Iya Banji

From whence we came

The kind of life my parents served me created a radically different history and story from the one they had experienced. More fundamentally, what defined their childhood from the little village where they made their first friends to the unforgettable memories that they have rarely shared separates us even further.

Though I have some fond memories of visiting our hometown and meeting with cousins, grandparents, and distant relations, I find none of the affinity for the place as one parent does, and another so thoroughly reviles. I have no such identity with the place except in the compulsion and diktat of my forebears; I was last there about forty years ago.

Significantly, these people who once came out of that town and travelled the world as it was their oyster and, in the process, became successful professionals of every sort, have returned to this place to retire enjoying the good fortune of old age and the misery of watching peers and juniors pass away around them.

Balls on the road

One memory best told in our dialect of Ìjẹ̀bú, in which I have the most laughable proficiency, if any at all, finds its best delivery in my faulting but unmistakable recollection.

My mother was driving from Lagos to Ijesha-Ijebu with my aunt, who was my dad’s immediate younger sibling. She was known to us through the name of her first son, and it was evidently disrespectful of us all, because he is the first and eldest of all our maternal and paternal cousins.

As we passed from Ikenne towards Ilishan, on the home straight to Ijesha-Ijebu, the spare tyre in the undercarriage at the back of the Peugeot 504 she was driving detached and fell onto the road. Someone called in Ìjẹ̀bú that the testicles had fallen. “Wóró ẹ̀ ti jábọ́ o.”

We stopped and I went to pick up the tyre, rolled it up to the car and fixed it back to the undercarriage, securing it properly with the clip. My mum and aunt were out of the car, watching that everything was done properly. As I finished, my aunt quipped in Ìjẹ̀bú, “Well, the person of whom it has been said their testicles have fallen, now has them tied back up in the sack.” “Ọni rán fọ wóró ẹ̀ jábọ́, nà tí so padà yẹ̀n.”

In tribute and sympathy

This remains one of the lasting memories of my aunt, her great sense of humour delivered dead pan with such seriousness, yet you could not fail to get the joke, which by happenstance was also the spelling of her name, meaning who we care for together, she was no joke, by any stretch of the imagination.

A hardworking, strong, purposeful woman and a purveyor of wholesale foodstuffs, she was kind-hearted, lovely, approachable, and ever so considerate. Definitely, one of the best of my father’s siblings. She was the female leader of the Muslims of our hometown.

I learnt Monday afternoon that she had passed on, and she was interred according to Islamic rites on Sunday. Better to rewrite the feelings expressed here, unfortunate as it seems, each person has their individual issues and perspective of things, that might never be that well understood.

Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji'un. (Al-Quran 2:156) “Indeed, to Allah we belong and to Allah we shall return.”

After death, what do your tributes matter?

Speaking good of the dead

I have always wondered about the eerie spectre of tributes about someone has passed to the Great Beyond because, except if we know quite differently, whether the person so fondly memorialised and eulogised to the point of hagiography ever in the realm of time and space beyond the realm of our perception gets to have a viewing and hearing.

For in the beautiful things we get to say, have we once ventured when the person was present and able to interact and respond we deployed the effusive praise that they are left to gush and blush at the surfeit of encomium and praise that they are left speechless in accepting compliments and so emotional in experiencing the genuine expression of love, respect, and awe.

To the hearing of others

In the absence of that uniquely special case of tributes breaking through the veil to the intangible ethereal eternal timelessness that encompasses, you are left thinking, the glowing obituaries and expressions of sympathy, condolence, and regret are all demonstrations for the living, for once the spirit and soul have left the bodily presentation of the person we once knew, they are forever gone and out of reach or touch.

It should make us reflect on what we could have done with the chance and opportunity to speak and act, it should not matter if at the end one brings another perspective to the enigmatic personality, but to have done things when they could be fully appreciated and not so much in search of recognition but in the unconditional celebration of those who matter.

Doing it when it matters

It does not mean we should be quick to act, to speak or to praise, however, every acknowledgement and recognition of another is not just an act of genuine kindness, it is an expression of gratitude for what they have brought to and contributed to our lives. Until we can hear and speak with the dearly departed outside of esoteric and questionably paranormal environments, our tributes, though making for interesting listening and hearing are absolutely worthless to those we portend to celebrate.

The words of Mark Antony ring loud and clear, for there was nothing more he could do for Ceasar after he had been assassinated, but to lead the procession for his burial.

Resist Frenzied Action on Behalf of Homeless Cats

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What becomes of the broken pencil?

