Are We Beyond Redemption?
Pendulum By Dele MomoduI must confess, last week was special. As a writer of at least twenty-five years standing, nothing prepared me for the hoopla, that word again, that my column generated. Not after witnessing the nerve-shattering experience of Salman Rushdie, the controversial author of the Satanic Verses. For real, nothing sells like controversy. It is as inviting as fresh pop corn. And nothing attracts controversy like religion. If people can kill in the name of God, nothing indeed could be more volatile.
For me, writing excites. I love the incredible power it gives. You can reach millions of readers today at the speed of light. A writer is a magician. He can penetrate the most impregnable hearts. He can invoke passion in the most intrepid soul. A columnist, unknown to many of his readers is also a dictator of sorts. He writes his opinion. That is why the page is his. To succeed, he must be very brave. He’s not always expected to follow Francis Bacon’s ‘idols of the market place.’ He’s sometimes an iconoclast. His personal experience in life helps to form his judgment. What we call the sociological approach in literature. Sometimes you need to read deeper meaning into certain writings. A reader in a hurry would always miss out something in a Soyinkan essay. There are deeper interpretations into every word he employs.
Writing, to a literati, is an art. You may disagree with his opinion on serious issues, but there is always the entertaining side to it. Anger and disgust can distract from this unique experience. At the end of it all, nothing fulfils a writer more than being read. That was my experience last week. Sometimes, I wonder if we are not writing to a populace that lacks the reading culture. That was the theory. But the heated response last week changed all that. Some of the reactions were even lengthier than my own piece. They were heavily polarized. One angry writer threatened to “report you to your boss, Nduka Obaigbena,” if I did not publish his response pronto. I pleaded with him to do so. Another said I wrote to defend members of my privileged class, since I was supposed to be a billionaire like Adenuga and Dangote. I chuckled, and imagined he must have been counting the letters of my articles, not money. There was a particular man I had to give the pleasure of knowing the true me, as opposed to the hype.
I had learnt from one of Nigeria’s most successful columnists, May Ellen Ezekiel, MEE, that a writer should never keep too many secrets. Since readers are always curious about the motives of a writer, and we live in a society where rumours sell hotter than cake. Unknown to many, showbiz is about make-belief. It is an abracadabra. Our friend was agonizing over my supposed romance with the looters of Nigeria, and my fabulous wealth. I took my time in unveiling the man behind the mask. My genre of journalism does not allow me to hobnob with political elites. We mostly meet at public functions. My big friends never worry about my type of journalism because we don’t cause them any discomfort. They romance those who have the publications that attack them. No one remembers to even say thank you when you do positive or neutral stories. I’m never invited to the state houses for press briefings, and whatever comes out of it. I don’t collect land allocations.
I have not built mansions anywhere like some powerful writers. My only property on earth in London, I got on mortgage. My properties are the investments I make in paying incredible school fees on my kids. I came from a background that taught me not to lay treasures on earth. All the big houses I used to know as a kid have all become what the Yoruba call egeremiti, derelict and decrepit. The limousines of those days have become veritable habitats to roaches and rodents. A drive around our cities would reveal the futility of thinking one could steal in arrears and in advance. Many had thought they could steal on behalf of their children, and many generations to come. It never happens like that.
My job is simple. And I love it. All I do is to present the reality of our existence in graphic colours. How can anyone ever hold the photographer responsible for the rot in society for merely taking his shots? Camera lenses don’t discriminate. And journalism is not about censorship. American journalists are recording how American soldiers are falling in the field of battle. They are talking daily to terrorists and probing what makes it possible for anyone to want to die in the name of God. They regularly play tapes that have been smuggled into newsrooms. If such had happened in our climes, the journalist would have been called unprintable names. His newsroom would have been invaded by security goons.
We don’t always seem to appreciate the work of a journalist, and the different genres that exist. In underdeveloped societies, a journalist is expected to be a freedom fighter, and his publication a battlefield. But every journal has its focus and style, and code of ethics. Some articles would look out of place in certain magazines. That is why I chose the right platform of a newspaper to disseminate my views on society. To show that as much as I publish glamour, I still have an opinion. I’m only an entertainer by profession. Just like King Sunny Ade, or Dan Maraya Jos. You can’t blame them for performing at weddings and funerals. Or tell the caterers not to serve food and drinks. And tell the photographers not to capture history in motion. They all have their roles to perform, and can’t be accused of encouraging their clients to loot the treasury.
