We sat around the evening fire
warming our cold scaling skin, dried like a smoked tilapia fish from the
harmattan breeze. My joy knew no bound as I sat beside him, he constantly
cracked his knuckles and spat into the burning fire, his eyebrows were grey, he
was aged in wisdom and in physique. I listened with rapt attention as he
recalled the beautiful memoirs of his boyhood, when Lagos/Ibadan expressway was
not bloodthirsty, when children played on the streets and attended schools
without the fear of rapists or kidnappers, the days when you do not have to rob
a bank to eat good food, suddenly he sighed and murmured,'the good old days'.
I could no longer stomach the storm
raging in my belly, I was quick to ask 'what happened to those days'?
I screamed loud,'we are constantly
being raped by your generation, the nascent democracy is stunted, our beloved
nation is on the edge of precipice, she has become a theatre of absurdity, a
den of corruption with the world wildest breed of profligate politicians, our
hospitals are inhospitable, our universities has become an abattoir, our roads
are death traps, he watched and listened as I tried to rewrite the Christian
holy book of lamentation.
He spat into the fire again as he
called out to the little boy and begged him to fetch us more firewood, he
coughed and spat into the fire for the umpteen times.
He requested for the cold cup of
water I had with me that had become lukewarm, he collected it and thanked me,
he tried to lure me into another discussion on the benefits of warm water, I
kept mum, he took a gaze at me, and he immediately sensed my glaring lack of
interest in that health talk.
At this moment, his voice was
becoming faint, I moved closer to this sage who is the patriarch of my
genealogy, with tears welling up in my
eyes, I asked him how do we come out of this 'wahala'?
He gave me a stern look and asked me
what I knew about Switzerland and the Swiss model of government...
I racked my brains immediately to
avoid a break in this fertile intellectual intercourse between two generations,
I was quick to recollect my previous conversation with grandma whom we fondly
called ‘Iya Agba'. Mama's usual summary is that love without marriage is a
lesser evil compared to marriage without love and that the 1914 amalgamation of
southern and northern protectorate of Nigeria is a marriage without love, which
is the greatest of all evils. My father detests me having any form of
conversation on national issues with 'Iya Agba' because he assumes her to be an
ethnic bigot, mama never fails to tell anyone how she was serially raped by
Nigerian soldiers during the Biafran war, she considers the manstra 'one
Nigeria' a mirage.
She tells whosoever cares to listen
that the 100 years old error of Fredrick Lugard can be corrected without
bloodbath, she opined that what
separates us is stronger than what binds us, and if brotherhood is an
obligation, that Swiss model of government is a strong cord to keep us tied.
Absolutely multicultural with people living together peacefully notwithstanding
different languages and religion. Switzerland has true federalism, with the
national government responsible for only about one-third of government
spending. The president and vice
president of the confederation is largely ceremonial and they are elected by
the federal assembly from among the members
of the federal council for one year terms that run concurrently. She
emphatically states that Swiss executive is one of the most stable governments
worldwide. Since 1848, it has never been renewed entirely at the same time
providing a long time continuity.
My young mind considers 'Iya Agba' to
be an intelligentsia par excellence, but how do I tell her that our beloved
Naija is too volatile and the pseudo-democracy is nascent, that the Swiss model
cannot work here.
I excused myself for midnight
snacking and to be back.
About Oliver Onyibe
Oliver Onyibe is a/an |Clerisy| |Social Engineer| |Lover| |Eclecticist|
