may it be done on earth as it is done in Nigeria 1In my next life I’ll still come out a Nigerian. I can’t press that same wish on the fellow coming after that but who cares. I’ll still have my right to dual citizenship but my two countries will be Nigeria. There is nowhere on the planet that you have what I have here in Nigeria. To start with everything here has been privatised. And that is my dream. I mean everything including the public sector. The legislature, the presidency, both effectively privatised. Bought and sold with previously public funds. Where else in the world can you do that? Now you have an idea of why I like my country? You can buy anything including yourself. Once you can afford it you are yours for keeps. The judiciary? I am not certain. The problem with the privatisation of that sector is that it is a seriously professionalised sector and how to get enough greedy, very educated people to effectively take it all over is the main problem. Somewhere along the road there is going to be some bonehead who won’t sell. And he will have enough clout to spoil things for whoever wants to buy and sell, such that he or the group might wind up in jail for just the attempt. They’ll call it attempt to pervert the course of justice. Bad thinking to imagine you could privatise the judiciary. That’s enough for that. I was saying the whole country is privatised. You can’t get to be the president unless you have the blessing of a bunch of nitwits. You’ll have to pay for the blessing, mind you. The legislature? You get your seats courtesy of the presidency not the ballot. The ballot is no guarantee, it can easily be snatched. And remember the nitwits are smart enough to outwit you at the polls. Course they have not been able to buy off the observers. But that is because the foreigners got them before we did. And they don’t pay in Naira. Either Euros or Dollars, a little tricky for the system on the ground.
The economy? Hah! That is where it all hangs from the hands of the private sector. Here is the only, and I mean the one and only place you can get a CBN (Central Bank.........) Governor to sit on a time bomb and close his eyes to the lit fuse as long as his offshore bank account is not on the ground zero of the bomb. But all that may be changing. Ask some of the fellows who have been looking for a hiding place from one skinny fellow with a bowtie and one chubby lady with some mean pair of sunshades. The shades give way to some reading glasses when she is not chasing bank executives and cashiers. A week ago some clown in a bow tie thought he was smart and raided the bankers’ books. The fools kept records. And good records for uncle Sanusi to see. He raided their treasury, the treasury of the funders of the privatisation scheme, that is. See, the system works this way. Find where the money is, tell only one of them and that is all they need. Give them 48 hours and there will be enough funds to bankroll the demise of what ever project it is they perceive as the threat to their ambition. Now, the psyche is that nothing is going to go wrong. And nothing can go wrong. So the money taken out doesn’t have to be paid back. There is going to be a couple of noisemakers. Sure, you can’t do without that. We’ve got freedom of speech deeply entrenched in our beautiful constitution, but afterwards, you are privatised, you are on your own. To keep the noisemakers down, set aside a contingency fund, deep enough to keep them subdued, then get another group talking them down and providing some lame explanations with a slightly intelligent sounding ring. More interesting if the explanation is confusing. I tell you, you will walk freer than the noisemakers who get death threats all day and get to change their phone numbers. Sometimes the psyche turns up wrong and the noisemakers win and really win big. They then create a din and get some brand new bragging rights.
So this clown I was talking about, he stands up in the village square, by the way the local chief should
have foreseen his disposition. On the very instant of his interactive session for the checks and balances body to see how he fitted into the system, he had said the local chief, who spends a lot more time napping than reading his briefs, that he, the local chief had bitten more than he could chew. That he should prune down his dreams for his country to just one and see the one through. Some effrontery. They laughed it off. Of course, that was the gimmick, put out a tough posturing and when things start and die off no one is going to blame him, they will blame an invisible caucus for binding his hands behind him. Just that this time they were mistaken. So what does the clown do? He comes up with a sniffer dog just out of the woods who had no idea of what the traditional workings were. Just armed with a simple instruction, have a look into this area, I think some thing smells funny in there. So he starts to be looking and looking real hard. Of course something was a-smelling there. Plentiful pong. And in no time at all the shit hits the fan. And bank chiefs get to start wearing diapers to keep the diarrhea in check, racing around the nukes and cranny looking for rat holes to hide in. Of course there aren’t any big enough for the big shots. You and I will call this situation the Bowtie-Freight-Syndrome (BFS). In desperation Chief, chief Ibru’s sweetheart puts out an act 1 scene 1. Passing out in the courtroom. Beautifully done, the performance was a thrill to see, except it was in the wrong theatre.
