It is sheer arrogance for a snail to call an imbecile to a battle of salivation, the same way it is a suicide mission for a snail to call a horse to a battle of race, just like inviting Nigerian leaders to a contest of waste. We are fond of wasting precious time. We waste our God-given resources. We waste our talents and prodigious human endowments. We waste our tomorrow at the altar of our wasted yesterday. We waste the future of our children at the shrine of our today’s purposelessness. We waste ourselves with savage resolve. We waste a gifted nation even as we waste the destiny of the Black race. So the nation has overtime, turned to a collection of bloody waste. Any child born into this and fed on its gory rites must certainly turn out a blood-sucking Dracula.
It was the maturity of our waste that sent me to a temporary endless journey through the desert of my mind. I died a while ago. Nothing is as strange as being on the other side of life. I was covered with a blanket of darkness. I could see nothing; I could hear nothing, witnessing only permanent night. The signs were lucid. No snores, no croaky sounds and no whistling but the hooting of owls. The first hoot reverberated in the air through the dead of the night with appealing sonority, clearing the wave path for the second hoot and the third one. The three hoots formed a resonating rhythm. The croaky tunes from the toads joined and I heard the whistles of trees. The combo was tuneful. I was in the dead zone on my way to heaven. It was a long night when I dreamt that I died of Nigeria’s un-doings.
So I died because the entire country appeared to have been placed on a permanent war footing with periodic bulletins and adjustment of alerts. Yet everything appeared calm and unruffled on the surface, until you begin to probe the inner recesses of the society. The hedonic nature of people remains discrete and unobtrusive. An ill-judged joke could induce a nerve attack and send you in the wrong direction. So I died to shield myself against all these odds.
Whatever the ideological temperament of Nigerian leaders is, they are all united in their denigration of our collective amassed intellectual wealth to rubbles. The project of modern Nigeria, being a national project transcends individual ideological proclivity, does not brook intellectual dissention. Unfortunately, this is not the case. The discursive formation behind the cluster of modern Nigerian hegemony suffers from its own tyranny of intellectual dwarfism on human capital waste. So we were all brought up in our warren of wastes.
That night died and the following day resurrected with harmattan cold when the mother hen was already on the field with its entourage of chickens. I opened my eyes to find myself fully soaked in my own sweat. I was back to the world of waste, a prison where reasoning has been sentenced, and a boxing ring where the intellectually mighty suffers sneers from the lowly brained audience. I was back to the roads tarred with wasted human blood. I was back to the open cemetery where ideas don’t live and where the stench of clogged blood has become the natural aroma of the atmosphere.
I was back to the land of corruptive emergencies, waste ridden interiors, of stick-thin, half-dead children staring fixedly in different postures of hopelessness at an impending fatality. Still glued to my bed, tears cascaded down from my blurred eyes through my cheeks and got buried in the corners of my mouth. This time, my perspiration resisted the cold ambience of the morning harmattan. Goose bumps took over my skin and tears continued to cascade down my cheeks. The early morning harmattan failed to douse my temperature for beads of sweat began to form under my armpits, on my chest, under my temple and under my feet. The creases on my forehead moved in tempo with my palpitating heart.
Memories came back again and I wanted to write about my sudden come-back from the other side of life. My blog, Obajeun.com has been under continued attack. The realization of this made my memories to disappear. I became empty and silent thereafter. I knew that my silence was not the absence of noise; I was lost with the muted noise of a million voices. A loud hubbub asphyxiated by fate. So I resolved, with my muted voices, that someday my blog attackers would die of my noise!
In my silence, I cursed the wasteful Nigerian leaders. I cursed my dead dream for not lasting till Methuselah. I cursed the politician convoy whose siren woke me up from my dead sleep. I cursed Boko Haram for killing innocent civilians. I cursed the government for allowing the carnage to continue unabated. I cursed religion for being our bane today. I cursed the presence of crude oil in Nigeria. I cursed life for being useless without money. I cursed my blog attackers for being on my case.
That same morning, my TV screen was staring at me. The images appeared blank except for a resemblance of Oby Ezekwesili. Her broad voice pierced through my eardrum. She was talking about waste, and then a shocking revelation. 1.1tr Naira wasted on Lawmakers’ salaries since 2005!, in my silence, I screamed. My voice dropped abruptly and darkness took over. For the second time, I died again!
Jonah Ayodele Obajeun works as a professional with a multinational. He blogs @obajeun.com and can be reached on twitter via @Obajeun