Meet My Busy Mind.

#FreeEvans?? [Balancing the scales of Justice and "Mercy"]

Wednesday, June 21, 2017

I remember when the Sexual Harassment in Tertiary Institution Bill was introduced into our National Assembly. I had my reservations.

Amidst uproar from some quarters of the academia, I wondered the impact of this Bill on Constitutional Rights, such as Freedom of Association, and whether adults would be barred from consensual relations.

Studying the Bill however abated my fears; its advantages far outweigh its disadvantages (if any). Unwanted sexual advances by University lecturers in exchange for pass-marks to their students has almost become a virus in our educational system, so that even if the Bill did not automatically eradicate this scourge, it was one step in the right direction. In a society where the general legal framework does not provide adequately robust protection for victims of sexual harassment, anything - which would be some form of deterrent for unscrupulous persons - is better than nothing.

Like that 'uncle' in school who was rumoured to hit on his female students, and fail them upon their rejection of his advances. It was a ‘rumour’ my friends and I laughed about.

Until he hit on me.

Then, it stopped being funny.

I, who at the time was still a teenager (maybe barely twenty), could not process the horror of his ‘proposal’ to meet with him at some obscure location. (Uggh!)

I declined, and made a show of letting him know I had faculty members as family. I would not hesitate to raise the roof if I ‘failed’.

Suffice to note that we never spoke again. And I passed the course. Sadly, some of my peers were not so lucky.

***

Imagine my horror years later, when I was in an online forum, and it was suggested the very same Uncle Lecturer be visited and 'honoured' for his appointment to a certain position.

I tore my clothes!

(Ok… that’s a bit over the top)

I e-clawed at the eyes of the proposers, refusing to be a part of the charade to ‘honour’ a person who had taken advantage of students to whom he had owed a fiduciary duty. If anything, he should be dishonoured and stripped of recognition, till he made amends for students whom he had derailed.

Opinions were divided: Few agreed with me. Some asked that I “forgive and forget”, missing the point that there was no anger, just apathy to unreasonable sycophancy. Some implied satan may have been at work in him; they swore of his changed ways, and him seeing the light.

The piece of the cake was the justification proffered by others, regarding the possible ‘entrapment’ and ‘enticement’ of his poor soul by scheming adolescents.

(I am tired)

The justifications and bad excuses for ‘misdeeds’ above represents on a minuscule scale the arrant Nigerian way of dealing with misdeeds in our society. Our typical response to injustice, crime or wrong-doings.

Rather than call a spade a spade, and deal decisively with a wrong, we blame everything from the devil to a wall-gecko, and make excuses left wanting as to why justice should not be meted.

Which explains how ours is a society which turns a blind eye to a depraved uncle rape of his under-aged niece. The family simply explains how: "It is a family matter”. “It is the devil”. “Forgive and forget". And we go back to our daily coffee and akara.

Or the serial plagiarist when called out, and we quite naturally respond "Are you the first to write?" “Are you not happy someone copied your work?”

Or a corrupt government when caught with his hands dripping in the cookie-jar, and we defensively retort “He is suffering, because he is not in support of the ruling party”. “Their people have been stealing since. Is it not fair for our people to enjoy some of the loot?”

Demystify. Justify. Excuse.

It is in the context of the foregoing that I was not surprised when the hashtag #FreeEvans was birthed, demanding the release of the accused kidnapping-kingpin who was nabbed by the Police earlier in the month, and has been singing his way to the media.

Justifications for the demand for his release have ranged from the release of prisoners of Boko-Haram for some of the Chibok girls, to the acquittal of the Senate President from charges of false declaration of assets at the Code of Conduct Tribunal. Equally, emotional pleas of “He is just a father, trying to survive and provide for his family”, “Sometimes, he even leads this family in morning prayers”. Surely, he must be a good man deep down” have surfaced.

This is not the first time I have found myself asking: how did we go so wrong?