For the umpteenth time, I write again about my urgings about my blog, lamenting that the dearth of content is not the paucity of inspiration, topic or situation to express in my unique form of expression.

My stories living in my mind churning over like a perpetual spin cycle of washing machine that would never end, you suddenly feel you are on some merry-go-round off which you will dare not jump off lest you main yourself.

Such is my dilemma, episodes and observations that stir me to the point of consideration without consummation, my good intentions remaining just that; unfinished blogs like germinating seeds never getting out of the nursery to the garden, stunted in growth, yet never dying completely that they are discarded; premature blogs like me, arriving long before one would consider them ready, if ever; self-flagellation at the lack of discipline to write even as if it were my last act.

For someone who penned 400 blogs in 2007, I have only breached 100 in the last 5 years. I do wonder, what has become of my verbosity. And, as I have said before, it is not for the lack of what to write.

Now that we’ve found love

Maybe, just maybe, there is something else at play, it is yet to be determined. I am somewhat preoccupied though, work on one end, self-development in a rapidly changing world that it is not getting easier to keep up and most of all, as 2018 drew to a close, I met someone and fell in love.

That, in itself, should have been a source of inspiration, and indeed, I have found things from deep in the heart to write about this madness of emotion called love and I am loving every bit of that experience. I reflect on the reality of living in grief for almost a decade unable to find the measure of anyone who did not measure up to that which was lost, until out of the blue someone put to rest the ghosts of yesteryears and brought a new reality of what life could be.

If anything, I am grateful for that which I have found and intent to make the best of it. Long-distance relationships are not easy to cultivate and maintain, we devote the most of what we can cherish every moment and yearn earnestly for the next time we will be together again. That, we know now is soon.

Resisting the frenzy

The year at work has not been as engaging as one would have loved it to be, my retainership was unable to find productive engagement for about 70 working days. I probably should have moved on when the empty promises suggested plenty was coming my way. We bring that chapter to a close.

I was unable to write a fitting tribute to the passing of my uncle in the middle of the year because the final years were a harbinger of much hurt. Then if I were to write an enduring note of remembrance and affection it would be of one of the most humble and self-effacing Muslims, I have ever encountered bar my paternal grandfather. May his soul rest in peace.

The year itself started with some irritation towards the patriarch whose sudden extraneous demands left me both flustered and annoyed. This is all in preparation for his 80^th birthday, which with the resourceful and energetic resolve of all my siblings, we pulled off successfully and brilliantly. It left the patriarch a prayerfully, grateful and happy man, may the Lord grant him strength, health, and happiness to enjoy many more years.

Our matriarch, God bless her, I even offered to help her swear an affidavit to celebrate her 80^th birthday this year. She hasn’t lost her penchant to bring us close to exasperation, harmless and loving, she is a wonderful mother and we get one well.

In all, we do wish we never had a care in this world, the challenges abound as we triumph from within and with many, we find the supply to meet every situation. By that, we are employed to resist frenzied action on behalf of homeless cats. The cats we know have homes. So there, no need to worry about a thing.

Courtesy of the William Kentridge exhibition at Zeitz MOCAA, Cape Town.

God bless Aretha Franklin

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All respect

As the world bids farewell to the Queen of Soul, Aretha Franklin, the tributes are many from far and wide for the sensational person, artist and figure she was.

Yet, for most that mourn and also celebrate her wonderful life, she will be remembered mostly in her many songs. What is so amazing is the number of songs that she covered that she brought a life and an interpretation to that went well beyond the original.

Respect was written and first recorded by Otis Redding, with the man, the husband, pleading for respect when he gets home, Aretha Franklin took it and sang it from the perspective from the woman, the wife and the rest is history. Two Grammy awards and the induction of her version into Grammy Hall of Fame.

The salvation of talent

There are many other songs that people have come out to sing in charted a literally 7-decade-long career.

A difficult childhood, she had, parents divorcing when she was 6, her mother died of a heart attack just before she was 10, having 2 children at the ages of 12 and 14 respectively, she was a preacher’s daughter, but it did not save her from a cruel world out there. Her talent did, and it did greatly.

However, the song that registers the most to me as delivered by Aretha Franklin was written by the Beatles, she again took it and rendered it in both a haunting and a somewhat uplift tempo, the words of the song, full of meaning that made you think. It isn’t Think. She wrote that with her then husband, Ted White.

Eleanor Rigby was written in 1966, first by Paul McCartney and completed by the Beatles, but credited to Paul McCartney and John Lennon.

