Saturday, June 10, 2017

The Parable of Nigeria, Our Nigeria by Abimbola Lagunju

On one Tuesday evening, one very playful god, Fungod, took permission from his superiors in heaven to visit the earth. He wanted some fun. Don’t laugh. No! Not a playboy god. A political one. I am serious. How do I know that? Will you please hold on and let me tell you the story? You will understand that as a god, he was invisible to the human eyes. Not even the cats and the dogs that are supposed to have the ability to perceive supernatural things could see him.

Fungod landed at the airport. Yes, he landed at the airport and passed through the Immigration and the Customs counters unseen. Of course he had no passport and no luggage. He floated through the “Nothing to Declare” zone and soon he was out in the hot and clammy evening of the city. He went round the taxi park and was amazed at the rickety contraptions that people called taxi. He had wanted to ride in a taxi with other passengers, but he decided against it. If he should be involved in an accident in his invisible form, no one would be able to treat him. He floated around the airport for a comfortable car to hitchhike.

His attention was soon drawn to the exit doors of the arrival hall. A group of well-dressed men were carrying several plastic bags with “Duty Free” boldly imprinted on them. They surrounded a fat man in his mid-fifties. The man was clutching even more of those bags in his hands. He turned around and asked one of the men with him if his entire luggage had been cleared. The man replied, “Yes, Your Excellency. A total of twenty-five suitcases.”

Fungod was surprised. “Twenty-five suitcases? What has this Excellency been up to? Where is he coming from?” Fungod moved nearer to his Excellency and nearly fainted from the heavily perfumed air around this important person. The god rummaged in the important man’s pocket, fished out his tickets, examined them and then put them back. His Excellency had been to London, Lisbon, New York, Wellington and Paris. In addition, he had tried on the Tester-Samples of all the available “Eau de Toilette” and “Eau de Parfum” sprays at the duty free shops in those cities. “But twenty five suitcases? What is he carrying? Wetin he dey carry?” the god asked himself.

Yes! Fungod spoke all languages. By the way, Pidgin English was his first language. The god decided to follow his Excellency home, but not in the same car with him. He was afraid of being suffocated by the fumes of his perfumes. He had forgotten his gas mask in heaven. No risks. Yes! Even the gods know their limits.

Fungod was so excited when the siren started blaring. He had never ridden in a convoy before. No such things in heaven. He floated into the vehicle which was furiously blaring the siren. Soon they were on their way. He looked back and saw that there were about twenty-five vehicles in the convoy. Who could this Excellency be? The president? The governor of a state? The governor of a nightclub? A minister or a commissioner? He would soon find out, he thought.

Fungod was particularly impressed with the two motorcycle outriders in front of the convoy. They had flashing blue lights attached to a small pole at the rear end of their motorbikes. They too were blaring their sirens. The god floated out of the vehicle and perched behind one of the police outriders. Fungod’s celestial robe billowed in the air, invisible to earthlings. The outriders meandered through the traffic. They ran a couple of commercial motorcycles into the ditch and caused two major accidents with casualties. The convoy did not stop to assist the victims of the accident. Fungod jumped down from the motorcycle and went to the scene of the accident. The crowd that had gathered cursed the important man and his cronies. Some sympathisers rescued the victims from the damaged vehicles and rushed them to the hospital.

