Category: Niyi Osundare

  • THE JOY OF THE JAB : Hurray for Medical Science

    In went the needle, then out

    And the nurses hailed its promise

    With a chorus of hearty “Congratulations!”

    Hurray for this army of happy Angels

     

     

    Hurray for them who stood, front-line,

    When Death marched in with viral violence

    Clogging trembling streets with a caravan of corpses

    And our breathless world with a cacophony of wails

     

     

    Hurray for the Magi of Modern Medicine

    Who put Pain to flight, Death to shame

    Hurray for the Art which ennobles their Science

    The Science which enlightens their Art

     

     

    Hurray for the Lab bug, the tireless nerd

    The peering eyes, the sleepless minds

    Who moved the world from Eureka to eulogy

    And put a healthy Future within our reach

     

    Hurray for that widowed wife in a nameless hamlet

    The orphaned brood, the teacherless school

    For those whose lives once hanged on a viral thread

    And at whose deaths the trumpet may never sound

     

     

    Hurray for all in us that is Human, and most enduring

    For our laughing moments and sorrowing spells

    For Hope so bent but never broken

    Hurray for Life and its endless Song

  • Janduku’s Last Act: The Post-Truth Era (PTE) Part 3

    By Niyi Osundare

     

    Strange, strange, strange
    The power of lies
    Strange, strange, strange
    Like a three-legged goat

    This eerie era of the “alternative fact”
    The real is unreal, the unreal so real
    The more you look, the less you see
    Truth is treason; fable is fact

    The Emperor tells his lies
    With supreme imperial command
    In tens, in hundreds, in dizzying thousands
    The Imperial Lie-Detector has run out of count

    “You build a great Empire on a scaffold of lies”,
    The Emperor once boasted to deafening applause
    “Tell a lie and tell it again, tell it again, and then again
    And cheer it to victory as it becomes the truth”

    Truth is bitter. The Lie is sweet
    Rot is right – if it serves your end
    These golden facts in our Imperial Pledge
    Chanted by all from Dunces to Dons

    Onward, then, with our League of Lies (LOL)
    As we fight and die for a mindless myth
    An empire built on lies will live to the end of time
    Welcome all to our Post-Truth Era (PTE)

  • Janduku’s Last Act: The Post-Truth Era (PTE) Part 2

    Armed with lies, propelled by hate,

    With the Emperor’s flag and his party colour

    The mob massed up on the Seat of Power

    Frightened lawmakers fled at Olympic speed

     

    Surrendering the chambers to the lawless rabble

    “We are sent by the Boss to reclaim our country

    He bids us be wild, and that’s what we are

    Void the vote and restore his throne”

     

    A motley mass of the most deadly, most deluded

    Smashing and tearing, trampling and cursing

    With their fecal signatures on the pristine marble

    Close to the dome, towering gallows with a swinging noose

     

    The long-expected Barbarians

    Are at the Empire’s hilltop sanctuary

    This time, at the Emperor’s behest

    So ominous, the colour of their home-made terror

     

    So many, so unequal, the authors of this riot

    The barely literate who gore their foe with the flagpole

    Ivy League pundits reeling from illiterate superstitions

    And murderous hate behind their laundered cant

     

    To every Democracy, its own demon

    Here goes the vain, demonic Emperor who would rather

    Take along the house on his way to the ground

    And Barbarians, never far from the Empire’s gate

  • Nigeria and the cow problem: Another letter to PMB

    Nigeria and the cow problem: Another letter to PMB

    By Niyi Osundare

    This letter, my second to you in five months, will begin with a very, very absurd question: Mr. President, will Nigeria drift into another civil war under your watch simply because the ‘Giant of Africa’ does not know how to manage its cows? Yes, absurd: for, absurdity is the faithful cohort of the grotesque and irrational, the conspicuously invisible and falsely true. No war has ever taken place without a potent dose of the absurd in its mix of  causes. No calamity has ever happened without a touch of the irrational. The distance between travesty and tragedy is perilously short. This is why History’s capacious house is replete with the skeletons of nations which went to war, after leaving their brains behind.

