim like Mal. Sanusi. If Nigerians were participating in non-interest banking and also in interest charging banking, and have continued to do so from time immemorial up till now, no one must be allowed to draw a discriminatory wedge between them for whatever motive or purpose – using his public office. It is quite legitimate for Sanusi to embark on schemes to impress people of his impeccable Islamic credentials, especially if he is planning his post – CBN future whether as governor or as emir of Kano. However, it must not be at the expense of public peace and inter-religious harmony in the country. At this time when ethno- religious crisis is at its worst in Nigeria, Sanusi’s Sharia Banking must be put on hold or turn over to the Nigerian Supreme Council on Islamic Affairs and the CBN should not be used for a religious Jihad by some other means. I am not in position to judge the value of Sanusi’s reforms in the Banking sector or its beneficial effects on the national economy, but a discerning mind should be able to smell a religious bomb in the process of detonation at the Central Bank of Nigeria.
Nigeria can very well operate non-interest financial institutions devoid of religious or sectarian strife, just as we were all taking advantage of high interest banking services. However, if any particular religion prefers something extra, they could go ahead and organize Ecclesiastical, Shango and or Sharia compliant financial institutions-all for themselves –without involving our common wealth. We have had examples of government involvement in religious affairs without rancor, and the first of this was the government-organized pilgrimage to the Holy Lands of Jerusalem and Mecca. The second example is the building of the National Ecumenical Centre for Christians and the National Mosque for the Muslims. These are programmes based on equality of the faiths or government good sense of equity or secularity. Unless we are set to divide the country along religious line, the Central Bank of Nigeria has no mandate, no legal backing and is under no moral burden or compulsion to establish a Sharia Council in CBN – just because Malam Sanusi the Bank’s governor is an authority on Sharia jurisprudence. Afterall, we know that Sanusi was not appointed on the basis of his Sharia credentials but on the fact of his being a qualified economist/banker. Professor Charles Soludo was there before. Infact, we had an older Joseph Sanusi as governor and none of two ever sought to dilute non-interest financial institution with religious sectionalism. A stitch in time saves nine, so says the old adage and I suppose Lamido Sanusi knows this. Let us all be guided by the common good of all.
Whenever the Sahel North suffers from deforestation through desert encroachment, the government always rises to the occasion to ameliorate the effects on the people. Quota system of admission into tertiary institutions was introduced in favour of a particular people whose educational needs called for such a policy funded from the common purse. The Federal Government also established the Nomadic education programme for those whose culture or economic pursuits entails being perpetually on the move and this is being faithfully implemented from the federal budget. Actually, it was Professor Mary Lar, a Christian who invented the nomadic education system, propelled only by the compassion for a segment of Nigerians, and not based on religious sentiments or preference. And of recent, the almajirai system of education was inaugurated to take off the street Nigerian children who choose to go against their religious injunction by begging on the streets – and this also will be funded from the government’s budget – the common purse. Professor Olikoye Ransome-Kuti was a great pediatrician, who as minister of health introduced a healthcare delivery system for which he earned national honours; he was neither a Christian nor a Muslim, but every Nigerian child became beneficiaries of the programme. Nigeria surely needs a modern system of non-interest financial institutions, a concept, not new to us and for which a previous government enacted a good law. Sanusi should either adhere to this law or forget his sectarian project.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Kogi State: A Political Debauchery at Work
Kogi State: A Political Debauchery at Work
By Sam Onimisi
It is always a nuisance every time I had to write about Kogi State since its creation some twenty years ago. This is because I have had to wade through a labyrinth of detours to arrive at a painful truth, which no one wants to hear – even if they will acknowledge it to themselves in private. That truth is that the state ought not to have been created in the first place! I said so in 1983 when the idea was muted and was being used to weep up sentiments against a so-called Yoruba domination in Kwara State. Writing under the pseudonym of Ohi Ohida, in the now rested Kwara Weekly, I warned the Ebira ethnic nation to concentrate on the on-going development process in Kwara State and desist from the agitation for the creation of what they then pronoun as Kwogi State.
Without sounding immodest, I examined various aspects of the need or otherwise for the state, the agitation, the people, their cultural and sociological differences and came to the conclusion that Kwogi State was a disaster begging to happen. Rather than looking into the issues raised to aid their decision-making process, the political leaders of the day decided to treat me as one who was not interested in the ‘progress’ of the people. As an enemy of the people, I was to be crushed so I could never see their paradise of Kwogi. One of my saddest days was the day the state was created in 1991 and nothing has changed or happened to mitigate my pain at its subsequent anniversaries. I am writing on Kogi State today to mark the fulfillment of my prophecy of 20years ago when at the news of its creation; I told whoever cared to listen that the Ebira should not waste their energy in seeking the governorship of the State for the first 20 years. Now, this is the twentieth year of that prophecy and the state has again nominated some Igalas in the various political parties to replace Gov. Ibrahim Idris, another Igala man. Aside from the Military Administrators, all civilian governors has been Igala, beginning with Abubakar Audu’s six years and now Ibrahim Idris’ eight years. It is obvious that another Igala man will get into the saddle and would remain there for another eight years or so. I do not want to go into the debate over the quality of their governance of the state thus far, for as my people say, it is the disease of the eyes and not of the heart. In other words, any sound mind can see and evaluate developments in the state and judge for himself/ herself if what is obtained is bad, good or very good. I promise to join the debate after reactions to this piece are known.
Meanwhile, there are three issues I like to comment on today and will do so not in any order of sequence or importance. Now, the present geographical space and size called Kogi State is the same area, which used to be known and called Kabba Province, which became defunct in 1967. The question is; why is it that reference is often made to Kabba province with a sense of nostalgia but to its Kogi State version with regret and pain? I am convinced that a realistic answer to this question will unravel the reason and causes of such pains and regrets – and I will attempt to answer the question as best as I could.
When it was Kabba Province, it was administered strictly within the principles of federalism, with the three Divisions (as they were called), i.e. Kabba, Ebira and Igala having autonomous administration, separate treasuries, police and prison services and therefore, were equal in every political sense. Thus, when they meet at Lokoja the Provincial Headquarters, they do so as friends, brothers and people of the same province who are bound together by common aspirations. They compare notes and anywhere there was spectacular progress, the other divisions take cue and a system of healthy competition was engendered. And wherever a serious adverse development took place, other Divisions took preventive actions, to stem the tide. Whenever the three Divisions met at the Regional Capital in Kaduna, they did so in the spirit of people from the same province who had interest in the progress of the area – knowing and conscious of the fact that resource allocation at the regional level were based on the correlating revenues from the various Divisions and so, allocations also would be paid into the Divisional Treasuries for appropriation.
And so, educational institutions were established in the three Divisions into which students from Divisions and infact, from many Provinces in the Region were admitted. Also in School Sports, and at regional sporting events or competition, Kabba Province was always the one to watch as they set the pace both in common entrance examinations and in sports competitions. If any Division was said to be superior, it was based on the standard assessment of the Colonial Officers and grounded on performance in service delivery, increasing revenue income and maintenance of law and order, and on no other puerile criteria.
Now as Kogi State, it is being administered as a unitary system in which resources from all sections are combined in one Treasury. The Police System is also now one and controlled not so much from the state headquarters but from the national capital. In a unitary system, it is winners-take-all, especially in the African setting, and whatever is doled out to those outside is based on how subservient they are. Any wonder that various amorphous groups are formed in the unfortunate Ebira and Kabba areas that often go to Lokoja to pay homage, obeisance and sing the praise of the Igala Lord of the Manor. These groups became handy as ready tools or thugs often used to cause trouble and deal with their own people – especially individuals who are critical of the monopolistic and imperial system of governance. In today’s Kogi State, the Igala is in majority as a single ethnic group, but they have now elevated this fact and clothed it with a lie as if they are more in numerical strength than the combination of the Okun and Ebira, and because the Igala had a headstart as the pioneer governor of the state, every known criteria of resource sharing, whether material, physical and financial allocation are skewed in favour of the Igala. In fact, it is now two-third for the Igala and one third for the rest people of the state – mark you not in productivity but in allocation, making it a compulsion for others to serve and worship them. Over the years, this oppressive and suffocating system has given birth to a sense of persecution among the Ebira and Okun people and much more, among smaller minority ethnic groups in the state; resulting in local wars with their devastating effects on the peace and economy of the rural people who were already impoverished by unfair resource allocation.
However, there is no guarantee that if the Ebira or the Okun were in the same advantage, they would do anything substantially different. This is not because they have the same sense or lack of sense of equity but because of the unitary and winners-take-all system of government. Now if the principle of majority rule is examined, it ought not to be strictly on ethnic ground, which is just one factor out of many. Majority rule means the aggregate number of voters who cast their vote based on their subscription to a doctrine, an ideology and on particular charismatic leadership of a political party. However, the way majority rule is understood and practiced in Kogi State; it translates to Igala rule and nothing more. Ideological beliefs cut across tribes, religion or denominations, and peoples of various ethnic groups buys into it and are bound together by it.
To equate majority rule to the numerical strength of one ethnic group is to give the principle the meaning it does not have, otherwise every ethnic nation becomes the slave of the ethnic group with the slimmest numerical advantage such as the Igala. And this brings us to the most important principle of self determination which is the inalienable human rights of all ethnic nationalities guaranteed by the United Nations Declarations’ on Human and Peoples Rights. If Kogi State and indeed Nigeria is to continue as a state or as a nation state, there must be a system of power devolution or self-rule by ethnic nations. In a true federal system of government and the country must do away with this Unitary System of administration. No one ethnic nation is superior to the other just because of its numerical strength, as other ethnic nations have no need of your number. Your numbers, if they are real or genuine, is valuable only to yourself as others can live their lives without your excess baggage. China’s 1 ½ billion population does not in any way diminish the freedom, power and progress of the United States of America or Russia in the United Nations. The contrasts is the Kabba Province experience – a system of federated Divisions of peoples who had mutual respect and so could share the same visions; not a Kogi State governed as a Unitary estate or kingdom of one hereditary ethnic dynasty.