Fungod did not want to go to the hospital with the victims. He remembered his last experience in the hands of the local surgeons. “Not again,” he mumbled. He bounced off the scene and soon, he overtook the important man’s convoy. He entered one of the vehicles carrying the suitcases. He opened a suitcase to see what the important man had bought. “Creams! Bleaching and skin toning creams? What for? For whom?” he wondered aloud. The god opened one of the bottles of toning cream and rubbed it on his left arm. “Hmmn .. not bad, smells good. Maybe I can smuggle a couple of bottles into heaven,” he muttered to himself. He opened another suitcase; it was full of ladies shoes. “Haba! How many wives this man get sef? Wetin he wan take hundred pairs of shoes do?” Fungod mused. He opened another one and found small packs of blue tablets with rockets designed on them. He was scared. He quickly closed the suitcase. “Terrorist!” he thought. He floated out of the vehicle and joined another one with the duty free shop bags. Perfumes and perfumes! “O ga o!”
Finally, the convoy arrived at the destination: Presidential Palace!  “Which kin president be dis wey dey carry contraband enter im own country?” Fungod wondered. The important man entered the house. His wife was not at home. She had gone to an all-night party. “Boring life, not interesting,” Fungod decided.  Then he flew off to a night club. "Maybe there would be more fun there,” he hoped.

He went to different nightclubs and was not impressed. They were all the same. Old men with their fat wallets running after young girls with their short skirts. The young men were either yahooing or they were getting high on something. It was too boring for Fungod. He wanted real fun – adrenaline-driven fun, something risky and exciting. He wanted something he could boast of to his colleagues in heaven. He knew they would laugh at him, if on his return to heaven, all he could tell them was about a smuggling president and dreary nightclubs.  

He decided to play a very tricky and risky one, which could cost him his thirteenth life. If he lost this life, then he would not be a god anymore. He found a quiet place to weigh the risks he was about to take. He feared for his life. If he lost it, then automatically he would become a citizen of the country. This terrified him. He looked around him to ponder the prospects that awaited him in case of an accident, in case he lost his thirteenth life in this country. He saw two suya men blowing their fires and turning the meat on the grills. Not far from them was a group of beggars with a little signboard that read: “Beggars of all Countries, Unite!” Even Beggars had an association to protect their interests. He remembered having read a book about a beggars’ strike. Yes! He remembered the author - a woman from Senegal - “Aminata Sow Fall[?” He was not too sure. Would he end up like this if he died? A suya man? A beggar? He was scared. He left the place to search for more interesting possibilities for himself. 

He landed in a maze of shops. Here, there were all sorts of used clothes, used computers, used shoes, used cars, and used spare parts. He also saw the “masters” and their “boys”. Ah! He would not want to become a trader. He had no young relatives to take up as apprentices. He left the market and went into a political party office.   

He was surprised to find the place very dirty and in utter disarray: broken chairs and tables, tattered curtains, damaged typewriters (no one in the office knew how to use a computer), broken doors and filthy toilets. He wondered how those that aspired to rule the country could work in such a squalid environment. “Filthy environments, filthy minds,” he reasoned. Fungod was surprised to discover that seven out of the eleven rooms in the Party Office were used as storage and were firmly locked. He decided to check what the politicians kept in those rooms. In two of the rooms, Fungod found boxes of fake voters’ cards, two brand new electronic voting machines and millions of fake ballot papers. He went to the other rooms and found caches of arms – big and small weapons and their ammunitions. Fungod knew a little about guns – he identified lots of Israeli Uzi machine guns, thousands of AK-47, Berretas, Colts, Remington superguns, and even a huge electric Gatling gun. He was horrified. He wondered if this was the military wing of the Political Party. He could not understand what the guns were doing in the Party Office. He patted his robe to look for his phone. He decided to place a call to one of his god-friends in heaven to solve the riddle for him. He took out his phone (a Chinese make. Yes! The Chinese export phones to heaven), and was surprised that there was no network coverage. The telecom company in heaven did not provide roaming services to the earth. “I would have to include this in my report to my superiors,” Fungod noted.

