On some days, my grandfather found humour in our predicament. And when he did, he joked about how some of the others now knew how it felt to be a minority within their own land – to be subsumed within a larger mass, forgotten in the time of major policies, to have legitimate grievances dismissed as statistical noise, to only become relevant political pawns when the numbers were needed.
My father thought his father was a mad man, consumed by too much knowledge and the stories of his fathers; I thought him tormented by a country that never came to fruition.
Soye was seated in front of the large television screen in the living room downstairs. It was July and the rains had returned in torrents, turning roads impassable and causing gridlock traffic. Nzube, Soye’s longtime friend, had come to visit, and they were watching the national news and making boisterous comments.
I’d first met Nzube as a university student. He’d studied journalism, eager to partake in holding the government to account, and had gone on to work for one of the nation’s largest newspapers after graduation, gaining acclaim as one of the government’s loudest critics, reporting without fear or favour, leading several labour marches and protests against government maltreatment. Now, he sat on a state government cabinet, a state government that reportedly owed its workers nineteen months’ worth of salaries.
Newly released unemployment numbers flashed across the screen, closely followed by a secretly recorded video of a state governor brazenly demanding bribes from his visitors and going on to tuck bundles of dollar notes in his agbada when they obliged. A panel had been assembled by the news network to analyse the events, and already the individuals gathered looked unsure of where to start.
The anchor, a balding man in an oversized suit, introduced the participants, then said, ‘Let’s begin with the unemployment numbers and brain drain in the nation. The Federal Minister of Information and Culture has denounced these numbers as inaccurate, even though they’ve been released by the National Bureau of Statistics. The Federal Minister of Labour has commented. Let’s take a quick look then discuss.’
The Minister of Labour appeared on the screen, a diminutive, bearded man. ‘The issue with our young people is that they want white collar jobs, they want to work in offices with air conditioners. This is why they are running to Canada and America. Well, we have many more to replace them so let them continue running. There are farms in the villages, left to lie fallow; let those that don’t have jobs return to the farms and feed the nation.’ Soye and Nzube nodded vigorously together.
Discussion began immediately. Dr Chukwu, the first person to speak, was incensed. ‘The problem with this government is that fact has become the enemy, propaganda is now truth. Instead of speaking of solutions, they deny the truth of their failed policies. How can the Minister of Labour, a trained medical doctor, speak such nonsense? It’s because there are no consequences for actions here. We have a governor boldly collecting dollars as bribes and yet to resign. Until actions start to lead to consequences, nothing will change.’
Mrs Fagbemi, a lawyer, spoke next. ‘Just last week, we were here to discuss the unprecedented rise in internet fraud. If a country where a significant percentage of its population consists of young people fails to provide jobs, we shouldn’t be surprised when they turn to crime or seek opportunities outside. The Minister of Labour is a doctor – if he’d been told to return to the village to farm, would he be where he is now? Would he say the same for his children? These people send their children abroad and leave ours to rot within the system.’
The pro-government person on the panel, Mr Okhai, was given the floor. Also a lawyer, he’d been recently awarded the Senior Advocate of Nigeria (SAN) title, more for his sycophantic antics than his legal resume.
Soye and Nzube started their commentary then. ‘Government this, government that. Is the government meant to do everything for the people?’ Nzube said, then sipped on his bellini.
‘My brother, are you minding these young people? They don’t want to work, they think we got here by accident,’ Soye said. ‘They forget that we had to work very hard, it wasn’t easy at all.’ Power, it would seem, had a way of manipulating memories.
Nzube nodded in agreement. ‘It’s the internet age, they see all these American celebrities wearing diamonds and riding Rolls-Royces and think they can wake up tomorrow and get that without working. Now you see them doing all these funny jobs like YouTube channels.’
‘That’s for the ones that aren’t addicts or doing fraud business.’
‘Thieves, and they want to take over from us? Tahh.’
They turned back to the television. The panel had moved on to discussing the governor and his agbada crammed with dollar notes.
