Across the Niger with Ukachukwu OkorieMy father was dead long ago. I didn’t have enough clues to the exact person my dad was, but his name was spelt like ‘Africanus’. He left a harem of women and many children – including me and a male sibling, who migrated to a land near the Zambezi River called Harare.
I suddenly discovered that I was old enough to be retired from active service but I could not get tired. In this new world, I was the Lord King of Abuja and my brother had been reigning for 27 years in this southern land of Harare. Though he was my junior in rulership, he had been wonderful on the throne and challenges to his reign were something of a taboo. Most times, his opponents were beaten up thoroughly so that their bruises would serve as a red alert to their supporters, no matter how highly placed they may have bee. I did envy him.
In my palace, built on a rock in Abuja, I hardly lacked anything as my land boasted of more riches than where my lovely brother migrated to. In my Abuja kingdom, I wielded much power because people came to worship and adore me. Some said there was no better god than me because I allowed them to have access to the yam barns and goat herds, which were kept for the entire people. Many sang my praises daily with tears of joy, saying that my gifts of cash and positions over their neighbours had helped them climb higher on the property ladder.
Though I was happy to be worshipped like the ancient gods and goddesses, at times I seemed paranoid that there would be a revolt. I also stammered when I spoke in English. People never knew that I did not fare well during my school days. So I was quite baffled and excited when they came to me one day with a plaque saying that I was Africa’s most successful orator. Some likened me to Emperor Nero of Ancient Rome.
During my reign, I discovered a very important fact – the importance of crowd renting and professional clappers. When my advisers first told me that we needed to hire people to come to the king’s function I thought they were running amok, but they were right. I saw only a few people cheer the commissioning of a new brothel for my ministers. On another day, in which money was disbursed for an election campaign, a sea of heads was there. When I asked ‘how come?’, they informed me that each person was paid a stipend. My ministers were great, weren’t they? They even had a name for the stipend: National Cake.
At one stage in my reign, some disgruntled elements began arguing that I step down from the throne. I could not bear the shame of relinquishing my absolute powers when my brother in Harare was still basking in the euphoria of leadership. After many unsuccessful attempts to bribe my way through, I was forced to go the way those stupid coloured people do it. I imagined how my subjects and some mad people would queue up to determine who would sit on the different seats in my kingdom.
Trust me! I decided to show them different ways to kill a rat. I beat them in their own game, – they call it democracy but I say it a demonstration of craziness. Ha ha ha! I really showed them how to manipulate the entire process. Though I was quite unlucky like my sibling in Harare, who looks like he’s dying on the throne, my worshippers comprised the rank and file of all positions. We spent lots of money renting crowds and clappers who filled up stadiums in our rallies and campaigns. I didn’t want to spend much time going around jungle villages, squalors and shacks, massaging impoverished egos. Common! You should understand that all fingers can’t be equal.
Where I really dealt a blow was my decision to appoint a poor teacher as the election umpire and organise the printing of the ballot papers in the house of my brother’s best mate. Ha! That was a fast one! Do you think your brother’s best mate will stop you from gaining entrance to heaven if he was the doorman? My umpire did a great job, too, and my throne was secure. I was sure that no one would fight because they were all cowards and peaceful.
It was also good that those coloured people across the waters went back home instead of staying here to give courage to our poor. Anyway, they don’t even have a choice because if trouble arose, there would be no market for their goods, and guess what again? Immigration and refugee boom! Ha ha ha!
Then my phone rang, waking me up from siesta. “Who is this, calling at this sacred hour of the day? I am not taking this f***ng call! … By the gods of Asantehene, have I been day-dreaming or what? I should be seeing my GP soon…”
Ukachukwu Okorie is originally from Nigeria. He writes a weekly column for Metro Eireann
olumoukachukwu@yahoo.com
In my palace, built on a rock in Abuja, I hardly lacked anything as my land boasted of more riches than where my lovely brother migrated to. In my Abuja kingdom, I wielded much power because people came to worship and adore me. Some said there was no better god than me because I allowed them to have access to the yam barns and goat herds, which were kept for the entire people. Many sang my praises daily with tears of joy, saying that my gifts of cash and positions over their neighbours had helped them climb higher on the property ladder.
Though I was happy to be worshipped like the ancient gods and goddesses, at times I seemed paranoid that there would be a revolt. I also stammered when I spoke in English. People never knew that I did not fare well during my school days. So I was quite baffled and excited when they came to me one day with a plaque saying that I was Africa’s most successful orator. Some likened me to Emperor Nero of Ancient Rome.
During my reign, I discovered a very important fact – the importance of crowd renting and professional clappers. When my advisers first told me that we needed to hire people to come to the king’s function I thought they were running amok, but they were right. I saw only a few people cheer the commissioning of a new brothel for my ministers. On another day, in which money was disbursed for an election campaign, a sea of heads was there. When I asked ‘how come?’, they informed me that each person was paid a stipend. My ministers were great, weren’t they? They even had a name for the stipend: National Cake.
At one stage in my reign, some disgruntled elements began arguing that I step down from the throne. I could not bear the shame of relinquishing my absolute powers when my brother in Harare was still basking in the euphoria of leadership. After many unsuccessful attempts to bribe my way through, I was forced to go the way those stupid coloured people do it. I imagined how my subjects and some mad people would queue up to determine who would sit on the different seats in my kingdom.
Trust me! I decided to show them different ways to kill a rat. I beat them in their own game, – they call it democracy but I say it a demonstration of craziness. Ha ha ha! I really showed them how to manipulate the entire process. Though I was quite unlucky like my sibling in Harare, who looks like he’s dying on the throne, my worshippers comprised the rank and file of all positions. We spent lots of money renting crowds and clappers who filled up stadiums in our rallies and campaigns. I didn’t want to spend much time going around jungle villages, squalors and shacks, massaging impoverished egos. Common! You should understand that all fingers can’t be equal.
Where I really dealt a blow was my decision to appoint a poor teacher as the election umpire and organise the printing of the ballot papers in the house of my brother’s best mate. Ha! That was a fast one! Do you think your brother’s best mate will stop you from gaining entrance to heaven if he was the doorman? My umpire did a great job, too, and my throne was secure. I was sure that no one would fight because they were all cowards and peaceful.
It was also good that those coloured people across the waters went back home instead of staying here to give courage to our poor. Anyway, they don’t even have a choice because if trouble arose, there would be no market for their goods, and guess what again? Immigration and refugee boom! Ha ha ha!
Then my phone rang, waking me up from siesta. “Who is this, calling at this sacred hour of the day? I am not taking this f***ng call! … By the gods of Asantehene, have I been day-dreaming or what? I should be seeing my GP soon…”
Ukachukwu Okorie is originally from Nigeria. He writes a weekly column for Metro Eireann
olumoukachukwu@yahoo.com