    Mr President, the country over which you preside is burning in all its flanks: kidnapping on the highways, kidnapping on village roads, kidnapping on township streets, kidnapping in the homestead, kidnapping on the farmlands. Nigeria has never had it so bad. The notorious perpetrators of these crimes are widely called ‘bandits’ and/or  ‘Fulani herdsmen’, depending upon the speaker’s degree of sensitivity or political correctness. The ethnic origination and/or attribution of these crimes is my object of worry – and should be to anyone who cares for the stability of Nigeria and its survival as a corporate entity. Yes, the cow, that four-legged, two-horned, long-tailed, absolutely innocent animal,  has become Nigeria’s casus belli , the moo-ing  metaphor of a planless, dysfunctional country, waiting for another bout of absurdity to push her beyond the brink, and plunge us all into avoidable catastrophe. Big wars are often caused by thoughtless little issues. Mr. President, war drums are already sounding in some parts of the country, provoked by a question as dangerously absurd as this: when you and a herd of cows meet on the road, who/which should have the right of way? When you, a struggling farmer, get to your farm and find a herd of cows making a  meal of the crops which are the lifeline for you and your family, should you take a bow as you shout bon appetite to the bovine bunch? When your only child is kidnapped and tortured and murdered, even after the payment of a hefty ransom, will you ask your neighbours to join you in the singing of the national anthem?  Absurdity, dangerous absurdity. But Mr. President, permit me to poach this unavoidably long excerpt from an interview which was part of my contributions to the activities marking the 59th anniversary of  Nigeria’s Independence:

    Now, on to the Fulani herdsmen. The frightening frequency of the repetition of that designation in the Nigerian media in recent times has left me with chilling apprehensions. As I have said on other occasions, we need all the tact, all the restraint, all the wisdom we can muster to tackle this extremely dangerous development, for Nigeria cannot afford to stampede itself into another civil war. Let no one underrate the havoc and destruction that are widely caused by these herdsmen; the epidemic of kidnapping, ransom extortion, and murder, the looting and destruction of farmlands, especially in the southern parts of Nigeria, and the uncountable bereavements that have been the lot of many households. President Buhari and his federal government cannot pretend that they do not know what is happening – that, indeed, there is fire on the roof of the Nigeria house. How much investigation has the government done into this dangerous situation? If any, how thorough, how non-partisan? If, indeed, as we have been told, many of the so-called Fulani herdsmen are foreigners in search of green pastures in Nigeria, how did they get into the country, and what are the border patrol officers doing about this? What do we call a country that cannot secure its own borders? With the cloud of insecurity hanging over the country, you cannot but ask “Where are Nigeria’s security authorities: the army, the police, immigration, the civil defence corps, etc.? What do President Buhari and the heads of these security units talk about at their official briefings?

    To say the least the federal government’s handling of the herdsmen crisis has been amateurish, pedestrian, and dangerously incompetent. Tell me: Is someone in Aso Rock trifling away while the Nigeria house is burning? Say something, President Buhari. Do something.

    The Ruga proposition is a ‘solution’ that is bound to compound the problem. That is why many people in many parts of the country have seen it as a poorly thought out attempt at the colonization of their own territories. And, by the way, there is crucial, fundamental question we have not been not asking: why do so many Nigerians, in this day and age, have to roam the entire country, in search of grass for cows they rear and nurture on behalf of richer, more powerful Nigerians? Why are they not in school – like the children of their rich and powerful patrons/clients? Let no one insult our intelligence with the atavistic excuse that this wasteful mis-employment of a vital group of Nigeria’s youth is a matter of culture and tradition. Genuine culture fares better; and tradition is no disempowering imprisonment.

    The Americans pasture their cows, the British do; so do South Africans and Ghanaians and Australians and Argentines, Chinese and Koreans, without turning a sizeable number of their young men into cow-chasers; without plunging their countries into ‘Herdsmen’ war. Let us try the miracle of the modern ranch: green, friendly, and peaceably/equitably located. Let us stop this ethnic profiling and stereotyping, this hype and hysteria, before they plunge us into another civil war. The War of Bullets usually begins with the War of Words. Let Rwanda provide us with a tragic – but avoidable – example.

    I said the above  some 17 months ago. Since then the situation has grown grimmer, the absurdity more alarming, more dangerous. The war drums are louder now and more persistent because the tension has been left to escalate. The customary silence from the seat of power has accentuated the loudness of the drum.