Remembering the lonely

Between the version written by the Beatles and the version that Aretha Franklin performed, she basically took a fictional person with a life story of a nobody, about whom nobody cared except for what needed to be done in burying her after she died.

The Beatles – 1^st verse.

Eleanor Rigby picks up the rice
In the church where a wedding has been
Lives in a dream
Waits at the window
Wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door
Who is it for?

Aretha Franklin – 1^st verse.

I'm Eleanor Rigby
I picked up the rice in the church where the weddings have been
Yeah I'm Eleanor Rigby
I'm keeping my face in a jar by the door
If you want to know what is it for, Well

The juxtapositioning of being unknown as a nobody and the reality of being a lonely person is a haunting and fearful thing to think about. Yet, there are many, unknown, unsung, unseen, unheard, untouched, unloved, and more that have a life and then a death that would speak like that of Eleanor Rigby.

When Eleanor Rigby died, she died in the church, Father McKenzie whose frugal life is noted in darning his socks, having written an eulogy, a tribute to Eleanor Rigby, to the hearing nobody to the fact that in the Beatles version, nobody was saved by what may have been a moving tribute, but who can tell?

Making a person real

Aretha Franklin takes the abstraction to the involved, creates a person and speaks in the voice of that person. This is deep empathy rather than plain sympathy.

This is where Aretha Franklin made Eleanor Rigby somebody, a person, a story that began in the first person and then it became a story told to many. Eleanor Rigby took a place in our minds, the minds of many of us seemingly lonely people in many ways social, emotional and much else, with the promise that we would be left unsung.

When I first heard Aretha Franklin’s version, I thought Eleanor Rigby was someone who lived at a certain time and after her death was recognised for something. I had not heard the Beatles version before that.

Eleanor Rigby is almost a premonition, a niggling anxiety, yet, whatever happens when one is dead is really for the living to take care of, and that is a hope of sorts.

Aretha Franklin herself is definitely no Eleanor Rigby, she did not have to pick up the rice where the weddings have been. She died surrounded by family and will be eulogised by the high and mighty, along with millions paying tribute. She, however, has given a voice and life to the lonely people and at the end, she said, ‘God bless, yeah gotta love some lonely people.’

God bless you, Aretha, you made more than a difference.

Prince (1958 - 2016)

On notice

Prince Rogers Nelson who died on the 21^st of April 2016 belongs in the catalogue of contemporary musicians I have always admired for musicality and ability; it is a shame I never got to see him live before.

The first I heard of Prince was when a classmate sang at any opportunity in boarding school, the words of I wanna by your lover, in fact, he screeched, “I ain't got no money”, played an air guitar and attempted a beatbox of the instrumentation.

An uncle returning from the UK updated our electronics with a stereo system, a turntable, a colour television and scores of hit records from the late 1970s to the early 1980s, amongst which was Prince’s album and a better idea of what my classmate was trying to mimic.

Then, Prince was naughty, but Rick James, Millie Jackson and Betty Wright were dirtier, and this was before “Parental Advisory: Explicit Lyrics” became a sticker on albums and CDs, all because of his Darling Nikki that got Tipper Gore to found The Parents Music Resource Center.

I digressed, Prince made music for adults as well as touching on many social and political issues, I remember the Ebony magazine juxtaposing him with André Cymone, much history and commentary.

Becoming a fan

However, many albums later, I got the Emancipation album with 3 CDs as a birthday/Christmas present in December 1996, since I am one of the lucky ones who has a birthday just a few days before Christmas. That was when I realised how prolific Prince was in producing not just hits, but amazing music.

Purple Rain, Little Red Corvette, When Doves Cry, Sign O’ the Times, Get Off, 1999, Cream, Diamonds and Pearls, Kiss had all caught my attention in the midst of other interests that now included a better appreciation of classical music too. Yes, visit Prince Vault to get an idea of all that he did.

There is much to write about the lines in the many songs he wrote and performed singularly playing all the instruments and only needing accompaniment at live performances and concerts, the covers he performed too got a unique sound from his rendition.

Words and swords

Some of the moving lyrics I could just listen to and reflect:

Oh yeah
In France a skinny man
Died of a big disease with a little name
By chance his girlfriend came across a needle
And soon she did the same
At home there are seventeen-year-old boys
And their idea of fun
Is being in a gang called The Disciples
High on crack, totin' a machine gun.
Lyrics from Sign O’ the Times

I guess because of the way I literally wore the play of my Emancipation CDs on my multi-changer CD-playing stereo, it became from use, my best Prince album, which does not take away from other wonderful albums and singles from Prince’s repertoire of talent, genius and mastery.

