Author: Dahiru Maishanu
Posted to the web: 12/13/2005 7:30:05 AM
Even though you are the creator of the heavens and earth and what ever is in them, something still compels me to introduce myself to you. My name is Nigeria; I’m an orphan, with no father or mother. I have 130 million children and I will be 45 years old in the next few days.
As my 45th birthday anniversary approaches, I thought I should share some facts of my conditions of life with you. I still do not know why I’m writing this letter to you. One mind tells me to use this letter to report my children to you for ransacking and desecrating my sanctity while another mind tells me to report you to yourself for giving them an unimpeded access and audacity to chastise and degenerate my person with impunity. I sincerely hope by the time I finish writing this letter; I would be able to decide why I’m writing it to you.
To the reader, even though this letter is not meant for your consumption, you are none the less allowed to go through it if you wish, before it reaches the heavens, its final destination. A point of warning though; if you are the emotional type, please abort reading now, because what you are about to read will bring nothing but sadness, despair and regret. I promise you the story is going to be pathetic, sad and pitiful. You will surely weep after reading this letter.
Back to the addressee, my dear God, almighty. My children have forsaken me; they have desecrated my sanctity. They have bastardised me; they have despised me. They have shaken every pillar of my foundation. They have crippled me beyond imagination.
My dear God, there is no mother like me. My children are thieves, armed robbers, hired killers, coup plotters, 419ers, election riggers, usurpers and wife snatchers. God almighty let me remind you a bit, I’m the mother of Dimka, Orkar, Aninih, Tafa Balogun, Fred Ajudua, Abiola, Sani Abacha, Ibrahim Babangida and Olusegun Obasanjo. God, I often wonder why you wasted your precious time in creating me in the first place.
God, I also wonder why you use what you have abundantly endowed me with, to turn from a blessing to an unmitigated curse. My children have exploited all my god given natural and mineral resources and carted them away with out giving back anything to the motherland and the remaining millions of their other siblings. Sometimes I think you gave me oil in order to curse me, not to bless me.
My children have committed in-cest; they have raped me, their mother over and over again. My children have invited international rogues to help them complete the cancerous routing of my underbelly. They brought Shell, Julius Berger, the Vaswani brothers and many others to make this a fait accompli.
My dear God, when you killed Sani Abacha and Mashood Abiola, you made their death easier by not fore warning them. In my own case, you have chosen to give me ominous warning of a phenomenon that you know I cannot be able to avoid. You have chosen to show me signs of my inevitable death and even a possible date. That date is undoubtedly hanging some where in the year 2007. You will agree with me that a terminal death brings fear, despair and hopelessness.
My eldest son is embroiled in a dangerous, fratricidal war of wits with his immediate younger brother. The former wants to perpetuate himself over me, while the latter wants to have a go at me at all costs. They have employed dangerous weapons in executing this war. My dear God, what can be a more ominous sign of my impending demise come the year 2007.
You have allowed, my children to use me as their playground for all ill-conceived, designed-to-fail and dubious experimentations in this world. They have made me their guinea pig. They used me to experiment Austerity measures, SAP, Option A4, Zero party option, Better life, Shari’a, NPRC, etc All these programs were designed to fail and leave behind them a deluge of multiple economic and political hardships for the majority of the children.
My children have embarked on white elephants in order to line their pockets and leave the rest of the children in abject poverty. NEPA, NITEL, the Refineries, the Water Board, the National Theatre, are all glaring examples of lazy, quarter-to-go, white elephant projects that have only succeeded in further draining the little resources left in my kitty.
My dear God, my creator, I look at the ingredients that make me up as a polity. I see the structures of democracy standing in my political footballing field. I don’t need to be told that these structures are weak and everything but firm.
The National Assembly is like a market place where people engage in buying and selling of all kinds of wares. The State Assemblies are pipers whose tunes are paid for and dictated by the Governors. The Governors have turned themselves into semi-gods who can do no wrong. They steal everything in the land with impunity. They hire thugs, and killers to intimidate and kill opponents.
The centre is where the worst things happen. Aso rock is all about power struggle, dangerous plots, foreign trips, lies, deceits, accusations and counter accusations. The Rock has been callously decimated. The House has been turned into a free-for-all, thief I thief, dungeon by a cabal whose interest is the only determining factor that matters. The collective interest of the nation is nowhere near their hearts. In fact, my Children have turned their brothers and sisters into paupers whose only companions are hunger, disease and poverty.
My God, even though you have spared me from natural disasters and calamities like the Tsunami and Hurricane Katrina, my children are determined to combine all of them and visit me with them in their most ferocious characteristics. Religious, political, ethnic and tribal clashes, all orchestrated by the leaders are rampant in the society. Thousands have died in these clashes and there is no end insight.
Dear God, as my 45th birthday anniversary approaches, I fear for the future. I fear for the majority of my children who are held captive by their own brethren. Some times I even contemplate committing suicide. I wonder what I have done to you to warrant all these.
My dear God, please hear my last prayers before I turn 45: I’m on the verge of collapse. I have nowhere to go to except to you. Only your divine intervention can save me from the hawks of my rampaging children. I lay prostrate appealing to you to save me from my very own. This house is on fire.
God, Almighty, if I’m able to survive 2007, I promise I will invite you to Aso Rock for a thanks-giving party.