They are everywhere. Bottled. Lost. Bugged down. You find them in bars, trying hard to drink the night away and forget their travails. They litter misbegotten slums, romancing misery and relishing ewa agonyi (Togolese beans) in unkempt environment, hoping against hope. They try with all the strength they could muster to reach to the stars, but society seems to care less about their struggle. They endure hardship every day.
Feeling hopeless, they become handy tools for strife, war and bloodletting. They become partners in gun and drug business. They are everywhere; they are dead but walking.
They look up to better days but their existence is a narrative of raped destinies, fagged dreams and dead aspirations. You find them on the streets, hugging the trees and waiting endlessly for the rain to flood their fields. They comb the corners of sturdy creeks, with fury of blood, wild passions; ready to take hostage of anything they can prey on. I tell you again, they are everywhere. They are young and dead, yet walking.
Their life trajectories move one to pity, to endless tears. But who will save them from this episode of doom? Check out our churches and mosques. They are often the subject of endless supplications. They have no problem sleeping the whole day in the church or mosque because the temple atmosphere seems to stoke their hope; inspire their faith in a future that could be better.
If they were the type that glory in the vanity of soccer, they could hang around in viewing centres and news-stands, arguing a Wayne Rooney’s take-home pay under the blaze of the sun. To them, calling millions sounds in the ears like some token fee, because way back in Nigeria, they are used to politicians stashing away billions of naira from the collective patrimony.
So, such high-sounding figures mean little to them even though they cannot afford a loaf of Agege bread. Their mind is warped, their psychology is corroded. They graze around dead but still walking.
They wouldn’t mind to wash a brother’s feet especially, when the gesture could provoke the receiver to some mutually beneficial actions. You may call it returns on investments, but they call it blessings. I call it begging. You can’t blame them. Even their leaders are known to be beggars, armed with their begging bowls as they travel from Asia to America, begging the slave masters to spare them a lifeline. They beg for aids and grants. They beg America to help them stop Boko Haram, to stop polio, to stop even their catarrh. Do you know them? Can you see them?
I bet, they are everywhere. They are on our campuses, caught between the demands of education and the despair that hounds them around. They know quite well that education is good. But they know too that our society cherishes those who throw the cash around. It adores fellows who know how to play the dark cards; folks who know how to pull the strings at both ends.
Anyone trying to earn a living in a just way is doomed. If he were a students’ union leader, those politicians outside the campus would become his godfather. He would worship them with a mystic admiration, the kind reserved for kings and deities. He could snatch ballot boxes, share in a free bottle of beer at restaurants, engaging in thuggery, sing his godfathers’ praises on social media or simply go about abusing anyone who dares to think otherwise of his antecedents. But will they know that they are walking dead?
They are everywhere. They were the victims of the recent bloody recruitment exercise. They dreamed of a better life; a life that rewards hard work. They desired a life of opportunities, of pride, of dignity. They knew that the dynamics of contemporary life have changed and those who refuse to roll up their sleeves and work could end up as sorry beggars. They didn’t want to beg. They wanted a job, a life of their own. So, they thronged the venue in their thousands; unmindful of the inanities of the recruitment process. The rest is now history. But they are still everywhere.
Popular blogger, Ayodele Obajeun, recently spoke about the revolution via the ballot. But I don’t see that revolution coming. Why? The gun is ready but the fighters are yet to be set for the war. The army seems to be divided between their excesses and the crusade of change. They know so well that the time is ripe for Nigerians to advance to Canaan and possess their possession. But they are too docile, or at best, too complacent to speak up, to stand up, to demand for better deals from the power dealers. Even when they seem to be ready, they often get blown away by petty gratification from their oppressors, the pecks, frills and lucres of courtesy visits to the National Assembly or the lure of some wads of naira. In case you don’t know what that means, ask those students’ union leaders, parading themselves as tomorrow leaders in our ivory towers. Remember, they are not only in our schools. They are everywhere, dead and yet walking.
Gilbert recently finished Foreign Languages, UNIBEN