Yep, I said the wrong theatre. I know a bit of what happens in the courtroom and I can assure you that that is a place that has no room for emotions, passions or sense of humour. Empathy, sympathy and whatever you might want to call it are out. On the humour corner, those who get to laugh occasionally for two seconds each instance are those fellows draped in penguin suits and Dracula gowns in the steamy heat, stiff, white dog collars, with some funny white and off-white and some disused brown-with-age, caps, sitting just in front of the only group of people facing the wrong direction in the courtroom. With the exception of the judge of course. He or she has to face everyone or he or she may be facing the wall which is not usually very pleasant or convenient if you’re supposed to stare down those in the courtroom. Back to where we were. You drop dead in the court room, the first thing the judge will ask is, “Wait a second, any doctor in my courtroom presently?” he may follow this up with, “An effort at reviving that accused person will be commendable.” Calm as ice, no frantic rush to do anything. If it takes a little longer than reasonable, same judge will remember to say, “I rise for fifteen minutes.” And accordingly keep to his words. Not forgetting to take a bow before taking a step from where he or she stands. Whether because the fellow on the floor can’t rise or does not know how to rise and so the court gives him or her an idea of what to rise is like or just to give the doctor some free time is entirely in the mind of his Lordship. Of course in aunt Ibru’s case she came along with her personal doc. Smart move but he was professional to the bone and not privatised. Not at that time. And not in the near future. The trial started where it left off, a little before the act. Am still trying to figure out what triggered that move.
But in my country, we are good at what we do. Of course we leave room for a little slip here and there. And we always create a back door to let out of. Some of the bank big shots who had a plan B were out of the country long before my aunt Fatima could lay her hands on them. These ones caught what you and I will also call the Babe-Fright-Syndrome (BFS 2, the figure 2 is to help our less brain-privileged mass get to differentiate it from the other BFS). They, bank chiefs, are all going to be needing some sleeping pills and sleeping bags for quite a while. And some large spy hats with rear view mirrors. They have a rough idea that since big babe Hillary told my aunt Farida that she was yet to match up the records of my cousin Nuhu, she was sure going to make an example of them. Here we call moves like that, some person to take polish P.R. My aunt Farida’s P.R. had been in the septic tank for quite a while now. In regular Ms. Elizabeth Windsor’s English, some guinea pig. Now what scared the shit out of the bankers was this one move, my aunt Fatima moved her head office temporarily to Lagos. She figured if it came to real foot chase it would be easier done in Lagos, the traffic will slow the bankers down, moreover they are all overweight anyway. Though my aunt Farida isn’t doing badly herself on the weight business. I hear she has taken up jogging to shed some off, and be more flit-footed. And she has some very fit younger people in her payroll. That move alone told them all, “I am here strictly for you guys. Just a home call.” And when women mean to mess you up they do that really good. Ask a few divorcee men living behind you. Some of them sleep with mashettes under their beds just in case their ex pops her head suddenly with something incongruous. This is the extreme case of BFS 2.
And the funny thing is women are more afraid of each other than they are of men. Soon as aunt Ceecee heard aunt Farida was out to get her, and was on one of those fancy planes navigating towards last port (Lagos) she put two and two together, either it did not arrive at 4 or she did not wait for it to before she took the next wheelbarrow on the tarmac facing the opposite direction. She ensured they landed at the same time in their opposite destinations. Aware of the traffic problem in Lagos, and sure that aunty Farida would not be taking Fashola’s rapid buses, she was certain she would definitely arrive at the Corry Bay crescent office of her horrors before aunt Farida got to her erstwhile bank office to ask directions to her home. Clean escape into the net, free-will submission of self credit earned, aplenty. Reminds you of Tom and Jerry, right? Only spoiled by the act 1, scene 1 in the wrong theatre. Hers is the affliction by the two BFS and BFS 2. Not a good combination to catch. I can tell you that. On the lighter side though, if I know my fellow citizens well, the price of bowties is going to hit the roof in a pretty short time. Anyone who wants to get a little overdraft to pay school fees and is having a bit of a problem with his bankers, all he needs to do is buy himself a bowtie and some striped suit and hang around the bank premises or the banking hall. Every staff of the bank will give him an overdraft from their own pockets. The fear of bowties is the beginning of wisdom. Bowties will be a fashion in a couple of weeks. The time it takes to make enough and flood the market.