In the case of the Boko-Haram suspects, while the majority of us would (conveniently) cite the United States’ policy of not negotiating with terrorists, unfortunately, our country cannot boast of the expertise or resources with which the US intelligence deals with terrorists. To this extent, if the only way available to securing the release of the innocent girls alive is the exchange of prisoners, this cannot be interpreted as a ‘wrong’ move, capable of necessitating that subsequent offenders be let off the hook.

Regarding the acquittal of the Senate President, irrespective of our ‘gut-feelings’ as to his guilt, if sufficient evidence was not adduced and a strong enough case not made by his accusers, proving him guilty beyond reasonable doubt, he is constitutionally guaranteed to walk away as merry as he may please.

In any event, if we disdain the release of terrorists or the acquittal of the Senate President, and view both as wrong moves by the respective arms of government responsible, neither ‘wrong’ is cured by failing to charge a person accused of crimes, in accordance with the provisions of extant laws. It is akin to robbing Peter to rob Paul.

And for all the emotional arguments being made for ‘forgiveness’ and ‘mercy’, yes... the law recognises that there is a place for mercy. That place is in the plea of allocutus, if convicted, just before sentencing.

Thus, an accused person is tried, and if found guilty, grounds may be pleaded by the defence to the judge for the accused’s sentence to be reduced. At this point one could cite the accused’s prayerful inclinations (and hang the devil to take one for the team), or the accused’s existing ailments, or other emotional grounds; bearing in mind however that the substance of the grounds proffered will be considered by the judge, in sentencing.

But the accused is tried first, as against simply being let off without a trial, on the basis of a misguided hashtag, backed by emotional and religious blackmail. Mercy cannot be contemplated, without Justice running its full course.

Remember that the victims of crimes also require mercy in themselves, in seeing that such person(s) suspected of committing the crimes is/are actually tried for same. The absence thereof of trial of an accused person upon hollow submissions of “just let it go… forgive and forget” is in itself both unjust and unmerciful to his accusers, and to the State i.e. the People.

Today, it may be Evans. Tomorrow, Tobota.

Whoever or whatever the case may be, let us desist from the penchant for covering ill-doings, demystifying crime and justifying law-breaking, Let us let justice run its full course.

Even if it were a curse, it is never too late for us to break free, and reform our minds. After all, “where there is a will… ”

Paz,

Meg.

P.s.: You may wonder if I ever reported uncle lecturer’s unwanted/uninvited advances...

Next post is another date. 😉

Picture Source: www.buzznigeria.com

16 Comments

Human Rights

In the line of duty: who protects the “Protectors”?

Wednesday, June 14, 2017

The majority of us have our tales of woe, of our experiences at the hands of the Nigerian Police. Whether at their ‘checkpoints’, or at their stations, such experiences are all too similar.

“They asked me to ‘mobilise’ them, to find the boys who took my property”

“The black-eyed wife was told to go home and settle with her husband. It is a domestic affair”.

“I was kept in the cell overnight for walking late at night, because there was no one to ‘bail’ me for N5,000”.

“The Police came hours after the robbery was over, even though their checkpoint is just down the street… and my neighbours alerted them while it was ongoing”.

“They kept me at their check-point for over three hours, and when there was nothing else left to ‘check’ in my car, they just kept me there to observe me breathe in, and breathe out”.

Granted, some of these tales are slightly overstretched. Most of the stories however are true. Some, are mine.

This may be why I stiffen in instinctive defensiveness whenever I approach any of their checkpoints; easily on my guard even as I reluctantly roll down my windows. Ready to be inundated with robust chants of “Weh-don Ma!”, which could very easily - and in the blink of an eye – flip into an unfriendly and unwarranted “Go and park there!”, once the absence of “anything for the boys” is established.

“But they are not well paid by the government”, we may submit, to justify bad behavior.

Unfortunately, I am not paid well by ‘the government’ too. My roads are bad. My water is brown. My electricity supply is poor. I am still a citizen of a third-world populace of whom the majority live below $1 per day, while its oligarchs host private-jet-laden competitions in the guise of lavish weddings, in the face of (selective) recession.

We are all in the ‘suffering’ together. The only difference is that the rest of us do not have the privilege of uniforms, with which to strike fear into the hearts of our fellow sufferers… and aggravate the heaviness of their empty pockets.

