Last week, from wherever he was, the president set up an eight-man committee on his pet census project, five out of the eight members are from his sitting room. Because he is my brother, I am not supposed to mention this and say he was wrong to use his household to rule the whole world.
I found myself inventing that verse as today’s headline. The verse came sounding like “The Lord is my shepherd/ I Shall not want…” The twenty-third Psalm. Yesterday was Easter Sunday; today is Easter Monday. All Judases are shamed.
Life here is bitter as brine. The green pastures are withered. The still waters are poisoned. More and more, victims fall in undeclared wars in Benue and Plateau. Terrorists rebrand and relaunch in Borno and Niger and Zamfara. The Commander-in-Chief is absent in flesh, in body and soul. But I must be quiet, because the president is my brother.
Some twenty-something years ago, one of us (I can’t remember who the person was) blurted out a question:
“The name of your governor, ‘Alamiyeseigha’, reads like a tongue-twisting clause. What does it mean?”
Our guest was the Bayelsa State Commissioner for Information.
The guest sat up, grinned and looked round the Tribune boardroom. She then smiled out the answer.
“It means God is never wrong. Just like my name, ‘Benamaisia’, means brother is never wrong.”
I thought that was deep. I quickly got it stored in the depth of my brain. True. God is never wrong. But brother? An argument would have ensued but that commissioner, Mrs Ruth Benamaisia Opia, went into an intelligent analysis of how and when a brother is deemed not wrong: She said a brother is never wrong in the presence of outsiders. She might be right. Among her audience were a people whose own culture instructs them to first deal with the fox before spanking the cock. They also say you don’t sell your brother cheap; if you do, you won’t be able to buy him back expensive.