The other big shots at large, yea, them, are surely going to need the size of the earth to hide away. They are privatised in the extreme form that I did not anticipate. The earth is large alright but not that large anymore with this internet business where some one can be talking to you and tweeting you to someone or others at the other end of the planet. Good thing is, I hear that there are chatter flights into outer space these days. Except that the human that we are, we are stupidly dependent on and glued to dear mother earth so much that we can’t stay too long away from her. You start missing her so badly you’ll be tempted to trek back from outer space if you’re left too long out there. Mr. Alexander can tell you what it was like when he was marooned at the International Space Station,( no, I think it was Mir space station), for longer than he bargained for. It was fun at first then reality set in and he needed all his wits and courage to keep from leaping out the window of his module. About that time I was stranded some 120 kilometres away from my home here on earth with no money and no familiar faces aside from mine. I thought I had a big problem until I heard of his and then calmed down. I got a lift home some thirty minutes later. He didn’t until some six slow motion months after. Different strokes for different folks. Worse still the investment market, real estate business in outer space is still rudimentary and dollars, pounds sterling and our precious Naira are not very good medium of exchange there due to the low human population out there. Worse still the stocks out there are niet. Meaning whatever they may have piled here remains here if they were to permanently relocate to Mars or some such fancy places. No Hyatt Regent, no Transcorp Hilton, and of course no Sheraton out there, not yet. No Waldorf either. Just a good deal of frost bite which they can’t handle and some weightlessness which they sure need. Floating in outer space can only be for so long especially on an empty wallet. They will be back.
I said we are entirely privatised, right? The kidnap business too has been privatised. For now the Free Kidnap Zone (FKZ) is still the Niger Delta. With the rumoured Direct Foreign Investment (DFI) in the kidnap business lined up, we expect there will be satellite outlets or inlets in a matter of time all over the country. If the profit is as good as I hear, the temptation to invest there will deliberately not be resisted. Tips to not forget: If you are as chocolate brown as I am, you don’t need to panic, you blend. If you’re jet black you’re home free and might even be considered a threat or a strong competition. Anything paler than that, take my advice. At the airport at Port-Harcourt, stop over at the shoe shiner’s post, get a can of dark brown polish, the Kiwi brand is particularly effective, takes three days to clean off (with the strongest soap), during which time you might have finished your business and cleared out of town or are on the plane back to Lagos or Abuja where it is absolutely safe. Yea, what to do with the polish? Kidnappers, please give my friend and I a break, don’t read this part. Read the instructions carefully. Smear the polish on your face, neck, chest, hands, and legs. Legs? Yes. Your socks might run down (down-jive) and expose some skin between your shoes and your trousers. You don’t want that sudden let down by your disguise. For the ladies you may have to coat your whole body with it. You don’t need more than one can in either case. In case of adverse reactions, take it easy, bear it till you are out of the FKZ (Free Kidnap Zone, twit!) then consult your physician. No hugging and no intimacies. No matter how tempting she may be. Difficult conditions but the consequences of breaching them are a little serious. To ensure that the Shoe Polish Protocol (codenamed S.P.P.) works, get a written guarantee of full refund from the shoe shiner. If he cannot read and write make the refund double and then add the illiterate jurat (it reads, the above has been read over and interpreted from English to Hausa language to the guarantor who affixed his mark only after appearing perfectly to understand same, by me......) he will thumbprint. The can of polish is not that costly, but if you have to buy it rock bottom cheap get it outside the Niger Delta area, the price is rapidly going up there for obvious reasons.
The nose? Don’t worry, we have everything thought out. We have enough variety of noses in the country and yours no matter how pointed, short, flat or broad won’t draw unnecessary attention except if you venture into the Eastern part of the country with a pointed one. In which case you may need to tape your nose tip down some with a clear adhesive, make it flattish, you know what I mean. Or get installed a clear expander catheter. I know someone who does it for a living. It is codenamed the Nubian Nose Protocol (N. N.P.). In the alternative get a tip from Michael Jackson’s website (this is a little tasteless, but take the lighter side of it).
Sorry, one little slip. I told you we make room for slips. Sometimes our guests have the kind of lips
that are not common here. This is the No-Lip-Situation. It falls under the Negroid Lip Protocol (N.L.P.). Quite frankly this had given us sleepless nights until recently when one of our esteemed foreign Investors (one of those who come here to improve their economy at home) got in a bar fight over who should go home with a figure 8 they both met at the bar. Being good hosts, we Nigerians are known for that, we visited him on Sunday morning to see how he was faring and sit out with him if he had any thing left over in his freezer in the way of enhancing the visit. He had. We were met by a negroid looking whitish fellow who sounded a bit like Mr. Brown even though a little muffled from the thick lips. We asked if Mr. Brown was awake. He was and indeed was standing right there in front of us looking temporarily negroid. He looked in good stride but complained that the face attacked was an innocent victim. The real cause of the problem was the midsection who somehow was unscathed. How he knew? He said that was what he checked up first thing and informed the shrivelled jerk of his resolve never to let himself think on its behalf again from this morning on. Of the lips he said it helped him blend some. Voila! We made the discovery! The Negroid Lip Protocol was finally found. It is a bit low tech and physical but quite effective.