Suddenly, he heard angry voices. The Party men were shouting and quarrelling. Fungod floated to the scene to find out what the commotion was all about.. There were about fifteen people standing in a circle in the room. They had big “Ghana Must Go” bags in the centre of the circle. Fungod, who was floating in the ceiling, observed that the bags were full of money. One pot-bellied man, who appeared to be the leader of the group appealed to the others to calm down. In the course of their discussions, Fungod learnt that the money had come from the Presidency; it was to be shared out to the party faithfuls. He heard someone mention, “Security vote. Money for contracts to build schools and hospitals.” “What formula are we going to use to share out the money?” someone asked. Each of the fifteen politicians had his own formula to favour him. Then an argument broke out.  One party man slapped the other. Real commotion ensued when two party men ripped the bags open and grabbed some of the money. The others also pounced on the bags. In a flash, the bags were empty. Thereafter, the politicians descended on one another.  Hell was let loose. Each party loyalist tried to dispossess the other of his loot. They grabbed at each  other’s clothes and tore them to shreds. Then they punched, kicked and slapped. Someone slammed the pot-bellied leader against the wall. The big man slumped. The others rushed for his money. Suddenly, there was a gun shot! Fungod took to his heels.

Shortly thereafter, Fungod decided to try the Parliament. These were the Honourables - the representatives of the people. They lived big. Fungod went into the Parliament. It was quite hot inside. Fungod felt very uncomfortable in the “hallowed chamber” as one of the Honourables called their meeting hall.  The air-conditioners had broken down. The expensively-dressed men and women were seated in two rows in the magnificent hall of the Parliament. Some of the Honourables were fanning themselves with a green book. When Fungod looked closer at the book, he saw it was the Constitution of the Republic, which the Honourables had turned into fans. Some Honourables were sleeping, some were sending texts on their cell-phones and some were chatting between themselves. No one was listening to the Minister of Roads, Electricity and Infrastructure whom they had invited to the Parliament to address them on the state of roads in the country. The Minister ignored their lack of attention (he had heard that the Honourables’ attention span was not more than seven minutes when money was not involved) and continued with his presentation. 

Suddenly, the hall was thrown into darkness, and as if on cue, all the honourables chorused, “Oh God!” Fungod could not understand this. “What has God got to do with electricity supply in the Parliament? Can this be a case of God abuse?” He made a mental note to ask his superiors in heaven about this new role attributed to God in this country. There in darkness, Fungod recalled the different forms of abuses he had witnessed in the country since his arrival. He mused as he made a mental list of the abuses: “Child Abuse, Woman Abuse, Man Abuse, Family Abuse, Political Power Abuse, Citizen Abuse, Church Abuse, Mosque Abuse, Prayer Abuse, School Abuse, Hospital Abuse, Office Abuse, Employee Abuse, Employer Abuse, Money Abuse, Road Abuse, Environment Abuse, Water Abuse, Drug Abuse, Alcohol Abuse, and now, God Abuse! Chei! If Nobel Prize dey for Abuse, na this country go get am.” Fungod laughed quietly as he added another abuse to his list, “Abuse Abuse.”

There was a roar as the Parliament generator was switched on. The noise drowned the banter of the Honourables. Suddenly, the “hallowed chamber” was filled with generator smoke. “Haba, this is too much abeg! Make dem pay us inconvenience allowance o,” one Honourable said as he moved to open one of the windows of the hall. “Aye, Aye,” his colleagues that heard him chorused. Soon, everyone in the hall had heard the suggestion. Thereafter, the Honourables started chanting “Inconvenience allowance! Inconvenience allowance! Inconvenience allowance!”

The Minister for Roads, Electricity and Infrastructures had somehow made his escape in the darkness of the power outage. Another Minister, the Minister for Interior had taken his place on the podium. He appeared to be speaking, but no one could hear him because of the noise of the generator. The Honourables ignored him, and continued with their chant: “Inconvenience allowance! Inconvenience allowance! Inconvenience allowance!”
Someone they called The Speaker did not utter a single word in the commotion.. “A speaker’s job is to speak!” Fungod reasoned. He wondered why this Speaker was not doing his job.

Then there was this strange object, called “The Mace”, which all the members revered. It was a long metal bar with a round sculpted bronze object on one end. Fungod could not understand why Moslem Honourables and their Christian counterparts accord more respect to The Mace than to God? “Is not written that “Thou shalt have no other god before me? Thou shalt not make to thyself any graven image?” Fungod was upset. “I have to ask my superiors in heaven about this when I get back. What strange people! Fifty percent Muslims, fifty percent Christians, hundred percent animists,” he murmured.