Thus, “the Police is your friend” is an illusory utopia in these parts, resulting in disdain and (in extreme cases) hate for its members by the majority of the people whom they are supposed to protect. Often, we deride them, and make them the butt of our jokes, sprinkling facts over fiction in amused narrations of their ‘cowardice’.

But every now and then, we hear acts of bravery by some police-officer or the other, who genuinely live up to their oath to “serve and to protect” - even in the face of imminent death/grave harm; a subtle reminder that when rubber hits the road, they are more likely to face the smoking end of a loaded gun ten times over than the rest of us may ever do.

In recent times, we have been blessed to witness in living colour one of such brave police-officers, who single-handedly took on four armed-robbers (gunning one down) at a Bank robbery in Owerri, in the style of NCIS, 24 or some other high-pressure action movie.

The same prayer whispered by any viewer of the CCTV footage making rounda on social media would be that the brave Sgt. Chukwudi Iboko survives, even as he is seen backed into what seems like a corner and being shot at by the armed men as they retreat; yet, still shooting at them in their escape vehicle.

I hear he died from injuries. Official reports state two months later; other reports say a day later.

My initial joy at his bravery died too; my soul wept. Not just because of his death, but because of its needlessness.

I fantasise that not one, but three – or at the least, two - policemen were equally armed and as courageous as Sergeant Iboko, to cover him, while he chased away the robbers with his tireless and well-aimed shooting.

The pain of his death is worsened by the fact that his legacy was almost robbed. But for the surfacing of the CCTV footage, neither the name Chukwudi Iboko, nor his bravery may ever have been known to the general populace. A name, which in kinder climes, would be gracing the cover of every award list, with streets being paved to forever honour same.

His fate is not the fate of a sitting politician, or a top official in a government parastatal, either of whose demise would ensure a fund from their ‘life-salary’, or a sizeable gratuity – as the case may be. The future of the ones this brave policeman has left behind is thus not assured; they would find their place in the suffering that the rest of us have been too used to.

Yet, he was our protector; this our disdained ‘friend’.

Chukwudi’s fate is similar to the fate of the soldiers expected to be at the fore-front of the battle against terrorism, with inadequate arms and equally inadequate assurances for the sustenance of their families, in the event that the fight gets the better of them.

Yes, we all may be co-occupants of a third-world brazenly-corrupt nation. And yes, they may have signed up to their jobs, just as the rest of us signed up to ours.

But surely, these protectors could not have signed-up to be subjected to carrying the handbags and umbrellas of their ogas, as we see them do; to be sent on errands to purchase suya and groceries for the ajebo side-chicks; to wake daily in the knowing that if they breathed their last in the line of duty, their spouses may be sentenced to a life of penury, and their children depend on a ‘gofundme’ for survival; to be in the direct line of fire, without the honour of the certainty of the day of their death – at the very least.

Surely, they could not have signed up for the absence of protection, by the government of the people they are to protect.

Yet, year in, year out, we have undisclosed amounts released annually as “Security Vote”, its secrecy touted as key to ensuring our doors remain fastened at night.

Perhaps, if they were better provided for… better protected - in life and in death - they may not devolve to people of whom the larger number of their society have come to disdain.

***

I still may continue to garb myself in my instinctive defensiveness, as I approach their checkpoints. And I still will not accept justification for bad behavior.

But if there is one thing I have resolved to do, I WILL try to smile at our policemen (and other uniformed personnel) that I may come across, when I can. Who knows?? I may be smiling at the next Chukwudi Iboko.

If he must leave this earth via his line of duty without the assurances of (his legacy) being protected, at the very least, he could die with the memory of a grateful smile etched in his fading mind.

Paz,

Meg.

Photo-Credits: www.channelstv.com

4 Comments

Life

Use your ‘Privilege’ … Use it WELL!

Wednesday, June 07, 2017

Last weekend was pretty uneventful.

Well… except for one rather ‘tiny’ incident.