    In the opinion of many Nigerians, your apparent silence is nothing short of ethnic connivance: that the herdsmen roam and range all over the country, killing and maiming with astonishing impunity, because ‘the man at the top’ is their man. This feeling of untouchability, this sense of ethnic entitlement is evidenced by the preferential treatment reportedly enjoyed by the herdsmen, and the failure of Nigerian law to hold them accountable for their actions. Mr President, you owe yourself,  this troubled country, and the world at large  the urgent need to show in demonstrably practical terms that the entire country is, indeed, your ethnic constituency. Say more, do more about  the violence that is threatening the already frail fabric of the country. Go out and see things for yourself. The monsters consuming Nigeria are not the type you can tame through chats with  traditional rulers on emergency trips to Aso Rock. The story in many parts of Nigeria today are those of murderous assaults by herdsmen and gory reprisals by local victims. A trip to Nigeria’s southwest region will tell you how perilously close the country is to a civil war.

    Needless to say, Mr President, we live in strange and difficult times. As a result of climate change the desert is marching towards the coast; swaths of old pastoral land have disappeared; the beneficent streams between the mountains have all but vanished. As the search for pasture pushes cattle  rearing southwards, herdsmen and local farmers have found themselves locked in bloody battle over the available green patch, with old friends and neighbours becoming mortal enemies, and frequent skirmishes flaring into ethnic conflagrations, the type that consume unwary nations. But bad as this situation is, the climate-change excuse will not suffice. Ranches, Mr President, ranches. Computer-regulated irrigation. Pasture colonies. Created oases. Artificial lakes. Let the cows eat and drink where they are born, not forced into endless dangerous treks across the country in search of   dwindling patches of greenery.  Ask our River Basins how it could be done. Empower the faculties of agriculture in our various universities, (and our Universities of Agriculture), working in creative alliance with those of Engineering and Technology, instead of stampeding them into interminable strikes that drain the nation dry. Israel made the desert bloom by putting its citizens’ brains to work. Today, the country produces 95% of its food requirements, and some of the best citrus products in the world. Concerning the young men and boys now famously known as ‘herdsmen’, put them in school; put their feet on the road to a worthy life. Let their rich and powerful masters/patrons (all over Nigeria!) treat them the way they treat their own children. Science, not superstition, purposive reality, not bovine absurdity, that’s the magic.  Time to wake up, Mr President. Time to wake up.  The thinking, working world has left us behind. The whole wide world is appalled by Nigeria’s ostensibly incurable delinquency.

    And that world is watching and wondering at the tragic absurdity of a country sliding mindlessly  into a civil war over where and how to graze its cows. It is waiting for us to prove that we are wiser than our bovine bunch. It is, indeed, wondering whether in ‘Africa’s most populous country’, it is the people who rear the cows, or it is the cows that rear the people. Yes, the world is really wondering who owns Nigeria: the people or the cows?

    Say something, Mr President. Do something. Let us save Nigeria from another (un)civil war.

  • THE TYRANNY OF DISTANCE

    By Niyi Osundare

     

    There is a fruit

    So high in the tree

     

    Only the eye

    Can taste its magic

     

    A moon so high

    Only the sun can savour its friendship

     

    Another season of ears blissfully tuned

    To the melody of songs unheard. . . .

    *

    Lost

    In the divinity of a sigh

     

    I stand, tiptoe,

    On Desire’s Mountain

     

    But my hands fall shy

    Of its quivering crest

     

    There is a lingering line

    To the lyric of longing

     

    An indescribable sweetness

    To melodies unheard

    *

    Be

     

    Like the dew

    Which never forgoes its grass

     

    The moon

    Which never forgets its sky

     

    The Amen

    Always in search of its prayer

     

    The arrow

    Which never misses its mark

  • Janduku’s Last Act: The Post-Truth Era (PTE) Part 1

    By Niyi Osundare

     

    To every Empire

    Its season of madness

    When the Emperor’s sword is saner than his sense

    And the mobs shout decrees from the palace gate

     

    Here goes the last mortal madness

    Of an Emperor addicted to power

     

    Base, bullish braggart

    Greed-governed, allergic to Honour

    He belied the ballot even  before the vote:

    “The verdict can be valid

     

    Only if I cheat my way to victory”

    So he erected a castle of prefabricated lies

    With echo chambers for the daft and deluded

    And a moat bristling with crocodiles of asinine myths

     

    But came decision day and the Verdict drowned his dream

    He raved and rattled and kicked and cursed

    He assaulted the outcome with bribe and threat

    The courts threw his cases into the garbage bin

     

    “Either I’m Emperor, or the Empire is dead!”