By Sam Onimisi
It is always a nuisance every time I had to write about Kogi State since its creation some twenty years ago. This is because I have had to wade through a labyrinth of detours to arrive at a painful truth, which no one wants to hear – even if they will acknowledge it to themselves in private. That truth is that the state ought not to have been created in the first place! I said so in 1983 when the idea was muted and was being used to weep up sentiments against a so-called Yoruba domination in Kwara State. Writing under the pseudonym of Ohi Ohida, in the now rested Kwara Weekly, I warned the Ebira ethnic nation to concentrate on the on-going development process in Kwara State and desist from the agitation for the creation of what they then pronoun as Kwogi State.
Without sounding immodest, I examined various aspects of the need or otherwise for the state, the agitation, the people, their cultural and sociological differences and came to the conclusion that Kwogi State was a disaster begging to happen. Rather than looking into the issues raised to aid their decision-making process, the political leaders of the day decided to treat me as one who was not interested in the ‘progress’ of the people. As an enemy of the people, I was to be crushed so I could never see their paradise of Kwogi. One of my saddest days was the day the state was created in 1991 and nothing has changed or happened to mitigate my pain at its subsequent anniversaries. I am writing on Kogi State today to mark the fulfillment of my prophecy of 20years ago when at the news of its creation; I told whoever cared to listen that the Ebira should not waste their energy in seeking the governorship of the State for the first 20 years. Now, this is the twentieth year of that prophecy and the state has again nominated some Igalas in the various political parties to replace Gov. Ibrahim Idris, another Igala man. Aside from the Military Administrators, all civilian governors has been Igala, beginning with Abubakar Audu’s six years and now Ibrahim Idris’ eight years. It is obvious that another Igala man will get into the saddle and would remain there for another eight years or so. I do not want to go into the debate over the quality of their governance of the state thus far, for as my people say, it is the disease of the eyes and not of the heart. In other words, any sound mind can see and evaluate developments in the state and judge for himself/ herself if what is obtained is bad, good or very good. I promise to join the debate after reactions to this piece are known.
Meanwhile, there are three issues I like to comment on today and will do so not in any order of sequence or importance. Now, the present geographical space and size called Kogi State is the same area, which used to be known and called Kabba Province, which became defunct in 1967. The question is; why is it that reference is often made to Kabba province with a sense of nostalgia but to its Kogi State version with regret and pain? I am convinced that a realistic answer to this question will unravel the reason and causes of such pains and regrets – and I will attempt to answer the question as best as I could.
When it was Kabba Province, it was administered strictly within the principles of federalism, with the three Divisions (as they were called), i.e. Kabba, Ebira and Igala having autonomous administration, separate treasuries, police and prison services and therefore, were equal in every political sense. Thus, when they meet at Lokoja the Provincial Headquarters, they do so as friends, brothers and people of the same province who are bound together by common aspirations. They compare notes and anywhere there was spectacular progress, the other divisions take cue and a system of healthy competition was engendered. And wherever a serious adverse development took place, other Divisions took preventive actions, to stem the tide. Whenever the three Divisions met at the Regional Capital in Kaduna, they did so in the spirit of people from the same province who had interest in the progress of the area – knowing and conscious of the fact that resource allocation at the regional level were based on the correlating revenues from the various Divisions and so, allocations also would be paid into the Divisional Treasuries for appropriation.
And so, educational institutions were established in the three Divisions into which students from Divisions and infact, from many Provinces in the Region were admitted. Also in School Sports, and at regional sporting events or competition, Kabba Province was always the one to watch as they set the pace both in common entrance examinations and in sports competitions. If any Division was said to be superior, it was based on the standard assessment of the Colonial Officers and grounded on performance in service delivery, increasing revenue income and maintenance of law and order, and on no other puerile criteria.
Now as Kogi State, it is being administered as a unitary system in which resources from all sections are combined in one Treasury. The Police System is also now one and controlled not so much from the state headquarters but from the national capital. In a unitary system, it is winners-take-all, especially in the African setting, and whatever is doled out to those outside is based on how subservient they are. Any wonder that various amorphous groups are formed in the unfortunate Ebira and Kabba areas that often go to Lokoja to pay homage, obeisance and sing the praise of the Igala Lord of the Manor. These groups became handy as ready tools or thugs often used to cause trouble and deal with their own people – especially individuals who are critical of the monopolistic and imperial system of governance. In today’s Kogi State, the Igala is in majority as a single ethnic group, but they have now elevated this fact and clothed it with a lie as if they are more in numerical strength than the combination of the Okun and Ebira, and because the Igala had a headstart as the pioneer governor of the state, every known criteria of resource sharing, whether material, physical and financial allocation are skewed in favour of the Igala. In fact, it is now two-third for the Igala and one third for the rest people of the state – mark you not in productivity but in allocation, making it a compulsion for others to serve and worship them. Over the years, this oppressive and suffocating system has given birth to a sense of persecution among the Ebira and Okun people and much more, among smaller minority ethnic groups in the state; resulting in local wars with their devastating effects on the peace and economy of the rural people who were already impoverished by unfair resource allocation.
However, there is no guarantee that if the Ebira or the Okun were in the same advantage, they would do anything substantially different. This is not because they have the same sense or lack of sense of equity but because of the unitary and winners-take-all system of government. Now if the principle of majority rule is examined, it ought not to be strictly on ethnic ground, which is just one factor out of many. Majority rule means the aggregate number of voters who cast their vote based on their subscription to a doctrine, an ideology and on particular charismatic leadership of a political party. However, the way majority rule is understood and practiced in Kogi State; it translates to Igala rule and nothing more. Ideological beliefs cut across tribes, religion or denominations, and peoples of various ethnic groups buys into it and are bound together by it.
To equate majority rule to the numerical strength of one ethnic group is to give the principle the meaning it does not have, otherwise every ethnic nation becomes the slave of the ethnic group with the slimmest numerical advantage such as the Igala. And this brings us to the most important principle of self determination which is the inalienable human rights of all ethnic nationalities guaranteed by the United Nations Declarations’ on Human and Peoples Rights. If Kogi State and indeed Nigeria is to continue as a state or as a nation state, there must be a system of power devolution or self-rule by ethnic nations. In a true federal system of government and the country must do away with this Unitary System of administration. No one ethnic nation is superior to the other just because of its numerical strength, as other ethnic nations have no need of your number. Your numbers, if they are real or genuine, is valuable only to yourself as others can live their lives without your excess baggage. China’s 1 ½ billion population does not in any way diminish the freedom, power and progress of the United States of America or Russia in the United Nations. The contrasts is the Kabba Province experience – a system of federated Divisions of peoples who had mutual respect and so could share the same visions; not a Kogi State governed as a Unitary estate or kingdom of one hereditary ethnic dynasty.
The Seer saw Hell!
The Seer saw Hell!
By Mas Damisa
There is an adage in my language which I believe has its equivalent in other languages and it says that ‘the person who is caught steeling is the thief’ The importance of this adage is that unless you are caught in the act or as revealed by investigation, you cannot be legitimately accused or said to be a thief. Therefore,, how did my sister became a thief when she was not caught in the act? Why was the evidence of the oracle so strong and influential as to make both old and young to believe its verdict? Why must my sister be subjected to visiting one seer after another whose findings are more or less mutually contradictory? I was determined to take up the challenge of redeeming my sister’s name and image, grounded on the conviction that she stole no money, and that the seer lied against her. So what did I do?
I persuaded against my sister to go with me to our grand aunt to ask her if she had found the money. My intention was to make her take us to the seer’s house so I may know his residence – and it worked like magic! A friend of my sister accompanied us and as we got to his place, our grand aunt told him we have come again to ascertain the real thief who stole the money. The seer brought out some pods of kolanuts, threw them down on the floor, and asked my sister and her friends to touch the pods - which they did. He packed them, threw them down again, and began to do some enchantment and incantation in an apparent act of divination. After repeating what now looked like a ritual, he announced the decision or finding of the oracle. While waiting for the verdict, my sister’s heart was beating as she was anticipating the outcome while her friend and I were wondering what would be verdict this time around. When the Seer announced his verdict, it was an anticlimax. The seer, in pompous show of magisterial authority, announced that the thief was my sister’s friend! O-g-o-g-o-r-i-o!! Here was a woman who had never met or visited my great aunt before now and who merely accompanied her friend to the old woman for the very first time! How could she have stolen from a house and an old woman she never knew before?
It was clear that the seer was either guestimating, or was entirely mischievous or was both. Our grand aunt was finally convinced that my sister was not a thief and did not steal her money. She was also convinced that the seer was a confused if not more than Confucious. The grand old woman, in apparent anger and disappointment, staggered out of the seer’s chambers with a gait that would have confounded Stagger Lee himself. In all these and throughout our visit to the seer, he never paid any attention to me and I did not say anything. I was busy understudying the divination process, the weird junks hanging around every corner of the room. I noticed some dead and dry rats and birds whose usefulness and value I could not fathom. I thought I would hear a strange voice pronouncing my sister guilty, but heard none. I had hoped to see a mirror showing how and when my sister stole the money, and saw none. All there were to see were seven dry pods of kolanut that were as mute as a mutt, and which were being thrown here and there by a muttonhead who called himself a seer. Just imagine the embarrassment the innocent lady was made to suffer. She wept until she could weep no more. In her consternation, she accused my sister of conspiring with the seer whose constative findings almost turned my sister’s friend into a crust of anguish. What can I do?
