I hate the pretence of Nigerians. It is shameful when we pretend that we live in a country where things work the way they should even in the neighbouring countries we often boast we could put in our back pockets.
A few weeks ago, an airplane with 232 passengers on board ostensibly from all parts of Nigeria cleared to arrive at the Murtala Muhammed Airport, an hour and fifteen minutes flight. Its passengers could have been Asaba citizens. Some could have had plans for a later flight to Asaba later that day or week, but their immediate destination was the Nnamdi
Azikiwe International Airport in Abuja. International being the generic adjective like the ones Americans use when they use the term ‘world’ to mean anything that starts or ends within their borders.
The passengers sat through the boring flight routines – fastening seat belts, disaster simulation procedures that everyone forgets the moment a real emergency occurs. The usual delectable damsels trained to wear their plastic smiles even when all hope is lost must have served the usual tasteless rations as the plane made its way to ‘Governor’ Wike’s new playpen. You could imagine the banter as those with the means review their order to their drivers to be at the airport before the plane’s nose breaks through the city’s cumulous clouds.
They listened to the welcome announcement to Abuja airport as the plane’s nose steadied itself to a joyous landing. There was a snag. Those who left Abuja a few hours earlier must have wondered what Wike had done to reform its city for the difference they saw knowing that the new FCT minister is as unpredictable as the Canadian weather. The ‘new’ airport had no resemblance to the Abuja one they were familiar with.
That was when it dawned on them that they had landed 178 nautical miles south in Asaba, which literally rhymes with Abuja. You could imagine their shock. As the news filtered out, Nigerians, as usual, fussed about the aeronautical faux pas and its security implications for a nation fighting insurgency and every conceivable level of insecurity. The humour mill joked that it would not be out of place to board a plane destined for Gombe only to land or be bombed over Gaza.
The lawyer turned aviation minister, Festus Keyamo, fussed and fumed, promising to remove those bent on snatching his new meal from his mouth. As usual, panels were set up to investigate the matter. Like boiled water from a steel pot settles once removed from the stove, the matter died down.
In Nigeria where scandals are cheaper than a kobo a dozen, the caravan of news and national outrage moved quickly to the salacious line items in the president’s first budget; Wike’s fight against his hand-picked successor and Nigeria’s invasion of the Climate Summit in Dubai, UAE.
While we were savouring these delicious dishes like shawarma-raised millennials discovering the insatiable delish of a Delta’s fisherman’s soup, a more devastating disaster struck when the faithful in Tudun Biri were massively murdered while celebrating the birth of the Holy Prophet of Islam.
They had observed a drone hovering over their airspace, the kind of event during which; as children we would sing nursery rhymes asking the plane to bring back goodies from our relatives outside. Only this was no ordinary unidentified flying object, UFO. It was a dream-terminating merchant of death that immediately rained bombs on their heads killing scores of unsuspecting celebrants. Within seconds, the atmosphere of myrrh was turned into an ambience of death, a peaceful village became the valley of confusion, death and destruction.
By the time the story hit the headlines hours later, 141 citizens had been obliterated from the census of Igabi local government area. Scores, mostly women and children had transformed into invalids within seconds. Survivor wives scrambled to locate breadwinners and their children. Those who survived with life-altering injuries prayed to make it. One citizen was said to have lost over a dozen members of their family.
This type of problem usually leads to the collapse of governments or at best the mass sacking or resignation of those in charge of defence. But in Nigeria where allegations that helicopters usually supply insurgents with weapons under the cover of darkness were waved off without investigation; nothing has happened. The Air Force, constitutionally accountable for the security of the nation’s airspace absolved itself of complicity.
Uba Sani, the freshly minted Governor of Kaduna State, the domain where the incident occurred and in regular parlance its chief security officer could not be initially found. He was initially said to be among the troops invading Dubai. General Taoreed Lagbaja, the man whose name literally interprets as Mr. Nobody apparently had no knowledge of his troop movements within the area. After celebrated bumbling and bungling, the army announced it had scored an own goal in military parlance called collateral damage. Its drone had picked up unusual activities in an insurgency-prone area and acted without further investigation which led to the murder of 141 innocent citizens.
The federal government was as usual missing in action because the seat of governance had momentarily moved to Dubai. By the time it woke up from its somnambulism, it rehashed the old press statement promising to punish perpetrators. Vice President Kashim Shettima would visit victims in hospital, handing out wads of naira notes probably enough to buy a few loaves of bread while waiting for his N15 billion new mansion. With victims lying on bare hospital floor at the Barau Dikko Hospital, Kaduna; government promised to pick the tab of the wounded – such a philanthropic gesture.
As a presumably shocked nation found its voice, Nuhu Ribadu, our new national security adviser joined other top government officials to silently protest disposable citizens to shut the F up and face the business of survival.
Days later, President Tinubu returned to Abuja to the spin ditty of káàbọ, se dáadáa lẹ de. He avoided Kaduna like the plague and when he found his voice, his response was so reassuring. He’d keep his hardworking service chiefs and deal with the culprits. Army drone operators must be peeing in their pants by now counting the days left in their military career or a reduction in their ranks.
We, citizens, have recovered from our feigned shock even before we were told to shut up. The dead have been given a befitting mass burial, like their collateral damage victims in Sambisa, Rann, Tangaram, Sakatou, Mainok, Genu, Buhari, Kwatar, Daban Masara, Kunkuna, and Kurebe to mention a few.
Like the migrating buffaloes of Serengeti are meat for the crocodiles and lions, disposable citizens survive on divine exemption. After each own goal, we return to raising our hands in supplication to Allah, to keep us safe and deflect disaster towards our real and imagined enemies. Government encourages us to tow that line as the ruining class dissipates dwindling security resources for the defence of its class. The rest of us appeal to the divine that our prayers would not end up in voice mail when divine help is most needed until the next disaster happens.
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