THE ‘NAIJA’ DOCTRINE OF TURN BY TURN (T.B.T)

….down memory lane, circa 2010

My friend, Wendy, was rejoicing and singing various choruses in the Igbo language in praise to the Almighty God for His wonders in her life. Her voice rang out loud as she stretched her vocal cords beyond capacity. I reckoned she had won a lottery jackpot, so I decided to join her in the praise-singing, peradventure she will remember those who rejoiced with her. Perhaps, she will remember that I shrieked even louder than she, although mine was a discordant tune occasioned by an off-key singing tendency from childhood; a trait inherited from my father. I have always maintained a low decibel level when singing in any public arena, knowing that I sing off-key and dance off-tune, but that day, it didn’t matter as I bellowed my favourite Christian song in Igbo:

“Onye n’eme nma ?Imela Imela,

Imela Imela Imela Imela

Imela OOOOOOh!

Imela OOOh

Eze Ebube Imela OOOh!”

Her husband, a bald, middle-aged bulky man with a thick up-turned moustache, was clearly ecstatic as he rolled on the floor, rejoicing. Also, their six sons and daughters, ranging from age five to fifteen, joined in the praise. We all held hands as we prayed with thanksgiving.

“He has done it for us.” The husband, Chike, proclaimed in a husky voice filled with deep emotions.

“At long last!” responded the ebullient wife.

“It is now our turn once again.” The husband roared.

“May it reach my family too ooh……” I muttered inwardly as I tried to imagine how big the blessing was. The family continued in their confession.

“Our family has been lifted again. Mazi Dikeocha, the Okwaraugo of Nnako Kingdom. Chei, Mazi. Is it you?” My friend said to no one in particular. She turned to her spouse and asked rhetorically. “Is it our own Mazi? Our own very Dikeocha in government house; inside the Rock in Abuja?”

I paused from my thanksgiving. It no longer sounded like a lottery win. Straining my ears in the midst of the cacophony of praises, I tried to listen more carefully. Then the bombshell landed:

“Mazi, so you have finally succeeded in Abuja, after many years of neglect; languishing in utter obscurity. Mazi Dikeocha, so our prayers have been answered.?At long last, you have now become…..”

The husband didn’t let her finish. He continued…..“Ministerial nominee of A.B.C. ministry ………...”

“Chei!” My friend exclaimed in excitement.

I waited a short while before sneaking out of their house. My friend, her husband and their six offspring didn’t appear to notice my stealthily retreat; I could still hear their voices echoing loudly as I walked towards the exit gate of their normally serene estate in Ogba, Lagos.

I remember their uncle, Mazi Dikeocha, a prominent man in government in the eighties and playing various key roles in the nineties. Mazi Dikeocha, the Okwaraugo of Nnako Kingdom; a title I had heard since I was a young girl. Apparently, he had been sidelined in the last decade, and now his ‘boys’ are in government, he has become relevant once again. Mazi Dikeocha is a man closer to eighty than seventy if my memory serves me right, though his official age reflects otherwise. With his return to power, my bosom friend Wendy and her rotund husband Chike will invariably become beneficiaries of the expected largesse of his office, hence the rejoicing in the family.

I went home that day, happy for my friend, as I genuinely rejoiced with her. Welcome to Naija (Nigeria), the land of hope where tribes scramble for their ‘turn’. Families rejoice and revile in the ‘turn by turn’ doctrine, which I have christened ‘T.B.T’ in this story. It is the turn of the North; it is the turn of the West, and so on. Sometimes, trouble begins when you stay very long eating the ‘pie’, and other ‘turners’ or ‘turnees’ become enraged.

It is not accurate to state that the gospel of T.B.T applies in all circumstances in Nigeria. There are exceptions to the rule. In death, in sickness, in calamity, no one preaches the gospel of T.B.T, as the doctrine is rejected and denounced in all its ramifications, especially in such unfortunate circumstances. Just a week earlier, I had attended a very emotional Service of Songs programme for a 32-year-old Nigerian comedian, Jeje, who died of a gunshot wound from an armed robbery attack. Friends and colleagues of the late Jeje turned up en masse to bid the young man farewell. The resident pastor, an eloquent older man with a boomeranging voice that sounded like galloping echoes in a lonely mountain top, decided to pray for the Jeje friends as he was concluding the service. Closing my eyes, clenching my fists and bowing my head, I awaited the showers of blessings as the pastor roared:

“It is not your turn to be killed.”

Amen!

“It is not your turn to die young.”

Amen!

“It is not your turn to ….;

Then he proclaimed the blessings:

‘It is your turn to be lifted up.”

“Amen!” A much louder word than the earlier affirmation filled the Church Auditorium.

I got home that night very sober, trying to sort out my emotions. I was sad for the young family Jeje had left behind. I was also sad about the state of our nation, especially the level of insecurity and high unemployment rate, which must have preempted the robbery attack. Maybe if our leaders had been selfless and less tribalistic, they would have shared the nation’s ‘pie’ and resources equitably to all, without stereotyping. Perhaps if we all truly believed in one Nigeria, we won’t all be waiting for our ‘turns’. Then we would rejoice when an upright and godly man is in power, irrespective of his tribe, language, or religion. I slept fitfully, dreaming of the problems of the nation.

Three weeks later, my cousin, Ezekweremadu, called me. I knew what he wanted; I must do something, he insisted. Eze, as we fondly call him, had been looking for a job in Abuja for the past five years. ?I was reflecting on this when I decided I would go to my friend, Wendy’s house with Eze’s CV, peradventure their fortune will reach my dear Eze. Perhaps it would be his turn, too; he had suffered enough in that eldorado called Abuja. I stifled all feeling of guilt arising from all my early condemnation of T.B.T as I picked my car keys.

Knocking at the huge mahogany door of Wendy’s residence, I twisted the knob and opened it gently. This time, she was crying. Her husband and the six sons and daughters were rolling on the floor. I remembered the biblical injunction to rejoice with those who rejoice and weep with those who weep. We wailed, wept and cried for a very long time, nine voices making enough noise to raise the rooftop. When our voices became dry and hoarse, I ventured to inquire about the tragedy.

“You remember my uncle?” She said quietly.

“Yes, the one with the political appointment? Is he dead?” I asked, alarmed.

She looked aghast. “No, he didn’t die. EFCC (Economic and Financial Crimes Commission) just picked him up. They are investigating him for an oil contract scam of many years ago. They said he was bribed.” This singular pronouncement evoked another round of weeping from the family.

“Chei. Mazi Dikeocha. Chei!” the husband said.

“Uncle Dikeocha, hei!” the six sons and daughters exclaimed.

I sneaked out of their house once again, still hearing their cries reverberating as I exited their gate.

(Image source: www.gedichte-brie.de/afrika/Nigeria/Ethnien.htm)

?

?