Back home, I resolved to deal with the seer by plucking out his eyes, since in any case, they were useless to him – was he not seeing by the pods? How to do this was a matter of strategy. I immediately set out to collect sharp stone pellets, which I loaded, into a small skin bag I had made. I proceeded to buy a catapult, the weapon I believed would first administer a cataract as a prelude to the final surgery of his eyes. Next, I found a disused bowl, which was to serve as my helmet against the enemy’s missiles. I tried it on my head but that was where my punishment first began – ever before I went on the attack. I forced it on my head and instantly, a bout of migraine descended on me, threatening to bust my skull, until it occurred to me to use some rags to cushion the effect, both of the heat as well as the pain. Here was a revolution in the making and here was I, the revolutionary!.
While reviewing my battle plans, it occurred to me that I only visited the seer once and so I needed to know the enemy’s terrain before the war was declared. Therefore,, I alone visited the seer with a view of doing a reconnaissance survey of his house, the routes leading to it, the windows of his room and the doors through which he could possibly escape, or by which I would escape if I was overpowered. My assignment was accomplished with ease and without raising any suspicion, but when I made to go, I saw the shadow of a woman who looked familiar as she dashed into the house. Who was this woman? I was curious to know, especially if she was going to consult the seer. I hid myself behind the building and when I heard some foot steps from within, I dashed to the nearby shrubs from where I kept Virgil on the door at the back of the house. In no time, the seer came out, looked left and right and seeing no one, shut the door. What is happening and what type of consultation would require the shutting of the door? I went and knocked the door, and the seer came out - this time - in his underwear. “What do you want?” he asked. And I answered “Please I am looking for the Seer”, to which he replied ‘Who sent you to him,” and I answered, “My mother.” “Tell your mother the Seer is not at home and will not be until tomorrow.” He shut the door and I went back to the shrubs to continue the Virgil. I was determined to verify the identity of the woman who looked so familiar. After some fifteen minutes, the back door flung open, and the Seer came out to peep, looking left then right and went back leaving the door open. Soon, a woman came out, and who was this woman? I shouted, A-m-i-n-e-t-u! She looked at the direction of my voice, and I said, ‘I saw you ooo!’ O-z-i-g-i-z-i-g-i! She beckoned on me to come and I went to her and she began to beg me not to tell anyone; unknown to her that I did not know the name of the game, and that I was there on a different mission. She informed me that she went to thank the Seer for the help he rendered to her of recent. “What type of help?” I asked, but she muttered some inanities I could not comprehend. Dear reader, it turned out that Aminetu was the Seer’s woman friend but the wife of our grand aunt’s son who was always in the farm! The seer knew that Aminetu, who lived with her mother in-law stole the money, but he choose to shift the blame on my sister because of his illicit relationship with Aminetu – and now, I caught them red-handed!
Now, the D-day is here on its zero hour. Dressed in battle gear, with my helmet on for disguise and my container bag strapped on my shoulder and the catapult made ready with a stone, who could stop me? And who would save the shameless Seer? Hiding behind the shrubs, I shot at the door and the sound attracted the attention of the occupants – including the Seer who came out to find out what it was. That gave me the chance to aim at his eyes and I let out a shot, which hit him on the eyebrow. I followed up with another, which pierced his forehead, and he dived inside for safety. A crowd was gathering and it was rapidly becoming unsafe to remain in a hostile environment. With my mission more or less accomplished, I absconded and made my way to my grand aunt’s house and informed her of my battle engagement and ---. Aminetu was shivering, thinking I was going to disclose her thanksgiving visit to the Seer but I did not. However, on getting home I made a full disclosure of all that I saw, between Aminetu and the seer and between the Seer’s household and my one-man riot squad. My sister decoded the type of visit Aminetu paid to the seer and what could possibly have transpired between the two of them in those brief minutes. Even at that, I could still not understand the gist, for I was a virgin. However, the seer saw hell for his mischief as the catapult did a ‘nice’ job on the seer’s eyes! Although I was declared a person non grata around the Seer’s street, I heard that his eyes were shut out for weeks, neither seeing his pods nor was he seeing by the pods. It served him right, or what do you think?
By Mas Damisa
There is an adage in my language which I believe has its equivalent in other languages and it says that ‘the person who is caught steeling is the thief’ The importance of this adage is that unless you are caught in the act or as revealed by investigation, you cannot be legitimately accused or said to be a thief. Therefore,, how did my sister became a thief when she was not caught in the act? Why was the evidence of the oracle so strong and influential as to make both old and young to believe its verdict? Why must my sister be subjected to visiting one seer after another whose findings are more or less mutually contradictory? I was determined to take up the challenge of redeeming my sister’s name and image, grounded on the conviction that she stole no money, and that the seer lied against her. So what did I do?
I persuaded against my sister to go with me to our grand aunt to ask her if she had found the money. My intention was to make her take us to the seer’s house so I may know his residence – and it worked like magic! A friend of my sister accompanied us and as we got to his place, our grand aunt told him we have come again to ascertain the real thief who stole the money. The seer brought out some pods of kolanuts, threw them down on the floor, and asked my sister and her friends to touch the pods - which they did. He packed them, threw them down again, and began to do some enchantment and incantation in an apparent act of divination. After repeating what now looked like a ritual, he announced the decision or finding of the oracle. While waiting for the verdict, my sister’s heart was beating as she was anticipating the outcome while her friend and I were wondering what would be verdict this time around. When the Seer announced his verdict, it was an anticlimax. The seer, in pompous show of magisterial authority, announced that the thief was my sister’s friend! O-g-o-g-o-r-i-o!! Here was a woman who had never met or visited my great aunt before now and who merely accompanied her friend to the old woman for the very first time! How could she have stolen from a house and an old woman she never knew before?
It was clear that the seer was either guestimating, or was entirely mischievous or was both. Our grand aunt was finally convinced that my sister was not a thief and did not steal her money. She was also convinced that the seer was a confused if not more than Confucious. The grand old woman, in apparent anger and disappointment, staggered out of the seer’s chambers with a gait that would have confounded Stagger Lee himself. In all these and throughout our visit to the seer, he never paid any attention to me and I did not say anything. I was busy understudying the divination process, the weird junks hanging around every corner of the room. I noticed some dead and dry rats and birds whose usefulness and value I could not fathom. I thought I would hear a strange voice pronouncing my sister guilty, but heard none. I had hoped to see a mirror showing how and when my sister stole the money, and saw none. All there were to see were seven dry pods of kolanut that were as mute as a mutt, and which were being thrown here and there by a muttonhead who called himself a seer. Just imagine the embarrassment the innocent lady was made to suffer. She wept until she could weep no more. In her consternation, she accused my sister of conspiring with the seer whose constative findings almost turned my sister’s friend into a crust of anguish. What can I do?
Back home, I resolved to deal with the seer by plucking out his eyes, since in any case, they were useless to him – was he not seeing by the pods? How to do this was a matter of strategy. I immediately set out to collect sharp stone pellets, which I loaded, into a small skin bag I had made. I proceeded to buy a catapult, the weapon I believed would first administer a cataract as a prelude to the final surgery of his eyes. Next, I found a disused bowl, which was to serve as my helmet against the enemy’s missiles. I tried it on my head but that was where my punishment first began – ever before I went on the attack. I forced it on my head and instantly, a bout of migraine descended on me, threatening to bust my skull, until it occurred to me to use some rags to cushion the effect, both of the heat as well as the pain. Here was a revolution in the making and here was I, the revolutionary!.
While reviewing my battle plans, it occurred to me that I only visited the seer once and so I needed to know the enemy’s terrain before the war was declared. Therefore,, I alone visited the seer with a view of doing a reconnaissance survey of his house, the routes leading to it, the windows of his room and the doors through which he could possibly escape, or by which I would escape if I was overpowered. My assignment was accomplished with ease and without raising any suspicion, but when I made to go, I saw the shadow of a woman who looked familiar as she dashed into the house. Who was this woman? I was curious to know, especially if she was going to consult the seer. I hid myself behind the building and when I heard some foot steps from within, I dashed to the nearby shrubs from where I kept Virgil on the door at the back of the house. In no time, the seer came out, looked left and right and seeing no one, shut the door. What is happening and what type of consultation would require the shutting of the door? I went and knocked the door, and the seer came out - this time - in his underwear. “What do you want?” he asked. And I answered “Please I am looking for the Seer”, to which he replied ‘Who sent you to him,” and I answered, “My mother.” “Tell your mother the Seer is not at home and will not be until tomorrow.” He shut the door and I went back to the shrubs to continue the Virgil. I was determined to verify the identity of the woman who looked so familiar. After some fifteen minutes, the back door flung open, and the Seer came out to peep, looking left then right and went back leaving the door open. Soon, a woman came out, and who was this woman? I shouted, A-m-i-n-e-t-u! She looked at the direction of my voice, and I said, ‘I saw you ooo!’ O-z-i-g-i-z-i-g-i! She beckoned on me to come and I went to her and she began to beg me not to tell anyone; unknown to her that I did not know the name of the game, and that I was there on a different mission. She informed me that she went to thank the Seer for the help he rendered to her of recent. “What type of help?” I asked, but she muttered some inanities I could not comprehend. Dear reader, it turned out that Aminetu was the Seer’s woman friend but the wife of our grand aunt’s son who was always in the farm! The seer knew that Aminetu, who lived with her mother in-law stole the money, but he choose to shift the blame on my sister because of his illicit relationship with Aminetu – and now, I caught them red-handed!