‘Are we going to keep blaming the colonialists or past governments for this country’s problems? When are our leaders going to take responsibility for the state of the country?’ Dr Chukwu was saying in response to something the government’s spokesperson Mr Okhai had said.
Mr Okhai attempted to interrupt and the anchor said, ‘Gentlemen, let’s endeavour to give room for everyone to air their opinions.’
‘This anchor is biased against the government,’ Nzube complained. ‘How many minutes has this doctor fellow been speaking for? Was Okhai allowed to speak for this long?’
‘Most of these journalists are very dishonest and biased,’ Soye grunted.
‘Rubbish,’ Nzube said. ‘It reminds me of that fellow that wrote an article criticising your road project in the slums. Hope you dealt with him like you said you would? I haven’t heard anything from him recently; he must be sleeping behind a cell.’
Soye stiffened, as if suddenly taking note of my – until that moment – taciturn presence. He sent a furtive glance in my direction and Nzube’s eyes flashed with acknowledgement.
Pasting a smile that was too bright to be real across his face, Nzube said, ‘Madam, you’ve been very quiet. What do you think about what they’re saying?’
I mirrored his smile. ‘Nzube, do you want me to tell you what I really think or what you think I should think?’
His smile wavered. ‘Of course, I want to know what you think, Madam Eriife.’
I nodded, slowly, methodically. ‘Okay, would you allow your university-educated children to work as labourers on a farm?’
‘Why did you talk to Nzube like that?’ Soye demanded later after Nzube departed in a far less cheery mood than when he arrived. Before he left, he told Soye he was headed to Abuja in the coming days. ‘What’s happening in Abuja?’ Soye asked.
‘A major market caught fire last week and the governor wants me to submit pictures of the damage to the presidency,’ Nzube responded. ‘We have to let them know what’s going on; maybe the state government can be assisted with a loan to help rebuild the market.’ Nzube sent me a meaningful glance, then he added, ‘Before they say we’re not doing anything.’
‘How did I talk to Nzube?’ I asked calmly, unperturbed by the annoyance I read in Soye’s gaze.
‘Eri, why would you ask him such a question, simply because he said we need more youth farmers? Don’t we need more farmers?’
‘Listen, I’ve supported every move you’ve made. I even pretend not to notice the things you don’t want me to know. But the least you can do is not lie to yourselves about the state of this country. We both know I detest pretence and cowardice. If you’re going to do something, you might as well do it with your chest.’
That evening, Adelola called to inform me she was returning home the following week – her father had sent her the money for a first-class ticket.
‘So, you’ve finally remembered me ehn?’ I told her.
‘Ahn-ahn, Mummy, it’s not like that.’ I’d never met her mother; I wasn’t sure she had either. And so she called me ‘Mummy’ and I responded like I was indeed her mother.
The day Soye had brought Adelola home, after my return from the hospital, we’d stared at each other with uncertainty, neither of us seemingly sure how to play the roles we’d been cast in. Day by day, we learnt, helping the other, each new experience exposing my incompetence. I missed my mother most in those moments.
I found Soye holed up in his study, as he’d been since Nzube’s departure, refusing even Moses’ offer of dinner. I sat in one of the leather armchairs facing his desk. He pretended to not notice, keeping his head burrowed in shuffling pages.
Mildly amused, I said, ‘So you’re not going to talk to me again because I asked your friend a simple question okwa ya?’ I spoke Igbo – my mother’s language – only when I needed to tease Soye.
Soye sighed and looked up from his papers. ‘You need to start a major pet project and spend less time at the clinic,’ he said.
I stared at him, taken aback. ‘Why? What is wrong with going to the clinic? I’ve already reduced my hours enough as is.’
He pulled off the reading glasses he’d recently taken to donning – a reminder that we were ageing. ‘If I’m going to move up, I need to show that my wife is committed to service. You have to have a big project that can be pointed to as a success.’