He was still wondering about this when suddenly, an object flew past, very close to his face. Fungod ducked. It was a chair! One Honourable had flung a chair at his opponent. The Parliament erupted. The Honourables started exchanging blows. The speaker, piqued by the constant rebuttal of his amorous advances by a female Honourable, used the opportunity of the confusion to punch the lady in the face. Two teeth flew off. The Chief Whip hit the Deputy Speaker on the head with the Mace. Blood gushed from the wound. The Deputy Speaker collapsed. The Honourables boxed, kicked, scratched, and wrestled.

Fungod fled. He swore never to be a Member of Parliament if ever he became a citizen of the country. Honourable meant something else in this environment. He did a mental calculation that only gods are capable of: “One Honourable + Another Honourable = Zero Honourable.” He did not want to be an Honourable. He decided to try a church.

He floated to a church. The congregation had just dispersed. He went into the church office. He found the pastor and his wife opening envelopes and counting loads of money. They were using two notes’ counting machines. The envelopes with their money contents were addressed and destined to different church activities: New Church Building Fund, Evangelism Fund, Development Fund, Musical Instruments Fund, Church University Development Fund and Tithes. The man and woman of God (Fungod thought of them as “Couple of God”) tore open all the envelopes. Eventually, the couple finished counting and they bundled the money together in three big “Ghana must go” bags. Fungod was surprised and wondered how the couple would know what money and how much belonged to which activity. He looked at the bags again and wondered why the people in the country, irrespective of their backgrounds or their activities, were obsessed with “Ghana must go” bags whenever money was involved. To Fungod, these bags were synonymous with big money destined for dubious intention. The pastor filled a Bank Form to deposit the money. Fungod looked at the name of the account owner on the form. He was surprised to see that the account bore the name of the pastor. He only used the church as his address. “This is a lot of money for a few hours of preaching and praying,” thought Fungod. “Not bad! Not bad at all,” he murmured to himself. Fungod’s eyes were bright with excitement.  

Meanwhile, six policemen were stationed outside to guard the entrance to the pastor’s office. Armed gangs have been known to attack a church office after service to cart away the Sunday collection. This pastor was very careful with his money. He did not take risks. The pastor made a phone call and shortly afterwards, a police Armoured Personnel Carrier arrived in the church. Two heavily armed Rapid-Response policemen and the manager of the Pastor’s bank alighted from the vehicle. They followed the pastor into the church office. The two Rapid-Response policemen and the manager soon emerged with the heavy “Ghana must go” bags, which they loaded into the armoured vehicle. The armoured vehicle sped off, blaring its siren. Thereafter, the pastor came out of his office. He thanked the six police guards and gave each policeman some money. They thanked him.  The pastor and his wife then left the church in their own car and went to the bank. Fungod followed them. The Bank Manager signed and stamped the Bank Deposit form, which the pastor had completed. He gave the pastor a copy and thanked him for his patronage. The pastor promised to send the Manager’s thanks to God. “Ah! God again! People know how to use God in this country,” Fungod thought.

Fungod liked everything he had seen. He liked the pastor in his smart suit; he liked his haircut and was particularly impressed with the way the man related with everyone. The man was smooth. There and then, Fungod decided that in case he lost his celestial life in this country, he would become a pastor, just like this pastor. Yes! A pastor! He had the advantage of knowing heaven in and out, and he could share his experience with his congregation and make a lot of money. He would also marry.

Having made his decision, Fungod transformed himself into a man with immense powers, but this time, he was visible to anyone. He strolled around in his danshiki made from Ankara. No one paid any attention to him. Then he sat under a tree, and thought of what he would really like as the ultimate fun. Then, it occurred to him that he could steal the minds of the inhabitants of the country for one day. He was curious to know how mindless people behaved. He looked for a thicket where he could hide the mind after stealing it. He found one near a lagoon.