Now, the D-day is here on its zero hour. Dressed in battle gear, with my helmet on for disguise and my container bag strapped on my shoulder and the catapult made ready with a stone, who could stop me? And who would save the shameless Seer? Hiding behind the shrubs, I shot at the door and the sound attracted the attention of the occupants – including the Seer who came out to find out what it was. That gave me the chance to aim at his eyes and I let out a shot, which hit him on the eyebrow. I followed up with another, which pierced his forehead, and he dived inside for safety. A crowd was gathering and it was rapidly becoming unsafe to remain in a hostile environment. With my mission more or less accomplished, I absconded and made my way to my grand aunt’s house and informed her of my battle engagement and ---. Aminetu was shivering, thinking I was going to disclose her thanksgiving visit to the Seer but I did not. However, on getting home I made a full disclosure of all that I saw, between Aminetu and the seer and between the Seer’s household and my one-man riot squad. My sister decoded the type of visit Aminetu paid to the seer and what could possibly have transpired between the two of them in those brief minutes. Even at that, I could still not understand the gist, for I was a virgin. However, the seer saw hell for his mischief as the catapult did a ‘nice’ job on the seer’s eyes! Although I was declared a person non grata around the Seer’s street, I heard that his eyes were shut out for weeks, neither seeing his pods nor was he seeing by the pods. It served him right, or what do you think?
Friday, February 11, 2011
Now, the Bombs are Here!
Now, the Bombs are Here!
By Sam Onimisi
Bombs as man has come to know is, an explosive meant for maximum damage and was often employed in extreme or severe cases of war between two or more different nations. That was before now, not anymore. Now, the first weapon to be deployed as soon as an argument degenerates into a fisticuff is the bomb. Why this is so may be due to man’s growing impatience or an escalating thirst for bloodletting; I do not know. But my first experience of bomb was in 1967 during the Nigerian/Biafra War. I arrived my village from Lagos a few days earlier and enroute to Kaduna when something held me up at home. A child was born to my father and I was sent to his grandmother a few kilometers away to inform her that her daughter has safely put to bed. I rode my father’s bicycle for the errand, a message that I dutifully delivered and was returning home, jejely.
Unknown to me, I was to be punished for being the medium of that good news and a mother-goat, was given that assignment. A stream separated the two villages and a small narrow bridge had to be crossed. It was on the bridge that the goat chooses to execute her assignment. If you ask me, I will sincerely tell you that I did not see the shadow of a fly, not less of a big mother-goat. Before anyone could say meee, I had tumbled on my bicycle and was reeling right in the centre of the bridge! Passers-by said it was a goat, as for me I did not see nothing. However, there was I gasping for breath. The sound of my fall and the bleating of the goat produced a noise, which sounded like an echo of a bomb. That was the testimony of the passers-by. As for me, I was as blameless as Mr. Innocent, except that I was the victim of that accident who had to be the guest of the local Dispensary (now Health Centre) for weeks. As if this was not enough, something else happened. What was it again?
I was recuperating from that accident caused by that God-forsaken goat when the Biafrans struck. A primary school teacher living in our house, who is a maternal cousin rushed in to announce that the Biafrans were finally at Okene, a town ten kilometers from my village. A few hours earlier, the Biafran jet had discharged a bomb that had killed a prominent Anglican leader, Mr. Ajayi – a friend of my father who was then a Lay reader of the Anglican Church. At that time, and in those days, a teacher was a recognized and respected authority and his words were regarded as the gospel truth – next only to the Catechist. To say that there was a pandemonium would be an understatement. The fright that informed the mass flight from the village to the Ihima mountain – the Okehi Mountain also known as the abode of Ihima Deity, Ori-Ihima was something else. To the Christians, it was an Exodus and to the Muslims – a Hijra! The Animists were glad they were all fleeing to their protector, with both Christians and Muslims in tow.
My Dad announced that now that the end had come, everyone must choose what he/she wanted – to flee to the mountain or remain in the house and await his or her fate. Virtually everyone voted to flee to the mountain, except my father and I. Even if I had wanted to run, I could not because I was mauled by that goat accident. Again, my spirit was against the flight and so, I choose to remain in the house. My father who could not remember when last he cooked food by himself has to cook for both of us. For days, all members of our larger family took their abode with the Deity atop the mountain and my father and I remained alone in the house! We were waiting for the final battle - called Armageddon or the rapture when Jesus will come and take us ‘home’ A-r-m-a-g-g-e-d-o-n?
When the Biafrans failed to come, most of our people who took refuge at the mountain returned home. However, many had been bitten by snakes and a few mauled by lions. Some because of the fright-in-the-flight sustained various injuries and retuned home sick and weak. However, you need to know something else. During the Jihadist war when the Fulani invaded Ebiraland, the Orihima aided our battle by sending warrior hornets, which dealt devastating blows on the invaders and chased them away for the freedom of our people. Therefore,, most of our people invest faith in Orihima to do it again, against the Biafrans. While alone in the house with my father he asked me why, inspite of my infirmity, I refused to run to the mountain for safety. Without thought, I told him I did not believe the Biafrans would come to Ihima and besides, the bomb scare was not a problem to me, as I knew I had immunity against bombs. Was he amazed? To no end! He asked how, I told him that while we were growing up, we were taught that Orihima controls the thunder and during rainfall, if there was the sound of thunder, we were to say “I am the child of Orihima” and the thunder will depart in reverence and obedience. Therefore, I reasoned that no bomb is more powerful than the thunder and so, I fear no bomb!
My father was amazed at my answer and I noticed that from then henceforth, he valued my opinion more than my elders. However, he told me that in addition to the reason I gave, he read in Genesis how God bombed Sodom and Gomorrah and so, he knew that there could be bombs and so, if God decides to bomb Ihima – using the Biafrans – running to Okehi Mountains would not save his life! After all, his friend died by those bombs – the Biafran bombs. However, today, we have religious terrorists who could be your next-door neighbour and to whom you would have been a benefactor, but who hates you intensely not because of any offence, but for religious differences. He could be your childhood friend, your classmate, a neighbor far closer than a brother could. However, the day the religious demons seized him, he would forget your life long relationship and the fact that you were his benefactor all along. Until he made a barbeque of your flesh, he would not rest!
If the massacre were to be done via A.K. 47, you could say there is a limit to the number that could be killed or injured. However, a bomb – that is a weapon of mass destruction for which Saddam Hussein of Iraq was dethroned, hunted down and executed. Between October 2010 and January 2011, Jos, Maiduguri and Abuja have fallen victim of the bomb blasts. Moreover, scores of lives and billions in property were lost – just because of religious differences, tribal differentiation and political power tussle. Habal! Now, fear is the king and we all are forced to pay obeisance to it – regardless of our chosen faith or religion. The Church, which was regarded as a refuge, is no longer safe and the soldiers deployed to guard them are being killed. It is false confidence to believe that the Mosques are safe. Many no longer attends church services and attendance of Friday Mosque service has dwindled – all because of the fear of the bomb.
Now that the bombs are here, courtesy of the Movement for the Emancipation Niger Delta, MENDS and the Jama’atu Ahlus-Sunnah Lidda await Wal Jihan (or is it Jama’atu Nasril Islam), no one is truly safe. Even if I decide to go and hide at the Okehi Mountain – the abode of Orihima- I will still not be safe, except God Almighty guarantees my security. The bomb knows no religion, fears no deity, respect no authority, sees no persons; it distinguish people by neither age, status nor holiness. It has killed pastors, engineers, teachers, traders and farmers alike. Unlike the thunder, which strikes only when rain threatens or falls, the bomb is mobile. Moreover, unlike the thunder, which differentiates the guilty from the innocent, and those targeted from others, the bomb is a weapon of mass destruction without respect whatsoever. The next victim could be the thrower! There is no doubt that we are in a serious crisis, unless commonsense prevails.
We have seen what ethno-religious strife has done to Somalia and are seeing what is happening to Sudan. Why do we pretend not to known that the outcome of a war is not always in favour of the aggressor, or determinate by huge war arsenal alone? Number does not win wars, for it is not a numbers’ game. Every party to a war looses something at the end. It could be the loss of lives and limbs on a mass scale. It could also be a massive destruction of houses and infrastructures. Either way, the winner or loser would have lost several years of development and growth as the economy stagnated during the years of war. Go and ask the Persians of their experience at the end of the 1980 – 1988 Iran/Iraqi war. For God sake, this bomb throwing business must stop, now!
By Sam Onimisi
Bombs as man has come to know is, an explosive meant for maximum damage and was often employed in extreme or severe cases of war between two or more different nations. That was before now, not anymore. Now, the first weapon to be deployed as soon as an argument degenerates into a fisticuff is the bomb. Why this is so may be due to man’s growing impatience or an escalating thirst for bloodletting; I do not know. But my first experience of bomb was in 1967 during the Nigerian/Biafra War. I arrived my village from Lagos a few days earlier and enroute to Kaduna when something held me up at home. A child was born to my father and I was sent to his grandmother a few kilometers away to inform her that her daughter has safely put to bed. I rode my father’s bicycle for the errand, a message that I dutifully delivered and was returning home, jejely.
Unknown to me, I was to be punished for being the medium of that good news and a mother-goat, was given that assignment. A stream separated the two villages and a small narrow bridge had to be crossed. It was on the bridge that the goat chooses to execute her assignment. If you ask me, I will sincerely tell you that I did not see the shadow of a fly, not less of a big mother-goat. Before anyone could say meee, I had tumbled on my bicycle and was reeling right in the centre of the bridge! Passers-by said it was a goat, as for me I did not see nothing. However, there was I gasping for breath. The sound of my fall and the bleating of the goat produced a noise, which sounded like an echo of a bomb. That was the testimony of the passers-by. As for me, I was as blameless as Mr. Innocent, except that I was the victim of that accident who had to be the guest of the local Dispensary (now Health Centre) for weeks. As if this was not enough, something else happened. What was it again?