Let's go down 2 the holy river
If we drown then we'll be delivered.
...
If U ask God 2 love U longer
Every breath U take will make U stronger
Keepin' U happy (happy) and proud 2 call His name
(Go'n and say it)
Jesus
(Jesus)
Lyrics from The Holy River

Quite typical to think you’ll come to no harm or some redemption if you jumped into a holy river. I remember being served ‘holy’ water by my mother, it had been prayed over by some prophet and stored that it stunk and it sickened me, but she never thought the water having been prayed over could become harmful. This should be played at a proposal and at wedding receptions.

Then Prince covered Joan Osborne’s One Of Us, and whilst, I had heard it before, it was imprinted by Prince’s performance. He replaced slob with slave in his rendition.

What if God was one of us
Just a slob (slave) like one of us
Just a stranger on the bus
Trying to make his way home
Just trying to make his way home
Back up to heaven all alone
Nobody calling on the phone,
'Cept for the Pope, maybe, in Rome
Lyrics from One of Us.

The Holy River

For all his eccentricities and there were many, he was a performer and an entertainer a class apart, employing talent regardless of gender, pushing boundaries, and I think much will be written of this music revolutionary in years and decades to come. It is rumoured he left a vault of unpublished material and much as it would be interesting to listen to some of that, it is unlikely that they’ll have the kind of quality Prince would have liked to bring to their release.

It is difficult to write a fitting tribute to Prince as a fan of his music apart from constantly playing back his music and reviewing the commentary that comes with every single published work whilst he was alive as documented by sites like Prince Vault. I did not feel this way about Luther Vandross, Michael Jackson or Whitney Houston.

Without a doubt, each and every one of his songs had depth in the lyrics or the performance, the music world knows for sure that this man was a great loss. For me, saddened as I am, whatever ailed him in life, may his soul rest in peace.

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He is now in the holy river, delivered from all the worries, sorrow and grief. Being a religious man, he probably made sure of this.

That's when u find out that u're better off
Makin' sure your soul's alright
Lyrics from Money Don’t Matter 2 Night.

Mostly, he was capable of great emotional expression and I will remember him for the many excerpts that mean a lot from his music.

Friend, lover, sister, mother/wife
Air, food, water, love of my life.
Lyrics from Friend, Lover, Sister, Mother/Wife

Lemme show you baby, I'm a talented boy
Lyrics from Get Off

Nobody can dispute this fact. Requiescat in pace, Prince Rogers Nelson.

Nigeria: Journalism, law deaths and swimming

Poor journalism

One should tire about Nigerian journalistic practices that have a tendency to plumb the depths of the unschooled, badly edited and thoroughly lacking in quality and finesse.

The headline in this case announces [1] the unfortunate assassination of an ex-chairman of a state bar association close to his home, that in itself is a story that can be developed into details of the event, the on-going investigation, the possible suspects and tributes from peers and other notable people.

However, interspersed in this news story is that of the unfortunate death by drowning of another female lawyer who happened to be a Senior Advocate of Nigeria (SAN) meeting her demise when attempting the rescue of her aide who got into trouble in the waters of the Bar Beach.

The tenuous connection between the assassination and the sad deaths is they were lawyers, besides that, there are sketchy details about the murder and advanced preparations for the internment of the SAN, then tributes to her and the story concludes having completely digressed from the headline bordering on the peddling of false information.

This is a report filed by two reporters or correspondents and what could have been two distinct stories has been conflated into one running thread of barely and tenuous related issues that share the sparse commonality of death and law – appalling.

Beaches, swimming and lifejackets

However, the main reason for this blog touches on another serious issue; tributes were paid to the SAN and prominent amongst those eulogies was one from the human-rights lawyer Femi Falana, it is important that I quote him verbatim, “The deceased was a brilliant lawyer. It is a big shame that on a yearly basis people get drowned on Lagos beaches due to failure of government to provide lifesaving jackets. I hope that the NBA will take advantage of this unfortunate incident to demand that all the beaches in the country are equipped with lifesaving jackets.”

This raises a whole range of issues that I must take this opportunity to address before the situation cools down in readiness for another unfortunate tragedy.

This SAN’s firm chose a beach for their end-of-year party, the presence of water means people might well go skinny-dipping or swimming. Nigerians in general are not natural swimmers, [References below explore that topic of Black African Americans not being able to swim.] we generally exhibit a fear of water except for those who have lived near rivers, lakes or beaches from childhood and have the fishing trade or something related in their family.