***

I was cruising on the highway early Saturday morning with a friend; driving a brand-new (turbo-engine-powered) sports car, along the traffic-less wide roads of the Nation’s capital.

No… it was not my car.

My car – which I lovingly refer to as tuke-tuke – behaves like these oil-rig engineers, who spend one week onshore, one week offshore.

Except that in my car’s case, “offshore” is the mechanic’s workshop.

Last I heard, it was in need of a new engine.

(El oh El)

I think that car jokes too much. Its (war-front) stories is not for today.

This brand new, turbo-engine-powered sports-car I quip about is a friend’s. We’d taken it for a spin; I was doing the driving.

We got to a notorious intersection; notorious because uniformed personnel would usually lie in wait for persons who beat traffic, and jump into their lane/their car, to mete instant justice on them, ranging from dragging them to a mobile court – pleas falling on deaf ears - to extorting unspeakable ‘fines’.

On this fine day, we made a sharp turn left, and went down a connecting bridge into another road.

We passed by some of these uniformed personnel, who happily saluted us, and waved at us.

(Let’s call them U.P. for short)

I was driving, I could not wave back. But my friend did, and I smiled at the friendly nature of the U.P.

(I still smile… in memory of my naïveté)

Prior to our left turn, I had noticed a smaller car (generally referred to as a “baby boy”) driving behind us. As we drove down the bridge, I instinctively checked my rear mirror to see if that other car still drove behind us.

(Do you not remember? I am a spy.)

I noticed about four U.P.s had surrounded the other car; one stood planted in front of the car, one stood by the driver’s side, while two were attempting to get in the car via the passenger-seat, and the right back-seat.

So I beckoned on my friend, slowed down a bit, and we watched the ensuing drama through the car mirrors for some seconds. Apparently, the policemen and the driver were engaged in some argument, and were trying to gain control of the car.

We were really curious as to what this man had done to anger these previously ‘happy’ U.P.s. So we reversed to where the drama was unfolding, and came down. Our discussion with them was as follows:

“Good-morning Sirs”.

U.P.s: (Looking at us with suspicion) “Well done… good-morning”.

“Is there a problem? We noticed you arguing with this man”.

U.P.s: “Car no dey turn here. E nor gree make we arrest am”.

(My friend and I looked at ourselves in amazement): “But we just turned here. And you did not stop us. Why let us go, then stop him”??

U.P.s: “See Aunty… we just let una go. Car no dey turn here. Abi una want make we arrest una join”?

“There is NO sign saying a car should not turn here. Turning here has never been a problem. But if you must take this young man anywhere, then enter our car. We will all go together”.

U.P.s (Looking hesitantly at one another): “Errr… we no get problem with una. Why una wan cause problem today”?

“It is you who is causing this young man problems. He has done nothing wrong. But if you insist he is wrong, then we too are wrong. Let us all go together”.

At this point, the policemen had shifted slightly from the other driver’s car, and two were casually retreating back to the shadows they had sprung from. But the U.P. standing by the driver’s seat stood his ground.

I took out my phone, dialed a number, and began placing a call… even as I turned slightly away from them.

Police: “Ahn ahn! Aunty, e nor reach like that. Oya make una carry una wahala they go”.

(Truly, I was calling my next door neighbour, to know if NEPA had brought light at home. But I now see how that action may have been interpreted as some show of power. After all, in Nigeria, “Do you know who I am?” and “Let me make this call” are magic phrases; highly revered)

They all stepped away from the other car, and the young man (finally) came down, to thank us for ‘interceding’. We smiled, went back to our brand-new turbo-engine-powered sports-car and sped away… having performed our civic duty to be our fellow-citizen’s keeper.

Moral: We all have some privilege, or the other. Some, we were born with. Others, we have achieved in the course of our life.

This privilege could range from as significant to our individual gender, to as mundane as our nail colour.

In our case, our ‘privilege’ was social status/wealth privilege, albeit a perceived one, as against an actual privilege.