I was recuperating from that accident caused by that God-forsaken goat when the Biafrans struck. A primary school teacher living in our house, who is a maternal cousin rushed in to announce that the Biafrans were finally at Okene, a town ten kilometers from my village. A few hours earlier, the Biafran jet had discharged a bomb that had killed a prominent Anglican leader, Mr. Ajayi – a friend of my father who was then a Lay reader of the Anglican Church. At that time, and in those days, a teacher was a recognized and respected authority and his words were regarded as the gospel truth – next only to the Catechist. To say that there was a pandemonium would be an understatement. The fright that informed the mass flight from the village to the Ihima mountain – the Okehi Mountain also known as the abode of Ihima Deity, Ori-Ihima was something else. To the Christians, it was an Exodus and to the Muslims – a Hijra! The Animists were glad they were all fleeing to their protector, with both Christians and Muslims in tow.
My Dad announced that now that the end had come, everyone must choose what he/she wanted – to flee to the mountain or remain in the house and await his or her fate. Virtually everyone voted to flee to the mountain, except my father and I. Even if I had wanted to run, I could not because I was mauled by that goat accident. Again, my spirit was against the flight and so, I choose to remain in the house. My father who could not remember when last he cooked food by himself has to cook for both of us. For days, all members of our larger family took their abode with the Deity atop the mountain and my father and I remained alone in the house! We were waiting for the final battle - called Armageddon or the rapture when Jesus will come and take us ‘home’ A-r-m-a-g-g-e-d-o-n?
When the Biafrans failed to come, most of our people who took refuge at the mountain returned home. However, many had been bitten by snakes and a few mauled by lions. Some because of the fright-in-the-flight sustained various injuries and retuned home sick and weak. However, you need to know something else. During the Jihadist war when the Fulani invaded Ebiraland, the Orihima aided our battle by sending warrior hornets, which dealt devastating blows on the invaders and chased them away for the freedom of our people. Therefore,, most of our people invest faith in Orihima to do it again, against the Biafrans. While alone in the house with my father he asked me why, inspite of my infirmity, I refused to run to the mountain for safety. Without thought, I told him I did not believe the Biafrans would come to Ihima and besides, the bomb scare was not a problem to me, as I knew I had immunity against bombs. Was he amazed? To no end! He asked how, I told him that while we were growing up, we were taught that Orihima controls the thunder and during rainfall, if there was the sound of thunder, we were to say “I am the child of Orihima” and the thunder will depart in reverence and obedience. Therefore, I reasoned that no bomb is more powerful than the thunder and so, I fear no bomb!
My father was amazed at my answer and I noticed that from then henceforth, he valued my opinion more than my elders. However, he told me that in addition to the reason I gave, he read in Genesis how God bombed Sodom and Gomorrah and so, he knew that there could be bombs and so, if God decides to bomb Ihima – using the Biafrans – running to Okehi Mountains would not save his life! After all, his friend died by those bombs – the Biafran bombs. However, today, we have religious terrorists who could be your next-door neighbour and to whom you would have been a benefactor, but who hates you intensely not because of any offence, but for religious differences. He could be your childhood friend, your classmate, a neighbor far closer than a brother could. However, the day the religious demons seized him, he would forget your life long relationship and the fact that you were his benefactor all along. Until he made a barbeque of your flesh, he would not rest!
If the massacre were to be done via A.K. 47, you could say there is a limit to the number that could be killed or injured. However, a bomb – that is a weapon of mass destruction for which Saddam Hussein of Iraq was dethroned, hunted down and executed. Between October 2010 and January 2011, Jos, Maiduguri and Abuja have fallen victim of the bomb blasts. Moreover, scores of lives and billions in property were lost – just because of religious differences, tribal differentiation and political power tussle. Habal! Now, fear is the king and we all are forced to pay obeisance to it – regardless of our chosen faith or religion. The Church, which was regarded as a refuge, is no longer safe and the soldiers deployed to guard them are being killed. It is false confidence to believe that the Mosques are safe. Many no longer attends church services and attendance of Friday Mosque service has dwindled – all because of the fear of the bomb.
Now that the bombs are here, courtesy of the Movement for the Emancipation Niger Delta, MENDS and the Jama’atu Ahlus-Sunnah Lidda await Wal Jihan (or is it Jama’atu Nasril Islam), no one is truly safe. Even if I decide to go and hide at the Okehi Mountain – the abode of Orihima- I will still not be safe, except God Almighty guarantees my security. The bomb knows no religion, fears no deity, respect no authority, sees no persons; it distinguish people by neither age, status nor holiness. It has killed pastors, engineers, teachers, traders and farmers alike. Unlike the thunder, which strikes only when rain threatens or falls, the bomb is mobile. Moreover, unlike the thunder, which differentiates the guilty from the innocent, and those targeted from others, the bomb is a weapon of mass destruction without respect whatsoever. The next victim could be the thrower! There is no doubt that we are in a serious crisis, unless commonsense prevails.
We have seen what ethno-religious strife has done to Somalia and are seeing what is happening to Sudan. Why do we pretend not to known that the outcome of a war is not always in favour of the aggressor, or determinate by huge war arsenal alone? Number does not win wars, for it is not a numbers’ game. Every party to a war looses something at the end. It could be the loss of lives and limbs on a mass scale. It could also be a massive destruction of houses and infrastructures. Either way, the winner or loser would have lost several years of development and growth as the economy stagnated during the years of war. Go and ask the Persians of their experience at the end of the 1980 – 1988 Iran/Iraqi war. For God sake, this bomb throwing business must stop, now!
Farming and the Seer
(Prankish Pastime)
Farming and the Seer
By Mas Damisa
Let us assume that we were all farmers in Nigeria even though, division of labour and separation of powers have divorced many of us from the farm. I confess that I was once a farmer – being a farmer’s son. In our own area and at our time, the farming business begins at the early hours of 4.00 am when we must wake up to trek to the farm. The distance was usually between ten and thirty kilometers and the goal was to arrive not later than six in the morning to start work in earnest. Moreover, farming was very easy and pleasurable in those days. How?
For those unholy hours of between 4 am and 6am it was always pitch dark and to trek for that long distance, you must brace-up for some pleasant surprises. Because you are supposed to be sleeping as a young chap, if you leave sleep, it will refuse to give up easily and so, you have no choice but to sleepwalk. Now the typical village road and bush path were full of gullies, stubbles, stumps, rocks, and stones. We had to navigate through them all, sleep walking so, we jumped to fly over gullies, hit the stumps before knowing it was there, hit the stones to announce our transit, stumble on rocks for a kiss of a good morning – just for going to the farm. As a result, no one ever arrived the farm intact, for you would have donated some blood, foot nails, a black eye and in a few cases, a dislocated hip to the enterprise, I mean to those omnipresent stumps and stones on the way. By the time you arrive proper, a look at the mirror will confirm your encounters on the way to the farm – a physical wreck wrought in the furnace of hard labour.
If you are left alone to wade through those natural obstacles on the way, matters would have been easier to manage. However, at times, we met cobra, crawling majestically towards our direction and had no choice than ran into the bush to allow the king the right of way. Those who could not escape were mauled – a source of infant mortality. At other times, we were chased back to the village by marauders who were at work – stealing people’s sweat of farm produce. In which case, we returned home to show our bruised knees as the proof of the marauders’ raids – until the next morning. Still at other times, we were confronted by two penetrating eyes, which have no respect for darkness – as they see through it like daylight. We would be forced to retreat or stop and watch until we figured whether it was dangerous to advance or to vamoose from harms way – and that decision must be made in split seconds, otherwise…
Some other times, we met an old woman who was half-naked, doing some incantations and enchantment. In fear, we greeted her and she increased our trepidation by not answering our greetings. Was she a witch or an idiot? To look back at her would worsen our fright, but for our safety, we had no choice than to do so. By the time we did, the old witch had disappeared into tin airs. First, we increased our pace, then attempted to run and then we ran rapidly until, while struggling for space on the narrow bush path, we collided and fell simultaneously – all these because we must arrive the farm before daybreak!
How we survived that tortuous routine for those years is another story, which only the gods could tell. But it was not all trials, tribulations and troubles.
There were times we encounter hunters who would greet us and assured us that there was no danger as he had traversed the terrain. Again, we did meet particular specie of birds that were quarrelsome by nature. Whenever they fight, they bring themselves to the bush path, often times became too weak to fly, and so, we just picked them up into the bag – for a sumptuous meal. At other times, certain rabbits whose days were numbered would be sleepy right on the path way and we would just clubbed them for picks. Those that were not sleepy would take flight and we would chase them in hot pursuit – forgetting that we were not on a hunting mission expedition.
Could you imagine that even in pitch darkness, we quarrel? Oh, many times on our way to the farm, arguments do arise which in a few cases degenerates into a wrestling duel. Since no one has the time to separate the two, they would have to hasten their steps to catch-up with the team- as soon as they finished sorting out themselves. The journey to the farm continues. On a few occasions, the farm seedlings usually carried by the women among us would scatter on the sand because of stumbling. We would all stop and bend to pick them one-by-one until nothing is left for the birds to pick. Without doing so, what were we going to plant? Going to the farm was a task that must be done even if we had to crawl, jump, run, fly, or flee! We were on our way one day, not looking nor seeing the whether when a heavy rain started and were forced to take refuge at our grand aunt/s house some three kilometers from home. The old woman on recognizing the voice of my elder sister graciously opened the door for us and we remained there until the rains stopped. We left immediately for the journey after expressing our gratitude to her. A week later on our journey back home, we stopped to thank her again and presented to her some foodstuff we brought from the farm. She welcomed us as usual and gave us water to drink and to wash our dusty feet. When we made to go, she called my sister aside and they were taking. I noticed that the countenance of my sister has changed as she was looking agitated in contrast to the old woman who maintained a normal or subdued posture. After a distance, I asked my sister what were they discussing – was it about me?