The aeration of the water baby

Rationally, irrationally or superstitiously, water either deep or raging is best observed from afar, I could have learnt to swim just before I was a teenager when we broke out of boarding school to play in the river not too far away until one day an animist priestess dressed in white wraps came to the banks of the river and appeared to walk on water, that was the last time we went there.

In fact, at Easter in 1976, I was thrown into the waters of Bar Beach by my uncles and I somehow came back to dry land a little worse for wear.

Years ago, my partner was able to persuade me to take swimming classes but at the first class, I was the big baby with floats and there never was a second lesson, the desire remains, the will is weak and it remains a fantasy but I would not use my fantasy and dreaming of swimming to exact a false reality on myself.

In any case, nothing is said about the swimming ability of the aide who got into difficulty and if the SAN was a swimmer at all, it is doubtful she was a strong swimmer at best and her judgment of her abilities might have been beclouded by the sight of the aide in distress.

Evidently, other members of the party probably knew that they could not swim and hence maybe were not involved in the rescue attempt of either ladies.

Lifeguards are what we need

That brings us back to Femi Falana’s statement, I doubt the issue is about life jackets because you will only be compelled to wear life jackets for safety reasons if you were on a boat and could not swim. Whilst there might be life buoys and tyres to throw out to people from the beach or boats, I doubt that in itself would have saved the day.

What the beaches require are life guards, people who are strong and able swimmers who are either paid or volunteers to oversee beaches and react immediately when people get into trouble.

Obviously, these lifeguards should be able to get the distressed to shore and perform first aid before the victims are transferred to hospital for treatment and/or observation.

Most importantly, people have no business going into the water if they cannot swim, fascinating as the Man from Atlantis might be, we are not fish. If anything should be learnt from this tragedy, it should be that we seek out swimming classes and restrict our water dunking to pools until such a time that we have built up strength to save ourselves in strong currents and hopefully save others who are weaker than we are in the water.

Source

[1] The Punch: Ex-NBA boss assassinated in Ogun

Other references

Images of Bar Beach, Lagos

BBC News - Why don't black Americans swim?

Swimming history: 'Blacks Don't Swim' | openwaterswimming.eu

Chris

I am ready to forgive

My heart had melted, so I sent this short message in the hope of a reply.

“I hope this message meets you in good health and spirits. I am sorry that I cut all contact with you. I let go of all the hurt I selfishly held on to, I hope I can find forgiveness with you too. Be at peace and God bless you always.”

I signed off and waited.

A tall handsome Englishman in whose company I felt I had all the friendship and company I needed but it was never really fulfilled.

We would talk at length about so many things, he was not of great means but when it came to his case even I never had a head to think through what I was doing, I spared no expense, my heart always had the better of me and I never really came up trumps.

But each time we did get to meet up, it was just pure fun if I could engage his attention long enough before he wanted to do other things.

A worthy son

2006 was a most difficult year for him, his mother who had kicked him out of their home when he was 15 died in his arms in his home drawing all the comfort she could from a son she had so desperately wronged – he buried her like a good son and honoured her greatly as his mother, I have never been so proud of Chris as he conducted himself in this solemn and grief-stricken period.

As the year closed, his father also passed away and though he had so many older half-brothers, all were too absorbed with the will; it was Chris, the once rejected son that the father could trust with his estate and testament. Chris became the man amongst men, burying his father like a worthy son.

The irony of life that the son once disowned in his youth was the only one they could in their heart of hearts rely on to do well and do right – life can be so mysterious when viewed through the collapsed lenses of time.

He had a sense of duty and a great survival streak that did not necessarily reach down to the affairs of the heart for companionship and deep friendship but the company for me was just so pleasant.

I was having enough

Probably, the last straw for me was when I could not even get him to attend his own birthday dinner at one of the swankiest restaurants in London last year.

What expletive did I not rain on him, even he reeled at the quality of my language and I was surprised the vehemence of it all, but I really had it. Only 4 months before, I had invited him for the winter sun in Gran Canaria because the year past was quite an ordeal for him, even the clock had not struck the midnight of the new year before I was boredom and other things were fun.

And one really does wonder how despite all else, one can be infatuated in the quest for simple friendship – some matters just defy logic just as this completely defied my sense of proportion.

For another brief moment

Communication was soon reestablished, he had difficult times, I had a listening ear and a few comforting words, being distant, there was no prospect of arms getting involved in the comfort but a friend I wanted to remain.

