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We can’t be saved

Why Nigeria Doesn’t Need a President

Colonialism is still in session

Four years ago, around this time, Nigeria was immersed in a monumental event that galvanized the harassed population of a nation, that has been on life support ever since the British decided that our wealth could be successfully used to weaponize us into historical defeat.

The election season of 2015 was hailed as the one and only opportunity for traumatized citizens to finally pick the anointed hero, who was well-equipped to finally make Nigeria Great for the first time ever.

There was a lot riding on this, and the mounted pressure was due to the intense gaze of the world, that had suddenly become invested for reasons that had everything to do with the missing Nigerian school girls, who were brutally removed from their dorms by jihadist militant cell — Boko Haram — a year prior.

Before #BringBackOurGirls became the viral sensation of 2014, I had previously expressed the fear of the Islamist terrorists that had begun their reign of terror in 2009, during the leadership of the refreshingly affable but woefully incompetent head of state — President Goodluck Jonathan.

My main concern at that time, was for my parents, who were located in the nation’s capital of Abuja — situated at the very core of Nigeria, and a little too close in proximity to the Northern region, that Boko Haram had claimed as their preferred territory when it comes to grazing villages and villagers to the blood-red ground.

The bombings were getting more frequent. Churches blown to bits, cars breathing hell fire with occupants screaming for death, and the fiery remnants of suicide bombers that weren’t even up to the age of 12.

While growing up in Lagos, during the gangster 80s that comprised of military coups, and the greed-driven army brigadiers, who were bribed by European and American oil companies, to keep the flow steady at the expense of our direct contact with basic amenities — I don’t ever recall witnessing the power and might of the Nigerian Army.

The soldiers fought amongst themselves for the glory of toppling regimes and instituting their personalized brand of paralyzing dysfunction.

This explains why Boko Haram hasn’t been vanquished, and how the elections of 2015 turned out to be the complete joke and waste of time that I had predicted.

While everyone was desperate to strike poses with placards that depicted the global concern for the missing Nigerian girls, my mission was to create chaos with the damning message of how those poor souls will never be recovered.

It was a shocking disturbance in the force of euphoric activism, that bred the falsehood of how justice had to be garnered at whatever cost.

But the truth is that when it comes to the complexities that intertwine the intestines of epic disorder, that was manufactured from the gall of White supremacy, there’s really no effective method that guarantees a full recovery.

Nigeria isn’t even in survival mode.

The land of plenty with bloated riches to unfold, has been hosting a perishable kingdom since the day we were overrun by White missionaries, who used the bible as the weaponry of discipline for the sake of Her Majesty’s crown jewels, that needed to stay polished and gleaming with the trade agreement that was disproportionately distributed.

The British gave us their mother tongue and the delicacies of properness that wiped out brutish tendencies. We were simultaneously fed the lies about God’s love and how we had to surrender to Whiteness in order to earn it.

In return for the gracious invasion, which dissolved primal structures into heaps of swirling dust, the White explorers would never be in darkness or suffer the ravages of a raped culture, that abuses natives into societal disarray, with the extra helping of self-hate that will forever be utilized to curse our existence.

And so Nigeria’s independence from British rule that was official in 1960, was just the noteworthy date that our oppressors chose to represent the beginning of supreme rule over our prized possessions.

Our freedom is a myth that hovers with diseased authority, and highlights the extreme poverty that captivates. It circulates with deplorable conditions of oil-soaked regions like the Niger Delta, as it swims in pools of murky poison, thanks to the gross negligence of prominent oil companies that have manifested the humanitarian crisis that remains unchecked.

Nobody wants to clean up the mess.

And back in February 2015, when Goodluck Jonathan was sparring against our present nightmare, Muhammadu Buhari, there was a turbulent pull towards the nostalgic fandom for what never was, and that infuriating spell of tribal warfare finally convinced me of how the country of my heritage would never be saved.

Just like with the missing school girls, and my determination to forewarn the naive and uninformed — I unleashed the fury of discontent with lessons from the past and the betrayal of the present.

The 2015 election wouldn’t alter the course of the out-of-control freight train, bounding down the tracks towards utter desolation.

Yes, Goodluck Jonathan had brought nothing but torrents of bad luck, but how the fuck did we manage to resurrect a narcissistic relic, who spent the years 1983 to 1985 — unraveling the cemented civil rule that he was determined to destroy with his memorable dictatorship, that had been bitterly branded as “Buharism?”

There was the certainty that we couldn’t be collectively masochistic in our quest to reduce the path to progression into pebbled trails of divisiveness, that is borne from the recklessness of how British invaders calculated their lifetime of profits from the coarseness of maps, that were divvied up without humane consideration for the parts unknown.