We had fun reading from our friends in the past one week. That was a blitz of a kind. I have no intention of elongating the debate on private jets. What should have been a beautiful week for me was ruined last Sunday. I had returned to Lagos two days earlier and had to drive straight from the airport to the home of my dear friend, the world-famous Kenny Ogungbe of Prime Time Africa, earlier engulfed in flames. The apparent cause was a power surge that blasted his ultramodern studio into smithereens. On Saturday, I was driven to the University of Lagos to participate in a youth empowerment project hosted by the Ibadan-based artiste, Gbenga Adenuga. We were joined by Chief Michael Ade Ojo (fondly known as Mr Toyota), Pastor Mrs Ibukun Awosika, a very successful furniture maker, Professor Pat Utomi, a teacher, politician and entrepreneur, and Mr Ogundipe, the comptroller-general of prisons, to encourage our youths on how to become responsible citizens. The event drew a full-capacity crowd, and I was so thrilled as I left the venue.
On Sunday morning, I received an early call from Akin, my driver. I looked at the time and wondered if he had slept at all. The voice I heard triggered an instant alarm in my brain. “Akin, what’s wrong?” I asked hurriedly. “Myself and my daughter have been burnt in our house. NEPA took our light and we put our candle… Our neighbor was passing with petrol for his generator, and our house just catch fire o!” My God. I jumped out of bed. At that moment, I was ready to send curses in the direction of anyone who ever had a hand in the failure of our power sector, the fat cats who have spent trillions of Naira searching for ordinary light. My driver was not as lucky as Kenny Ogungbe who managed to rescue his family quarters from the raging inferno. I could not believe what my driver had been reduced to by fire.
As if that was not bad enough, my wife sent me a message in Ghana on Wednesday night. A power surge had blasted through our home in Lagos, and had damaged our air-conditioners, fridges, bulbs and other appliances. She and the children were lucky that there was no fire outbreak. But she was so rattled that she cried and screamed. We had chosen to bring the children back from England to give them Nigerian upbringing, and you can imagine the ordeal of lights going off more than ten times daily. We change bulbs almost daily. The generator breaks down regularly from overuse. Diesel is not always readily available. The water-pump is erratic. The artisans don’t know their jobs. And they charge for jobs not well done.
The story is the same in most homes. Yet some Nigerians are telling us that despite the incompetence and irresponsibility of our ruling government, they’ve already awarded the next general election more than two years away to a man who already looks too tired to cope with the rigours of governance. What manners of human beings control our body politics? Why is Nigeria so incapable of producing principled politicians? Who would rescue us from these sycophants and shameless warlords? Is our case really beyond redemption? These were the questions that raced through my mind as I sat down to write this piece.
We must all rise up and do something. And soonest too.
For me, writing excites. I love the incredible power it gives. You can reach millions of readers today at the speed of light. A writer is a magician. He can penetrate the most impregnable hearts. He can invoke passion in the most intrepid soul. A columnist, unknown to many of his readers is also a dictator of sorts. He writes his opinion. That is why the page is his. To succeed, he must be very brave. He’s not always expected to follow Francis Bacon’s ‘idols of the market place.’ He’s sometimes an iconoclast. His personal experience in life helps to form his judgment. What we call the sociological approach in literature. Sometimes you need to read deeper meaning into certain writings. A reader in a hurry would always miss out something in a Soyinkan essay. There are deeper interpretations into every word he employs.
Writing, to a literati, is an art. You may disagree with his opinion on serious issues, but there is always the entertaining side to it. Anger and disgust can distract from this unique experience. At the end of it all, nothing fulfils a writer more than being read. That was my experience last week. Sometimes, I wonder if we are not writing to a populace that lacks the reading culture. That was the theory. But the heated response last week changed all that. Some of the reactions were even lengthier than my own piece. They were heavily polarized. One angry writer threatened to “report you to your boss, Nduka Obaigbena,” if I did not publish his response pronto. I pleaded with him to do so. Another said I wrote to defend members of my privileged class, since I was supposed to be a billionaire like Adenuga and Dangote. I chuckled, and imagined he must have been counting the letters of my articles, not money. There was a particular man I had to give the pleasure of knowing the true me, as opposed to the hype.
I had learnt from one of Nigeria’s most successful columnists, May Ellen Ezekiel, MEE, that a writer should never keep too many secrets. Since readers are always curious about the motives of a writer, and we live in a society where rumours sell hotter than cake. Unknown to many, showbiz is about make-belief. It is an abracadabra. Our friend was agonizing over my supposed romance with the looters of Nigeria, and my fabulous wealth. I took my time in unveiling the man behind the mask. My genre of journalism does not allow me to hobnob with political elites. We mostly meet at public functions. My big friends never worry about my type of journalism because we don’t cause them any discomfort. They romance those who have the publications that attack them. No one remembers to even say thank you when you do positive or neutral stories. I’m never invited to the state houses for press briefings, and whatever comes out of it. I don’t collect land allocations.