My sister disclosed that the old woman lost some money and was inquiring if we saw or took the money. So I asked her if she took the money and she said she didn’t see any money, talk less of taking it. Unknown to us, the old woman had gone to a seer seeking to know who took her money. Our grand aunt also informed the seer that some people in transit lodged in her house for a few hours, around the time her money got missing. The oracle said it was a woman who stole the money. But she was living with some of her granddaughters and two of her sons’ wives. So, who among the women stole the money? Now, the seer became more specific. He claimed that the thief was a visitor and not one of the women living in the house. Who could the visitor-thief be? My sister? My sister!!. The old woman begged my sister to confess if she took the money, return it to her or whatever is left of it – and that no one would hear more about it. I demanded to know who was a seer and how or when did he see my sister stealing money. How, what, when, why?
Well, the case was taken to another seer who also said a woman stole the money but that the thief lives with the owner of the money. If this was a reprieve, my sister had not been exonerated, and so a third seer was consulted. This time, the seer said the old woman should go home and look for the thief. So, who is the thief? Could my sister be a thief? I resolved that this question must be properly answered. My sister informed our father when we got home who dismissed the matter as a non-issue, asserting that his daughter was not a thief. However, the oracle claimed she was a thief!
Do not misunderstand me; anyone could be a thief. But a thief knows himself or herself and if you have not stolen and you are pronounced a thief by an eyeless seer. Then you have the right to clear your name and or demand an apology from the fake seer. I was determined to save my sister’s name and defend her by whatever means. However, I was so young and helpless that I needed help to do so. Therefore, how did I embark on this task?
(To be continued)
Farming and the Seer
By Mas Damisa
Let us assume that we were all farmers in Nigeria even though, division of labour and separation of powers have divorced many of us from the farm. I confess that I was once a farmer – being a farmer’s son. In our own area and at our time, the farming business begins at the early hours of 4.00 am when we must wake up to trek to the farm. The distance was usually between ten and thirty kilometers and the goal was to arrive not later than six in the morning to start work in earnest. Moreover, farming was very easy and pleasurable in those days. How?
For those unholy hours of between 4 am and 6am it was always pitch dark and to trek for that long distance, you must brace-up for some pleasant surprises. Because you are supposed to be sleeping as a young chap, if you leave sleep, it will refuse to give up easily and so, you have no choice but to sleepwalk. Now the typical village road and bush path were full of gullies, stubbles, stumps, rocks, and stones. We had to navigate through them all, sleep walking so, we jumped to fly over gullies, hit the stumps before knowing it was there, hit the stones to announce our transit, stumble on rocks for a kiss of a good morning – just for going to the farm. As a result, no one ever arrived the farm intact, for you would have donated some blood, foot nails, a black eye and in a few cases, a dislocated hip to the enterprise, I mean to those omnipresent stumps and stones on the way. By the time you arrive proper, a look at the mirror will confirm your encounters on the way to the farm – a physical wreck wrought in the furnace of hard labour.
If you are left alone to wade through those natural obstacles on the way, matters would have been easier to manage. However, at times, we met cobra, crawling majestically towards our direction and had no choice than ran into the bush to allow the king the right of way. Those who could not escape were mauled – a source of infant mortality. At other times, we were chased back to the village by marauders who were at work – stealing people’s sweat of farm produce. In which case, we returned home to show our bruised knees as the proof of the marauders’ raids – until the next morning. Still at other times, we were confronted by two penetrating eyes, which have no respect for darkness – as they see through it like daylight. We would be forced to retreat or stop and watch until we figured whether it was dangerous to advance or to vamoose from harms way – and that decision must be made in split seconds, otherwise…
Some other times, we met an old woman who was half-naked, doing some incantations and enchantment. In fear, we greeted her and she increased our trepidation by not answering our greetings. Was she a witch or an idiot? To look back at her would worsen our fright, but for our safety, we had no choice than to do so. By the time we did, the old witch had disappeared into tin airs. First, we increased our pace, then attempted to run and then we ran rapidly until, while struggling for space on the narrow bush path, we collided and fell simultaneously – all these because we must arrive the farm before daybreak!
How we survived that tortuous routine for those years is another story, which only the gods could tell. But it was not all trials, tribulations and troubles.
There were times we encounter hunters who would greet us and assured us that there was no danger as he had traversed the terrain. Again, we did meet particular specie of birds that were quarrelsome by nature. Whenever they fight, they bring themselves to the bush path, often times became too weak to fly, and so, we just picked them up into the bag – for a sumptuous meal. At other times, certain rabbits whose days were numbered would be sleepy right on the path way and we would just clubbed them for picks. Those that were not sleepy would take flight and we would chase them in hot pursuit – forgetting that we were not on a hunting mission expedition.
Could you imagine that even in pitch darkness, we quarrel? Oh, many times on our way to the farm, arguments do arise which in a few cases degenerates into a wrestling duel. Since no one has the time to separate the two, they would have to hasten their steps to catch-up with the team- as soon as they finished sorting out themselves. The journey to the farm continues. On a few occasions, the farm seedlings usually carried by the women among us would scatter on the sand because of stumbling. We would all stop and bend to pick them one-by-one until nothing is left for the birds to pick. Without doing so, what were we going to plant? Going to the farm was a task that must be done even if we had to crawl, jump, run, fly, or flee! We were on our way one day, not looking nor seeing the whether when a heavy rain started and were forced to take refuge at our grand aunt/s house some three kilometers from home. The old woman on recognizing the voice of my elder sister graciously opened the door for us and we remained there until the rains stopped. We left immediately for the journey after expressing our gratitude to her. A week later on our journey back home, we stopped to thank her again and presented to her some foodstuff we brought from the farm. She welcomed us as usual and gave us water to drink and to wash our dusty feet. When we made to go, she called my sister aside and they were taking. I noticed that the countenance of my sister has changed as she was looking agitated in contrast to the old woman who maintained a normal or subdued posture. After a distance, I asked my sister what were they discussing – was it about me?
My sister disclosed that the old woman lost some money and was inquiring if we saw or took the money. So I asked her if she took the money and she said she didn’t see any money, talk less of taking it. Unknown to us, the old woman had gone to a seer seeking to know who took her money. Our grand aunt also informed the seer that some people in transit lodged in her house for a few hours, around the time her money got missing. The oracle said it was a woman who stole the money. But she was living with some of her granddaughters and two of her sons’ wives. So, who among the women stole the money? Now, the seer became more specific. He claimed that the thief was a visitor and not one of the women living in the house. Who could the visitor-thief be? My sister? My sister!!. The old woman begged my sister to confess if she took the money, return it to her or whatever is left of it – and that no one would hear more about it. I demanded to know who was a seer and how or when did he see my sister stealing money. How, what, when, why?
Well, the case was taken to another seer who also said a woman stole the money but that the thief lives with the owner of the money. If this was a reprieve, my sister had not been exonerated, and so a third seer was consulted. This time, the seer said the old woman should go home and look for the thief. So, who is the thief? Could my sister be a thief? I resolved that this question must be properly answered. My sister informed our father when we got home who dismissed the matter as a non-issue, asserting that his daughter was not a thief. However, the oracle claimed she was a thief!
Do not misunderstand me; anyone could be a thief. But a thief knows himself or herself and if you have not stolen and you are pronounced a thief by an eyeless seer. Then you have the right to clear your name and or demand an apology from the fake seer. I was determined to save my sister’s name and defend her by whatever means. However, I was so young and helpless that I needed help to do so. Therefore, how did I embark on this task?
(To be continued)
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Beware of the Farmers’ Palms
Beware of the Farmers’ Palms
By Sam Onimisi
The fear of God is the beginning of wisdom, so says the Holy Scriptures. It also says that pride or arrogance proceeds a fall, the gravity of the fall being dictated by the hubris of the individual or group. I feel sure you will grant me the indulgence of telling a story of my childish romance with pride. It was in 1960 and I had picked some words in English language as primary three pupils and was going about flaunting them before my pears and brothers who were not privileged to go to school. As it is usual with such pranks, insultive and negative words readily flow in the mouth. In those days, physical education was taken seriously even at the primary school level, and so I was training in athletics, boxing and soccer – all of which were part of physical education.
I had a half-brother, about two-years my senior who could not go to school due to economic reasons, and was at the farm with our father. During holidays, I do go to the farm during which I participate in farm works – up to the limit of my ability. It was also an opportunity to show-case my literacy by speaking English to my brothers, who unknown to me then, were not happy that they could not go to school and therefore, were always offended each time I spoke in English. Even when I became aware of their discomfort, I continue to reply their queries in English and when they reprimand me, I responded with insults believing that they would not understand. However, the manner I spoke gave me away and that infuriated them the more.
One day, I ran my mouth roughshod in response to my brother’s impolite reprimand and warned he will beat me if I repeat such behavior again. I got angry and told him he could do nothing. I had relied on my strength – an imaginary strength that was to come from God-knows-where. I assumed I was at least an amateur boxer and I imagined how I would fly like a butterfly and sting like a bee in the event of a showdown. The more he warned me the more I waxed bold and daring, until he lost his patience. While I was busy warming up for a ‘thriller in Manila’ – (as if I was Cassius Clay - later Mohammed Ali) something landed on my checks, which could as well would have been a thunderbolt. I must confess that I never saw it coming, or knew the time I passed out, sprawling on the mud floor with a fearful shriek. Obviously, I needed to be revived and it was our father’s lot to do so. When I regained consciousness, he asked me what happened and I muttered some inanities, which no one could comprehend. A man with a canny sense of humour, my father asked if I was now ready to demolish my brother with my hammer-punch. Unknown to me, when I was bragging and boasting, our father was watching from a distance and while reeling on the floor, he rushed to my side in trepidation. He wanted me to be taught a lesson but without being unduly hurt.