Exactly at midnight, a Wednesday transiting to a Thursday, Fungod stole the minds of all the people in the country. Men, women and children alike lost their minds exactly the same hour. Children born after midnight on that Wednesday also had their minds confiscated. Fungod hid the minds in the thicket. Then he looked for the tallest telephone mast in the city, climbed on top and patiently waited till day break to see how the inhabitants would behave.

The rooster heralded the dawn. The loudspeakers of houses of worship suddenly came to life. It was time for the people to leave their beds. The land erupted in noise and bewilderment. Workers lazily dressed to leave for work. Husbands harassed their wives for upkeep money for the day. Children ran after their mothers to send them to school. In the hospitals, patients administered drugs and injections to doctors. At the courts, criminals sent lawyers and judges to jail. Corrupt politicians were awarded national honours. Policemen on the trail of thieves and the corrupt were hounded and sent to jail.

At the bus stops and on the roads, confusion reigned supreme. In one particular bus stop that caught Fungod’s attention, someone was fighting with someone. Other commuters clapped, cheered and jeered. Suddenly a rickety yellow bus appeared in a cloud of smoke, with the horn blaring fitfully and the passengers shouting. The fight abruptly broke up. The fighters and their spectators rushed to the bus. Someone pushed someone; another stole a bag; the other was pushed off the bus. Some passengers had seats; others were standing; and some were dangling with their feet off the floor. The cross-eyed bus driver drove like a bat out of hell. There were and there were no red traffic lights, but in the radar of the cross-eyes all lights were green. The passengers shouted their joyous consent and commended their driver. The conductor of the bus hung dangerously at the door, his unbuttoned shirt flapping in the air, and hitting the face of the passenger nearest to him.

Everyone was late to work. His Excellency, the Governor was the last to arrive at work. Mid-way en route to his office, he stopped his convoy to visit his favourite bukataria. The owner of the bukataria, a woman nicknamed “By All Means” was one of His Excellency’s girlfriends. His Excellency alighted from the vehicle, clutching one of his Duty Free bags. He went into the shack, looked haughtily at the other patrons and then shouted “By All Means!” There was no answer. He asked one of the patrons if he had seen “By All Means.” The man ignored His Excellency. The other patrons laughed and one of them pointed to a door. His Excellency breezed to the door. He tried to open the door, but the door was locked from inside. He banged on the door and shouted, “By All Means! Open the door! It is me, My Excellency!” The patrons in the bukataria burst into laughter. One of them stood up and mimicked the distraught important man – “My Excellency! Your Excellency! Our Excellency! By All Means, open the door for My Excellency!” The important man took a half-filled plastic cup from a table and flung it at the man. The man charged at His Excellency. It was at this moment that “By All Means” opened the door and emerged from the room with a well dressed man. “By All Means!” chided the patron who had attacked His Excellency, and apologised to the important man.

His Excellency looked at the man who had just emerged from the room with “By All Means” and was surprised to see that it was his Minister for Finance. “What are you doing here?” He challenged his Minister. The Minister moved closer to his Excellency and whispered in his ears, “I came to keep the money for the Road Construction contract with her for safekeeping. Or do you want me to take the money to your house?”
“No! It is a good idea to keep the money here. No one can ever find it here. And if they find it, “By All Means” will be the one to answer. Good man!” His Excellency said and patted his Minister on the back. “Are the roads already constructed and tarred on paper?”
The Minister nodded, and said, “I have some documents for you to sign, Your Excellency.” He rummaged in his bag and brought out some files marked, “Top Secret.” He put the files on one of the wooden tables in the bukataria. “By All Means” opened one of the files and started reading the contents. His Excellency went out through the back door of the cafeteria to the open air kitchen and ordered food. He went back into the cafeteria and sat beside “By All Means” He put his arm on her shoulders as she read the files. Thereafter, one of the cooks sporting a very dirty apron brought His Excellency’s meal. She placed the bowls on one of the files. His Excellency ate with his hands. When he finished eating, he pulled out some documents from one of the files and used them to wipe his hands. He belched loudly and asked “By All Means” if she had finished reading the files. She shook her head and said, “I will come with you to your office to finish the reading.” She packed some of the documents back in the files. She did not bother to pick some of the documents that had fallen on the floor. She followed her Excellency out of the bukataria.