It always goes back to colonialism and how it was never abolished.

When you’ve been abused beyond repair, the abuser never fades way, and the consequences don’t evaporate with designated governance that promise what will never be delivered.

The piece I wrote about the infamous 2015 battle between two men with vastly different incentives and capabilities got major attention, and directed me to a reputable New York-based Nigerian outlet that is known for tormenting helpless government officials, who are failing to accomplish the impossible.

I was already wearied from the harrowing ordeal that stemmed from an ill-advised move to New Orleans, and almost four years later, I’m still blown away by the physical toll it took on me.

But what was really astounding, was how very wrong I was about how much Nigerians hate each other.

We actually loathe ourselves with a deadliness that can’t be self-taught. It’s a tumor that takes its time to expand without bursting, and its genesis comes from the intrusiveness of alien cells, that multiply into sub-categories — securing the area with allegiance to an incurable disease.

Buhari defeated Jonathan, and the results triggered the era when as a child, I listened intently to the debates my parents hosted with friends and relatives about current affairs, and how it had to drastically improve so that their kids would be able to reclaim their heritage without disturbance in the force.

Fast forward to the present climate of global instability that is only going to get worse if Nostradamus was remotely as prolific as we were taught.

It took awhile for me to be knowledgable about how Buhari perfected his disastrous comeback.

As it turns out, even the saints are capable of unforgivable sins.

President Obama was many things to many people during his 8 years in office, and while his ascension to starry heights was filled with the gloriousness of how Blackness could finally be extolled—it’s disheartening to realize how the Blackness of a West African nation couldn’t share in the etiquette of his diplomacy.

Obama and his favored adviser and friend, David Axelrod, fucked up Nigeria’s fragile trajectory by misguidedly providing valuable counsel to “enemy of the state,” Muhammadu Buhari during the 2015 electoral season; for the reward of monetary compensation that was deposited into Axelrod’s Chicago-based consulting firm.

The services rendered were masked by the hypocrisy of supporting a democracy that was non-existent. The goal was to get Goodluck Jonathan replaced after he failed to bring back the girls, and it didn’t matter that his replacement was an older and more dangerous version of what we had endured before, with the same nefariousness that ushered in the decade of murderous decadence.

In the same way that Trump is shamelessly complicit about the horrific murder of Washington Post journalist Jamal Khashoggi, due to personal and governmental investments that evidently surpass the precious value of human life — Obama was willing to play a vital role in reactivating the demons that already killed and buried our legacy.

Buhari’s fateful victory was the painful reminder of how he laid the foundation for the future attacks on selfless Nigerian journalists and activists like Dele Giwa and Ken Saro-Wiwa, who were systemically exterminated by murderous successors, who couldn’t tolerate being held accountable by those who were committed to upholding the truth.

2019 has arrived, and election season is back, and this time, we have two elderly statesmen, who are vying for a position that will draft out the course of things for a country that is bursting with the vibration of a youthful population.

Muhammadu Buhari and his opponent Atiku Abubakar, who was once vice-president during the years from 1999 to 2007, are both seasoned enough to anticipate the violent renderings of this upcoming event.

Regardless of how it goes, the one thing that won’t ever change is how direly useless the whole process will turn out to be.

Nigeria doesn’t need a president because we are being supremely governed by the supremacy that makes our women spend all they’ve got on creams that lighten the skin and conceal the hue of Blackness.

Nigeria doesn’t need a president because we are already under the regime of our White oppressors, who suppressed our vibrant primitiveness for the dullness of Christianity, and the mandated language that we were forced to adopt in order to seamlessly enrich White nations, while wallowing in the poverty and corruption, that even America’s first Black president traitorously enabled.

We don’t need a president because “presidents” rule over land and its inhabitants, and since we will soon have nothing left to call our own, with the indignity of watching barrels of our riches being exported at the expense of the pollution that will eat us alive, unless we sink and swim to potential hubs of modern slavery — there is literally nothing to preside over.

We simply need the past to be rewritten with a clean board, and the tribal markings that indented skin and sand with the scorching sun that should’ve soothed our ripe templates, and assaulted the approaching invaders beyond their ability to arrive with the tragic artillery of our mental demise.

Whatever the outcome, I’m a Nigerian-American without presidents or the comfort of ancestral pride — untouched — and infused with the potency of language barriers that preserve the pride of riches on our shores — infinitely.

That’s the mood that forever challenges.

Written by

Juggling Wordsmith. I have a lot to say!

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