It came to a head again and this time, nothing he sent to me got a reply, for through August, there was a text message asking after my health, my work and many more things, I ignored them all.

But he was always in my thoughts and that lead to the text message I sent just last night.

Gone to where they never return

The reply came this afternoon and it read:

“Hi! This is Chris’ flat mate. I am really sorry to tell you but Chris died of kidney failure two weeks ago. It was very sudden and he wasn’t in pain.”

I last saw him out of the corner of my eye almost two years ago walking up the road in the winter sun towards the shops, we did not attempt to engage each other.

I liked him a lot and now he is no more; I am left with memories congealed on 4 days of 2003, 3 days of 2006 and 2 days of 2008, a friendship of almost 7 years where we met for only 9 days.

My dear friend, my dear Chris, was 36, he had beaten even cancer in his 20s; I will miss your humour, your smile, your stubbornness and the hurt that so easily accompanied our friendship; good bye and rest in perfect peace, the peace of God be with your tender departed soul.

Nigeria: The crude franchise of stones

Stones may atone

Whilst one is not given to violent protest of any sort, it was amusing to read that the Nigerian Presidential convoy that malingered to Jos to condole the people on the death of their king; the Gbong Gwom of Jos, Da Victor Dung Pam was pelted with missiles.[AllAfrica/Vanguard Obateru/Shaibu][Leadership Abimaje/Timothy]

Now, I do remember when we lived in Jos and the Head of State visited, we were out there proudly waving our Nigerian flags, glad to have him visit, even though it was his home state.

Considering it is easy to find a belly-driven paid or coerced multitude to sing the praises of despots in Africa as witnessed in Zimbabwe and Sudan recently, one can only wonder at the disconnect between the corralling sycophants who were to marshal the plaint masses to welcome the benevolent leader and the reality of discontent rather than malcontent leading to the pelting with missiles.

It might well signal a time where African masses have decided to give non-performing leaders their just desserts.

The Gbong Gwom

When a big traditional chief dies in Nigeria the multitudes of political bigwigs and their clique troop to the palaces of the dead kings and declare all sorts of atrocious allegiances and statements that bare no significance to the truth. [TheNationOnlineNigeria Ayuba/Ologun]

The Gbong Gwon who might in other lands have ascended the throne took the stool in 2002 having been a Deputy Inspector General of the Nigeria during which time there have been serious religious and tribal tensions leading to riots and many deaths in late 2008, his predecessor presided over those of 2002 and 2001.[Wikipedia][Wikipedia]

Whilst the Gbong Gwon might have served his country meritoriously as a policeman, it is disingenuous to suggest that his leadership as a traditional chief was that beneficial considering the last riot was alleged to have been instigated by political powers, these powers that he should have been able to lean on from his sphere of influence. [LeadershipNigeria Nkwocha] [LeadershipNigeria Umunnabuike/Shuaib]

A cultural present

A bigger false notion is even being purported of his death creating a vacuum in the cultural heritage of the people – history tells us that the Berom tribe of which he was “political leader” maybe tribal ruler only had this kind of “royal” leadership from 1947, a mere 62 years ago – I am sorry, he might have been a figure head for the Berom but amongst the Berom their leadership structures are clan centred. [Wikipedia]

As one should not speak ill of the dead, paying tribute and respects should not be the occasion to embellish the truth and in being nice tell blatant lies peddling falsehoods.

Investigating a symptom

However, the police would investigate and try to apprehend those who dared to disrespect the President, but I would contend that respect is a two-way thing – the leadership has to earn its respect to have reciprocal respect.

Much as the paternalistic elements of the society would fulminate about the people being malcontents, it is time to reflect on the possibility that the lack of a truly representative democracy that imposes the unsatisfactory on the powerless, where the powerful act with impunity and masses are herded at the bidding of a corrupt elite some form of expression must find an outlet.

Something to ponder

Given this is not the first time a President has been pelted with missiles in that vicinity the security detail have been naïve if not in plain dereliction of their duties to have allowed the President to run the gauntlet of the aggrieved.

In Nigeria, where justice is pricey and due process mostly comes after the grave, a stone here or a stone there at the people who are in leadership but fail to lead or deliver progress and development might just be the only means of the electorate connecting with the elected.

It is then incumbent of those who suffered such indignation to consider what can be done to avoid such situations by addressing the causes rather than corralling everyone who does not have a godfather for punishment which would be unjust, unfair and inimical to possibly the only kind of public protest that can make the leaders listen.

Rest in peace, Gbong Gwom.