We have recruited Mr. Brown’s attacker (secretly of course, we still need Mr. Brown’s supply of
beers in his freezer and he is such great company you don’t want to lose him for the sake of money.
Even though we are privatised as well. You don’t have to take a guarantee of full refund of your money in this case we shall guarantee the near-lynch beating required for this protocol. You on your part just focus on being brave enough to take the pain and not fight back so as not to incur unpleasant side effects that might put you out of action for more days than necessary. For samples of the design of lips you might want do go through our reality catalogue in the South-West and the Middle-Belt where we have them in good number. Mr. Brown’s attacker whom we shall not name for the sake of protecting trade secret, has foolproof formula that meets your specification. We can even give you computer generated version of what you will look like when he is finished with you. This is the only high-tech part we have been able to do just yet. We are working on the rest modules.
If the disguise fails, and the fault is not traceable to our negligence or non-professionalism (an absolutely rare event, well, you might need to buy yourself off them. Now you see what I mean? Anyhow, no cause for alarm, a couple of people I know have walked away free of charge from the kidnappers (I think one of them was actually escorted home and he did not give the kidnappers directions to his house, he acquired a wait-and-take diarrhea (instant) in the model of the bank executives’, when he discovered they had the key to his gates). This free trip is earned by simply declaring there and then instant bankruptcy. No falling down in a faint required. Your kidnappers will give you money to get you back home. And don’t worry about how to refund the money to them, they are not poor, the kidnappers, and won’t need it. Anyone that can afford the kind of guns they carry can afford much too much more.
Uhh, where were we? Can’t remember now. Privatisation? So I was saying we really are fully privatised and even into your wallets. I got a little money sometime back that I figured I was not going to need for a while but would not mind the idea of getting a little interest on it. I got really smart then and ran down to my bankers, dumped the stuff there, they were all smiles, even offered me a cup of tea. Or was it tea? And I thought to myself, sure, my bankers are really into the personal service thing and were going to go places. Sure they were. Just that I did not realise the personal bit of it was as it applied to them and not me. They grabbed my money. As soon as I walk into that funny door that tells you to get out all that stuff you have been hiding from your wife and show them to some lens that you can’t see into, on my way out, my bankers pick up the phone and dial their pals and start sharing my money out to them with no collaterals and probably no interests. I think I saw the bullion van, a bullet-proof sedan, that took my money to their pals. Meanwhile, so I won’t be coming into the banking hall to ask too many sharp and rude questions they make me take up an ATM card that says stay out of the banking hall, get your money along the street and lose it to some fellow lurking around the cash dispenser. Whenever my card gets stuck they throw a party and jubilate. I can’t withdraw nothing from my account until they say so. Meanwhile they can withdraw from my account without my saying so. They privatised my account. I did not know I was that blockheaded until bro Sanusi came along and shook them up real good.
He was grilled of course for going out of line and reading too much of the stuff that he found on his desk. Luckily for him some of his persecutors in keeping with their laid down principles, were themselves not reading much of what was on their desk. They depended too much on their telephony which could not relay much since the charge per second is rather terrorist inclined. The briefer the conversation the wiser, even with the big shots. In my country, on the phone, which is also privatised of course, brevity is the sole of business, no matter how elaborate the rudiments of the business may be. His persecutors were miffed at his cocky approach, not a trace of apology for snooping without approval. Much worse their free funds were being threatened and the faster they acted the better. No time to sit and think. But bro Sanusi was not afraid of thinking and neither was he afraid of reading, nor talking either. He knew who were owing and who weren’t among those who thought to give him a piece of their not too brilliant minds. It all played out and we all saw who it was that knew his onions and who quite didn’t. The twits bragged a little to save face but the face was distorted beyond redemption.
So, which one of you says my country is not moving forward? We are. Just that we are at a breakneck speed. And sometimes we actually break our necks. By the way, what makes you think your forward is our forward. More so, you forget that when you are talking to me about going forward you are usually facing me which means your forward is my backward motion and my forward is your backward motion. We are going forward and remember that may be your backward motion. We have our unique ways of getting things done.
Smart fellow, you noticed all the people here are either my cousins, aunts, bros and sisters (no, no sisters), right? Well, we are all privatised and that makes us relatives in privatisation. Besides, we Nigerians look out for one another wherever we find ourselves. Want to bet?
abbah r. agor-agalanga