A few days later, while still wondering and wanting to know what actually hit me, I asked my brother if he had used a club on me, he said he merely slapped me with his palm. My God! How could a palm do such damage? I made to feel his palm and what I discovered amazed me to no end, his palms were hard as steel – made so by the daily use of hoe and cutlass – and God help they hit whomever! The farmers’ palms - I fear! Of course, from then henceforth my grammar dried up and I became circumspect in my dealings with those ruthless palms. However, the shame that went with that knockout slap remained with me for a long time to the extent that I began to map out strategies for revenge. Not long after, an idea hit me and so I gathered some pebbles in my knicker pockets with the intention of using them as ground-to-air missiles against my assailants. With this, my grammar revived and my confidence was restored.
One day, we had an argument and I suspected that my brother was angry enough to want to hit me again; and I denied him that opportunity by taking to my heels. A tree provided me a refuge, which I soon converted into a citadel. I climbed the tree and perched on it like a monkey. The tree is not far from the farmhouse with several footpaths to the farms, the brooks and other places soon. My brother was approaching and I hurled some pebbles at him and he was hit on the head. He retreated and ran back to the farmhouse to report an un-identified flying object (UFO) hit him. Soon, a hunting expedition was organized to track down the U.F.O. Unknown to them, I was atop the tree while they passed and climbed down to the farmhouse as soon as they went some distance.
Dear readers, I was found out one day when in an attempt to climb the tree, I slipped and fell with injuries on my thighs, arms and back. My loud cry attracted the people in the farmhouse who came to carry me away for care. On stripping me naked for treatment, my bulging pocket announced the pebbles ad I had no choice but to confess my mission to the Iroko tree. Even now as I am writing this piece, the thought of Alhaji Atiku Abubakar came to my mind. I saw him in my mind when he ran for the governorship of Adamawa in 1999; and when he was virtually the kingmaker in 2003. I saw his leadership of the Peoples Front after the demise of late General Shehu Musa Yar’Adua, up to the 1999 PDP Jos Convention.
How Atiku defeated IBB, Gen Gusau and Gov. Saraki through the Adamu Ciroma – led Northern Political Leaders Forum is something else. After he emerged with four vote’s victory as the Northern consensus candidate, he supposed the defeated three would rally round him for a show-down with President Jonathan. It was Atiku who discovered a mysterious book on “how to rig election” purportedly written by Goodluck/Sambo Campaign Organization. Few days to the convention, the Turakin Adamawa boasted that it was very cheap to defeat an incumbent president, and he would prove it soon. Even at the convention, Atiku used more than 15 minutes in which he took the president to the cleaners. Well, as they say, the rest is now history. Now back to my own story.
Since that day in 1960 when I fell from the treetop, I have learnt to be less presumptuous, curb arrogance and tame my hubris to maintain some moral equilibrium and avoid the fall of a braggadocio.
If my father had not been on hand to attend to me, perhaps I could have lost some jawbones to the farmers’ palm. If there were no people around to rescue me for care after falling from the treetop, I could have been maimed. God knew that I needed those therapies to bring down the latent pride in me. I suppose in inter-personal and inter-group relations and in political and social interactions, arrogance should be given no room. We all need gravitas – if only to save us from the farmer’s palm.
By Sam Onimisi
The fear of God is the beginning of wisdom, so says the Holy Scriptures. It also says that pride or arrogance proceeds a fall, the gravity of the fall being dictated by the hubris of the individual or group. I feel sure you will grant me the indulgence of telling a story of my childish romance with pride. It was in 1960 and I had picked some words in English language as primary three pupils and was going about flaunting them before my pears and brothers who were not privileged to go to school. As it is usual with such pranks, insultive and negative words readily flow in the mouth. In those days, physical education was taken seriously even at the primary school level, and so I was training in athletics, boxing and soccer – all of which were part of physical education.
I had a half-brother, about two-years my senior who could not go to school due to economic reasons, and was at the farm with our father. During holidays, I do go to the farm during which I participate in farm works – up to the limit of my ability. It was also an opportunity to show-case my literacy by speaking English to my brothers, who unknown to me then, were not happy that they could not go to school and therefore, were always offended each time I spoke in English. Even when I became aware of their discomfort, I continue to reply their queries in English and when they reprimand me, I responded with insults believing that they would not understand. However, the manner I spoke gave me away and that infuriated them the more.
One day, I ran my mouth roughshod in response to my brother’s impolite reprimand and warned he will beat me if I repeat such behavior again. I got angry and told him he could do nothing. I had relied on my strength – an imaginary strength that was to come from God-knows-where. I assumed I was at least an amateur boxer and I imagined how I would fly like a butterfly and sting like a bee in the event of a showdown. The more he warned me the more I waxed bold and daring, until he lost his patience. While I was busy warming up for a ‘thriller in Manila’ – (as if I was Cassius Clay - later Mohammed Ali) something landed on my checks, which could as well would have been a thunderbolt. I must confess that I never saw it coming, or knew the time I passed out, sprawling on the mud floor with a fearful shriek. Obviously, I needed to be revived and it was our father’s lot to do so. When I regained consciousness, he asked me what happened and I muttered some inanities, which no one could comprehend. A man with a canny sense of humour, my father asked if I was now ready to demolish my brother with my hammer-punch. Unknown to me, when I was bragging and boasting, our father was watching from a distance and while reeling on the floor, he rushed to my side in trepidation. He wanted me to be taught a lesson but without being unduly hurt.
A few days later, while still wondering and wanting to know what actually hit me, I asked my brother if he had used a club on me, he said he merely slapped me with his palm. My God! How could a palm do such damage? I made to feel his palm and what I discovered amazed me to no end, his palms were hard as steel – made so by the daily use of hoe and cutlass – and God help they hit whomever! The farmers’ palms - I fear! Of course, from then henceforth my grammar dried up and I became circumspect in my dealings with those ruthless palms. However, the shame that went with that knockout slap remained with me for a long time to the extent that I began to map out strategies for revenge. Not long after, an idea hit me and so I gathered some pebbles in my knicker pockets with the intention of using them as ground-to-air missiles against my assailants. With this, my grammar revived and my confidence was restored.
One day, we had an argument and I suspected that my brother was angry enough to want to hit me again; and I denied him that opportunity by taking to my heels. A tree provided me a refuge, which I soon converted into a citadel. I climbed the tree and perched on it like a monkey. The tree is not far from the farmhouse with several footpaths to the farms, the brooks and other places soon. My brother was approaching and I hurled some pebbles at him and he was hit on the head. He retreated and ran back to the farmhouse to report an un-identified flying object (UFO) hit him. Soon, a hunting expedition was organized to track down the U.F.O. Unknown to them, I was atop the tree while they passed and climbed down to the farmhouse as soon as they went some distance.
Dear readers, I was found out one day when in an attempt to climb the tree, I slipped and fell with injuries on my thighs, arms and back. My loud cry attracted the people in the farmhouse who came to carry me away for care. On stripping me naked for treatment, my bulging pocket announced the pebbles ad I had no choice but to confess my mission to the Iroko tree. Even now as I am writing this piece, the thought of Alhaji Atiku Abubakar came to my mind. I saw him in my mind when he ran for the governorship of Adamawa in 1999; and when he was virtually the kingmaker in 2003. I saw his leadership of the Peoples Front after the demise of late General Shehu Musa Yar’Adua, up to the 1999 PDP Jos Convention.
How Atiku defeated IBB, Gen Gusau and Gov. Saraki through the Adamu Ciroma – led Northern Political Leaders Forum is something else. After he emerged with four vote’s victory as the Northern consensus candidate, he supposed the defeated three would rally round him for a show-down with President Jonathan. It was Atiku who discovered a mysterious book on “how to rig election” purportedly written by Goodluck/Sambo Campaign Organization. Few days to the convention, the Turakin Adamawa boasted that it was very cheap to defeat an incumbent president, and he would prove it soon. Even at the convention, Atiku used more than 15 minutes in which he took the president to the cleaners. Well, as they say, the rest is now history. Now back to my own story.
Since that day in 1960 when I fell from the treetop, I have learnt to be less presumptuous, curb arrogance and tame my hubris to maintain some moral equilibrium and avoid the fall of a braggadocio.
If my father had not been on hand to attend to me, perhaps I could have lost some jawbones to the farmers’ palm. If there were no people around to rescue me for care after falling from the treetop, I could have been maimed. God knew that I needed those therapies to bring down the latent pride in me. I suppose in inter-personal and inter-group relations and in political and social interactions, arrogance should be given no room. We all need gravitas – if only to save us from the farmer’s palm.
Of Scammers & Kidnappers
Of Scammers & Kidnappers
By Sam Onimisi
The new industry in Nigeria is kidnapping, coming at the heels of scamming, popularly known as 419. Nothing is new really under the sun. They only come and go only to return in an endless circle. Back in 1973, kidnapping reared its ugly head in Kaduna when mob action was the judgment, without proof. There was an attempted kidnap of a child and the suspected culprit was given an instant judgment - by lynching. Unfortunately, the assumed kidnapper had some tribal marks - the typical Ogbomosho Yoruba marks and the ubiquitous mob, made up of street urchins and the almajirai, in their queer wisdom assumed that everyone with such facial marks are kidnappers. My God! It became dangerous for people with such marks to walk the streets in broad day light. Cases of mob action were on the rise and victims hardly obtain justice, until the security agencies stepped in to the arrest the mayhem. That was then.