His Excellency was ready to go to his office. His police outriders were nowhere to be found. His personal assistant was sleeping soundly on one of the bukataria benches. His driver had taken away the car for a brisk kabu-kabu business. His Excellency saw him drive by. His Excellency’s police escorts had gone up the road to set up a roadblock. They had created a traffic jam. His Excellency called out to them, but they did not answer him. Suddenly pressed for time, His Excellency and “By All Means” took an okada. His Excellency was sandwiched between “By All Means” and the okada man. At the roadblock, one of His Excellency’s police escorts stopped the okada man.
“Get down! Get down! You are under arrest!” the policeman ordered.
“What for, oga[7]? Wetin I do?” the okada man wanted to know.
“You are under arrest for overloading! You dey carry two heavyweights for your moto[8]. Wey your particulars?” the policeman asked.
The okada man did not have any documents on him. The policeman was furious. He said, “You are charged with conspiracy to cause public disorder and causing public disorder; conspiracy to commit murder and acting on the intention to commit murder by carrying two heavyweights without helmets on a rickety motorcycle; conspiracy to commit suicide and acting on the intention to commit suicide by not wearing your helmet; conspiracy to be anonymous and acting on the intention by not carrying any documents.  You are guilty as charged! You are in trouble my man!”
His Excellency who had been chatting with “By All Means” during the exchange between the policeman and the okada rider was alarmed when he heard the policeman cock his gun and saw him point the muzzle at the okada man.
“Oga! Officer! No vex abeg! How much be the fine? Abeg, we no wan go station! We go pay the fine,” His Excellency pleaded.
“Okay! If not for you ah for deal with this useless okada well well!” the policeman said.
His Excellency negotiated the “fine” with the policeman, and paid. His Excellency was grateful and said, “Thank you, oga! Ah go deal with the clown myself!” With the fine paid, the okada was allowed to continue on its journey with His Excellency and “By All Means.”

While His Excellency was on his way, his secretary had worked herself up to a very foul mood; there were too many visitors wishing to see the Excellency. She hissed like a snake. She gave the visitors a scathing look and pouted her lips. Then, she opened a plastic bag and brought out a bowl of amala. The visitors waited patiently. The secretary ate with abandon. The files on her table served as tablecloth. She put the bones from her fish on some official memos lying on her desk.

His Excellency arrived in his office at about noon. “By All Means” followed on his heels and entered the office with him. Then, a bell rang; the secretary was summoned. A few moments later, the secretary returned, pouted her big oily lips, and announced that the Excellency was busy. “You either wait or you come back next week. If your matter is urgent you may go down the corridor and see the Permanent Secretary,” she told the visitors. Then, she rummaged in her drawers, took out a “Do not disturb” sign and hung it on the door to His Excellency’s office.

Some of the visitors left for home, while the others headed for the Permanent Secretary’s Office. The Messenger informed the visitors that the Permanent Secretary was in his office, he could not see any visitors because he had just returned from a night vigil. His secretary was praying. The secretary was sitting on his little rug, rolling beads in his hand and muttering his prayers. His eyes were glazed, and he appeared to be oblivious of everything going on around him. The visitors who were unfazed by the events calmly took their leave.

Back on the streets it was chaos. Human rights were freely expressed on these roads. Motorists freely chose what side of the road to drive on. No left or right lanes, no traffic or street lights, no street markings. “Move or be shoved” was the rule. Pedestrians meandered among the entangled mass of vehicles. Drivers incessantly honked their horns. Pedestrians cursed drivers and drivers cursed the passengers. Street peddlers mobbed vehicles to advertise and display their wares. In the corner on the street, someone abundantly relieved himself; another chased around his goats. The spirit of chaos had occupied the vacuum left by the mind.