    He ramped up his base and his League of Lies

    “Be wild and strong and tremendously blind

    Bring out your guns and void the vote”

     

    “Go up the Hill and die for me

    For in doing just so, you die for yourselves

    Take back the Empire; redeem your honour

    Cow the world with the colour of your terror”

  • SNAPSONG 124

    Who says our flower provokes their frown

    Whoever says our empty stomachs

    Scream the easy amen to the prayer

    Of their busy kitchen

     

    Who says our silence imperils their trumpet

    Whoever says our wordless wanderings

    Undo the dubious incubations

    Of their grudging Imagination

     

    Life’s market is a bewildering

    Fiesta of fabulous fares

    The garment Bade buys cannot hurt

    The size of Batuke’s shoes

     

    We live under one sky

    But we view the stars with different eyes

    The moon is one wondrous piece of yam

    For our universal desire

     

    My pawpaw doesn’t wound your pear

    My ugwu poses no danger to your sokoyokoto

    The machete I sharpen every morning

    May one day clear the path to your upland farm

     

    “The sky is wide enough for a thousand birds

    To fly without a clash”, observes the Sage.

    Unless, of course, some birds

    Decide to be inordinately possessive.

  • SNAPSONG 123 : (Prayers for the New Year, I*)

     

    God of Goodness

    God of Justice

    Fill this New Year

    With a bundle of miracles

     

    Teach our rulers

    Not to steal, not to lie

    Tame their greed

    Curtail their crimes

     

    Save our days from the deafen-

    Ing Allahu Akbars of the mosques

    Protect our ears from the madden-

    Ing megaphones of Allelujah churches

     

    Safeguard our fate in our cash-and-carry courts

    Reform Professors who profess Unknowing

    Remind the billionaire Prelate

    About the beggars behind the gate

     

    Protect our sanity

    From the difference of tribe and tongue

    Let Kindness trump

    The warrant of hate and war

     

    God of Goodness

    God of Justice

    Redeem our rulers from their evil ways

    And us, the ruled, from our damnable indifference

     

    *First appeared in this column on Jan. 14, 2018

  • SNAPSONG 123

    To you, my valuable listeners

    Who kept your ears close

    To my songs all twelve moons

    Of the past, eventful year

     

    And to you too

    Who joined the chorus

    From a long indeterminable distance

    Where life has pitched you and your tent

     

    May this January open the door

    To your house of a thousand blessings

    Where dreams blossom into beneficent deeds

    And the Amen never strays from its prayer

     

    May you walk this year

    And never stumble

    May you run life’s race

    Without tiring

     

    May you never bleed

    In the hands of the bandit

    Or become a bargaining chip

    In the kidnapper’s commerce

     

    May this year steer our rulers

    From their ruinous ways

    And may we, the ruled,

    Come to wisdom, to voice – and to Action

  • Part Two: Snapsong  122

    Part Two: Snapsong 122

    Niyi Osundare

     

    It was a year like no other

    When rage rumbled through the streets

    In burning banners and angry songs

    Their theme one short (un)common credo:

     

    BLACK LIVES MATTER

    A simple declarative statement

    From History’s grammar of precious rule

    So linguistically correct

    But the Law, so often, is an unlettered lout

    The cops’ incontinent guns

    Have never run short on black bodies

    Cheap like leftover meat in a backstreet market

     

    Chokehold, stranglehold

    The Law’s hard knee on the sprawling Black neck

    Like a big, prize game after an effortless hunt

    Acts more humane than the lynching rope

     

    That primal scream, “I Can’t Breathe”

    Solo swansong of an expiring Negro

    Heard, worldwide, in the din of tumbling statues

    And the rifling of the books where Oppression lives

     

    BLACK LIVES MATTER

    The year’s immortal anthem

    The world stood surprised at its long neglected truth

    From Minneapolis to Lekki Tollgate

     

    And from the Western realms, a ray of tender hope

    The ballot spoke: Sunset came to the deadly despot

    Jolly good riddance to dangerous rubbish, dragged

    Kicking and screaming from his polluted throne