Now, kidnappers are no longer identified by tribal marks, as they too have grown sophisticated with the aid of modern technology; cell phones, laptops and internet connectivity has made all manners of crime difficult to prevent, detect and curtailed. Rather than pinpointing the kidnapper, one will be flabbergasted if kidnapping kingpins are paraded for identification. You could swear by your local deity that the accused could never have been a kidnapper! However, here he is! The army of retired public officers whose pension could not sustain and whose throat had been widened by filthy lucre while in office might account for the mysterious godfathers behind kidnapping. I do not mean any harm by this insinuation as all of them could not be guilty. However, who could be the brain box of the rough boys of sophisticated kidnapping? Don’t tell me it is the proverbial witch doctors. They may be accessories to the crime, yes. You cannot convince me that the gunmen are the sole brains behind kidnapping. Who supplied them with the guns? Who shields them from arrest and how do they out-smart the police? Which of the security arms is principally responsible for the prevention of such crimes?
The drug barons defeated the police, which necessitated the creation of the National Drug Law Enforcement Agency to combat, but how much have they succeeded? Scammers now have the EFCC to contend with, but have these dissuaded criminals from 419? If there are no technocrats who knows the inner workings of the security agencies and have some influence over the law enforcers, how come that all crimes are escalating and criminals waxing stronger every day?
The struggle of the people of Niger Delta for fiscal federalism or resource control forced them to recourse to kidnapping key oil workers, especially expatriate staff to draw attention to their demand and, for some ransom to keep the struggle of afloat. This was before criminal elements infiltrated into their ranks and made a mess of the noble goal of attaining true federalism. Now, in the South East, the youths appear to have invested a huge capital of their ingenuity into the business of abduction of notable and rich individuals or members of their family for some handsome ransom. Their success in this resurgent enterprise of economic terrorism is attested to by the failure of the police to curb their murderous exploits. There is a general belief that the Police is an accomplice in this despicable business venture. How true this is can only be left to the imagination as the history and record of accomplishment of the Nigeria Police leaves much to be desired. The Army had to be deployed to the South East to subdue the Hordes of kidnappers, although the police had always claims to be “on top of the situation.” If they are, why do the criminals easily subdue them? On the other hand, is it a case of internal subversion?
The emerging picture suggests that kidnapping is a criminal occupation with various motives, even if extortion and ransom demand is the outcome. While the cause and reason for the practice in the South South has been explained, the reason for it in the South East is mainly mercantile. In the North, kidnapping is not a favourite crime, as they have no motive for making profit out of human captivity. They would rather waste the soul to appease some gods than hold them hostage. In Central Nigeria, a few copycats tried their hands at kidnapping for profits and found that the gains are far below the risks to their lives. We must therefore find out why kidnapping is an attractive business, and why a section of the country holds tenaciously to it, and why the police appear helpless in combating the menace.
How can we be of help to ourselves and the police in this war against kidnapping? First, we must shorn ourselves from adorning our bodies with excessive and expensive gold, silver and bronze bangles, chains and neck-lace. When you are be-decked to the extent of looking live a masquerade, you are begging to be kidnapped, and creating opportunity for kidnappers. Let us be moderate in our dress code. Second, those who spray themselves with expensive perfumes are beckoning on kidnappers for a kiss. If you are not rich, you would not be able to afford such perfumes, and if you can afford to buy them, you are likely to be invited to ‘donate’ to the have-nots through kidnappers. Car freaks whose children parades the street with the latest Japanese and American Limousine are open invitation to kidnappers. Do you need all of this cars and must you go on parade to flaunt your dubious wealth to the envy of potential kidnappers?
Many wealthy Nigerians who could afford the hiring of escorts are already doing so, except that there is a limit to what escorts can do in terms of safety and exposure. Chief Bola Ige had several police armed escorts but was killed by unknown gunmen and ten years after, we are still guessing who could have killed hm. Even the police that promised to turn all stones have left none unturned, and the killers are still at large-laughing at all of us. So, where is the security in armed escorts? If weapon training is a part of the training of official security operatives, how come that un-official gunmen are so dexterous in handling various rifles? On the other hand, is there an open training school for whoever wants to know how to shoot the gun? What happened to the restriction placed on the purchase and ownership of guns and weapons? Who enforces such restrictions?
At the risk of boring you with questions and advertising my naivety, I may only conclude that we have all compromised our physical security, not only by our attitude to personal safety but also by our low moral values and poor choices made in the past. If we voluntarily export our female teenagers abroad for prostitution, then those behind it and who have accumulated wealth through it must pay tax to the kidnappers. By collective compromise, we have handed over our individual liberty and community peace to accursed kidnappers. Oh hoo!
By Sam Onimisi
The new industry in Nigeria is kidnapping, coming at the heels of scamming, popularly known as 419. Nothing is new really under the sun. They only come and go only to return in an endless circle. Back in 1973, kidnapping reared its ugly head in Kaduna when mob action was the judgment, without proof. There was an attempted kidnap of a child and the suspected culprit was given an instant judgment - by lynching. Unfortunately, the assumed kidnapper had some tribal marks - the typical Ogbomosho Yoruba marks and the ubiquitous mob, made up of street urchins and the almajirai, in their queer wisdom assumed that everyone with such facial marks are kidnappers. My God! It became dangerous for people with such marks to walk the streets in broad day light. Cases of mob action were on the rise and victims hardly obtain justice, until the security agencies stepped in to the arrest the mayhem. That was then.
Now, kidnappers are no longer identified by tribal marks, as they too have grown sophisticated with the aid of modern technology; cell phones, laptops and internet connectivity has made all manners of crime difficult to prevent, detect and curtailed. Rather than pinpointing the kidnapper, one will be flabbergasted if kidnapping kingpins are paraded for identification. You could swear by your local deity that the accused could never have been a kidnapper! However, here he is! The army of retired public officers whose pension could not sustain and whose throat had been widened by filthy lucre while in office might account for the mysterious godfathers behind kidnapping. I do not mean any harm by this insinuation as all of them could not be guilty. However, who could be the brain box of the rough boys of sophisticated kidnapping? Don’t tell me it is the proverbial witch doctors. They may be accessories to the crime, yes. You cannot convince me that the gunmen are the sole brains behind kidnapping. Who supplied them with the guns? Who shields them from arrest and how do they out-smart the police? Which of the security arms is principally responsible for the prevention of such crimes?
The drug barons defeated the police, which necessitated the creation of the National Drug Law Enforcement Agency to combat, but how much have they succeeded? Scammers now have the EFCC to contend with, but have these dissuaded criminals from 419? If there are no technocrats who knows the inner workings of the security agencies and have some influence over the law enforcers, how come that all crimes are escalating and criminals waxing stronger every day?
The struggle of the people of Niger Delta for fiscal federalism or resource control forced them to recourse to kidnapping key oil workers, especially expatriate staff to draw attention to their demand and, for some ransom to keep the struggle of afloat. This was before criminal elements infiltrated into their ranks and made a mess of the noble goal of attaining true federalism. Now, in the South East, the youths appear to have invested a huge capital of their ingenuity into the business of abduction of notable and rich individuals or members of their family for some handsome ransom. Their success in this resurgent enterprise of economic terrorism is attested to by the failure of the police to curb their murderous exploits. There is a general belief that the Police is an accomplice in this despicable business venture. How true this is can only be left to the imagination as the history and record of accomplishment of the Nigeria Police leaves much to be desired. The Army had to be deployed to the South East to subdue the Hordes of kidnappers, although the police had always claims to be “on top of the situation.” If they are, why do the criminals easily subdue them? On the other hand, is it a case of internal subversion?
The emerging picture suggests that kidnapping is a criminal occupation with various motives, even if extortion and ransom demand is the outcome. While the cause and reason for the practice in the South South has been explained, the reason for it in the South East is mainly mercantile. In the North, kidnapping is not a favourite crime, as they have no motive for making profit out of human captivity. They would rather waste the soul to appease some gods than hold them hostage. In Central Nigeria, a few copycats tried their hands at kidnapping for profits and found that the gains are far below the risks to their lives. We must therefore find out why kidnapping is an attractive business, and why a section of the country holds tenaciously to it, and why the police appear helpless in combating the menace.
How can we be of help to ourselves and the police in this war against kidnapping? First, we must shorn ourselves from adorning our bodies with excessive and expensive gold, silver and bronze bangles, chains and neck-lace. When you are be-decked to the extent of looking live a masquerade, you are begging to be kidnapped, and creating opportunity for kidnappers. Let us be moderate in our dress code. Second, those who spray themselves with expensive perfumes are beckoning on kidnappers for a kiss. If you are not rich, you would not be able to afford such perfumes, and if you can afford to buy them, you are likely to be invited to ‘donate’ to the have-nots through kidnappers. Car freaks whose children parades the street with the latest Japanese and American Limousine are open invitation to kidnappers. Do you need all of this cars and must you go on parade to flaunt your dubious wealth to the envy of potential kidnappers?
Many wealthy Nigerians who could afford the hiring of escorts are already doing so, except that there is a limit to what escorts can do in terms of safety and exposure. Chief Bola Ige had several police armed escorts but was killed by unknown gunmen and ten years after, we are still guessing who could have killed hm. Even the police that promised to turn all stones have left none unturned, and the killers are still at large-laughing at all of us. So, where is the security in armed escorts? If weapon training is a part of the training of official security operatives, how come that un-official gunmen are so dexterous in handling various rifles? On the other hand, is there an open training school for whoever wants to know how to shoot the gun? What happened to the restriction placed on the purchase and ownership of guns and weapons? Who enforces such restrictions?
At the risk of boring you with questions and advertising my naivety, I may only conclude that we have all compromised our physical security, not only by our attitude to personal safety but also by our low moral values and poor choices made in the past. If we voluntarily export our female teenagers abroad for prostitution, then those behind it and who have accumulated wealth through it must pay tax to the kidnappers. By collective compromise, we have handed over our individual liberty and community peace to accursed kidnappers. Oh hoo!
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