Big sound speakers howled from the top of a house down the road. From the other house it was clapping and howling. Someone in his wisdom said these were places of worship! All the houses along the road suddenly became chapels. Big and small billboards showed their ludicrous names - all claiming their pastors to be God's deputy. And the disciples came in different shapes and forms. Big beards, goatee beards, shaved heads. Some were clad in brownish white gowns and bakers’ caps. The others were adorned in red with purple sashes. Yet others were very smartly dressed in expensive suits and shoes. Pen-thieves, ten-percenters, contractors, drug peddlers, armed robbers all worshipped in joyous accord in any of these places of worship. The leader of the faithful appealed to the heavens on their behalf through powerful speakers:
“Bless the work of my flock and look elsewhere when they try to reap where they have not sown” The ticket to heaven was not for free. Ten percent of the take of the flock must be paid to God’s cashier. As God’s sole representative, the leader of the faithful volunteered himself for this noble work.

The monopoly on the market was much to the chagrin of the other sons of Abraham, the descendants of Ishmael. This group in their turn got money from their oil-rich brethren in the Far East and they built bigger places of worship with golden domes. They too acquired mega-speakers to out-blast their pastor friends. Soon, Imams and Pastors used their mega-speakers as weapons to conquer air space and souls. Religion became an essential stock exchange commodity. Lots of people bought stocks at very high prices. They did not ask for, neither did they get their share certificates.

Fungod could not believe his eyes. What chaos! He resolved to return the minds to the people. He decided to do this at midnight. He believed that the people could not and should not continue with such confusion any longer. Very unnatural. Antithetical to nature’s order. Worse than hell, where Fungod had some friends. He would give the mind back and leave for heaven. He would include everything in his report to his superiors. He had compiled the names of the religious leaders acting as the Father Superior’s cashiers. He would recommend that they be made to pay up all the money they had collected prior to any discussion about entering heaven.

At night, Fungod climbed down the telephone mast and made his way towards the thicket. On the way, he found that His Excellency’s Police escorts were still manning the roadblock. The officers stopped him and asked for his documents. He told them he had none.
“Then, “settle” us,” one of them demanded.
Fungod said he had no money. They ordered him to put his hands on his head and to sit on the bare earth road. They seized his phone. One of them looked at the phone and asked Fungod where he bought the strange looking item. Fungod said, “In heaven,” Fungod replied. The policeman gave Fungod a scathing look and shook his fist menacingly in Fungod’s face.

As time was approaching midnight, Fungod called aside the commander of the team. The officers called the man “Supol”. He told the “Supol” of the mind of the people which he had hidden in the thicket, and informed him that he needed to get to the thicket before midnight in order to return them to the people. The “Supol” laughed and asked, “From which Psychiatric Hospital did you escape?”
Fungod was aghast. “I am telling you that your minds and the minds of others are in that thicket out there, and you are laughing! I took the minds and hid them there.”
“Are you saying that you stole something?” one officer asked.
“Yes,” Fungod accepted.
“What did you steal?” the “Supol” asked.
“Your minds,” Fungod told them.
“Our minds?” the “Supol” asked again
“Yes, your minds.” Fungod affirmed.
“Are you trying to say that we have no minds? Are you trying to say that we are the ones that escaped from a Psychiatric Hospital? The “Supol” was furious.
“I do not know about the escape from the Psychiatric Hospital. But I know where your minds are,” Fungod said.
 “Deal with the clown,” the “Supol” ordered his boys.

They beat Fungod to death.


Ruth Ataguba said...

Haa Prof, they beat him to death? It means the minds are lost forever. No, the tale cannot end yet because hope keeps us alive Sir

Bunmi Osoko said...


harada57 said...
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