I have not built mansions anywhere like some powerful writers. My only property on earth in London, I got on mortgage. My properties are the investments I make in paying incredible school fees on my kids. I came from a background that taught me not to lay treasures on earth. All the big houses I used to know as a kid have all become what the Yoruba call egeremiti, derelict and decrepit. The limousines of those days have become veritable habitats to roaches and rodents. A drive around our cities would reveal the futility of thinking one could steal in arrears and in advance. Many had thought they could steal on behalf of their children, and many generations to come. It never happens like that.
My job is simple. And I love it. All I do is to present the reality of our existence in graphic colours. How can anyone ever hold the photographer responsible for the rot in society for merely taking his shots? Camera lenses don’t discriminate. And journalism is not about censorship. American journalists are recording how American soldiers are falling in the field of battle. They are talking daily to terrorists and probing what makes it possible for anyone to want to die in the name of God. They regularly play tapes that have been smuggled into newsrooms. If such had happened in our climes, the journalist would have been called unprintable names. His newsroom would have been invaded by security goons.
We don’t always seem to appreciate the work of a journalist, and the different genres that exist. In underdeveloped societies, a journalist is expected to be a freedom fighter, and his publication a battlefield. But every journal has its focus and style, and code of ethics. Some articles would look out of place in certain magazines. That is why I chose the right platform of a newspaper to disseminate my views on society. To show that as much as I publish glamour, I still have an opinion. I’m only an entertainer by profession. Just like King Sunny Ade, or Dan Maraya Jos. You can’t blame them for performing at weddings and funerals. Or tell the caterers not to serve food and drinks. And tell the photographers not to capture history in motion. They all have their roles to perform, and can’t be accused of encouraging their clients to loot the treasury.
We had fun reading from our friends in the past one week. That was a blitz of a kind. I have no intention of elongating the debate on private jets. What should have been a beautiful week for me was ruined last Sunday. I had returned to Lagos two days earlier and had to drive straight from the airport to the home of my dear friend, the world-famous Kenny Ogungbe of Prime Time Africa, earlier engulfed in flames. The apparent cause was a power surge that blasted his ultramodern studio into smithereens. On Saturday, I was driven to the University of Lagos to participate in a youth empowerment project hosted by the Ibadan-based artiste, Gbenga Adenuga. We were joined by Chief Michael Ade Ojo (fondly known as Mr Toyota), Pastor Mrs Ibukun Awosika, a very successful furniture maker, Professor Pat Utomi, a teacher, politician and entrepreneur, and Mr Ogundipe, the comptroller-general of prisons, to encourage our youths on how to become responsible citizens. The event drew a full-capacity crowd, and I was so thrilled as I left the venue.
On Sunday morning, I received an early call from Akin, my driver. I looked at the time and wondered if he had slept at all. The voice I heard triggered an instant alarm in my brain. “Akin, what’s wrong?” I asked hurriedly. “Myself and my daughter have been burnt in our house. NEPA took our light and we put our candle… Our neighbor was passing with petrol for his generator, and our house just catch fire o!” My God. I jumped out of bed. At that moment, I was ready to send curses in the direction of anyone who ever had a hand in the failure of our power sector, the fat cats who have spent trillions of Naira searching for ordinary light. My driver was not as lucky as Kenny Ogungbe who managed to rescue his family quarters from the raging inferno. I could not believe what my driver had been reduced to by fire.
As if that was not bad enough, my wife sent me a message in Ghana on Wednesday night. A power surge had blasted through our home in Lagos, and had damaged our air-conditioners, fridges, bulbs and other appliances. She and the children were lucky that there was no fire outbreak. But she was so rattled that she cried and screamed. We had chosen to bring the children back from England to give them Nigerian upbringing, and you can imagine the ordeal of lights going off more than ten times daily. We change bulbs almost daily. The generator breaks down regularly from overuse. Diesel is not always readily available. The water-pump is erratic. The artisans don’t know their jobs. And they charge for jobs not well done.
The story is the same in most homes. Yet some Nigerians are telling us that despite the incompetence and irresponsibility of our ruling government, they’ve already awarded the next general election more than two years away to a man who already looks too tired to cope with the rigours of governance. What manners of human beings control our body politics? Why is Nigeria so incapable of producing principled politicians? Who would rescue us from these sycophants and shameless warlords? Is our case really beyond redemption? These were the questions that raced through my mind as I sat down to write this piece.
We must all rise up and do something. And soonest too.
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