I mean, in reality, we could have merely been paid drivers - or the house-helps - merely taking Oga’s car for a spin. But to these uniformed personnel, we were ‘wealthy’ folks - with the likelihood of some power - to not be crossed. While the other driver was perceived as less wealthy – with the likelihood of little or no power - and could thus be harassed.

In your case, your privilege might be an actual one (or even, also a perceived one); perhaps, it is your gender, or your skin colour. Or your educational qualification, or your beauty, or your voice, which enables society/life treat you ‘kinder’, while meting unfairly prejudicial treatment to another human, in your exact same circumstance.

Rather than wallow in the comfort of your perceived status, question the status quo, and use your privilege for a good cause.

Perhaps, some day, it may be you in an unkind fix, and you will crave that some person whom society has accorded privileged status would use same to fight for you.

Because after all is said and done, this life is a pot of watery beans. And no one knows tomorrow.

Paz,

Meg.

Photo-Credits: Leornado Di Caprio, in "the Great Gatsby"

5 Comments

Nigeria

Democracy Day… or Biafra Day?

Wednesday, May 31, 2017

I know, I know… I am courting with ‘trouble’.

I, who have hitherto managed to successfully hop around tribal politics and the scars of war, while steering clear of the meat of controversial discourse. I now court with trouble in the open.

Right?

This is the sum-total of the reason we - the Nigerian people - have been unable to move past our untold ghosts: the skirting around our wounds, while never actually ever dealing with them, and moving on.

Thus, our national dance = One step forward, seventeen backwards.

And our national 'code' = Sssssssshhhhhh!

***

May 29: Our nationally acclaimed democracy day.

So christened from the hand-over from the Nigerian military government to civilian rule, on same date, in 1999. This day has subsequently been observed as a national holiday, to commemorate the rebirth of democracy in Nigeria, and the uninterrupted rule of the people, by “the people”.

Irrespective of the prevalence of corruption, nepotism, terrorism, and other national demons we face, there is much to be thankful for.

If nothing else, for Freedom of Speech. Especially considering that in the military era, I would have been cooling my ‘smart’ behind in the walls of Kirikiri, for attempting to wade ‘forbidden’ territory.

(Halleluya)

There is the business advancement which uninterrupted democracy has heralded. Inarguably, technology and entrepreneurship have taken quantum leaps in our democratized Nigeria.

There is also hope for justice, in the face of breached rights. The judiciary boasts of independence, and provides some recourse to the common-man. Absent the dreaded days, where “the government is always right” was the (invisible) thread of judicial pronouncements.

Indeed, Democracy has visible dividends, which should be celebrated.

May 30: Nationally… nothing.

As in…. zilch. Zero. It does not exist.

Well… except in the Gregorian Calendar. Like any other (nationally) insignificant day.

Like August 12. Or November 21. Or April 10.

In the pages of our unacknowledged history however, May 30 will forever remain the day on which the Republic of Biafra was declared in 1967, heralding a thirty-month long war, in which hordes of lives were lost. The majority of them: children.

Yes; it is fifty years since that May 30. Yet, it is as though it was just yesterday.

Biafra is a like that tattered-looking uncle from the village, who stands in front of your polished gate in Banana Island, and has refused to go away.

The scars on ‘both sides’ appear fresh, even as the one ‘side’ insists May 29 be celebrated to the oblivion of what the next day stands for, and the other ‘side’ demands that May 30 be given due recognition, irrespective of alleged attempts to obfuscate its relevance by the preceding day’s celebrations.

Fifty years later, there are still ‘sides'; there is still an ongoing battle of Nigeria v. Biafra, with the difference being that this raging war is ‘cold’.

If you are for Nigeria, you cannot acknowledge the noun Biafra. If you are for Biafra, Nigeria is dead to you.

“It is either you are for one or the other”. This is more or less the unspoken theme in this ongoing war, which has been badly ‘hidden’ for five decades.

(Sigh)

I have said this before (here) and I still advocate: until we heal the wounds of our past, we may never move forward as a people; whether in unity or fragmented.

You see, since birth, I have heard of Biafra in whispers. It is a topic forbidden to be spoken of in public. Yet, in every household, it graces the family dinner, as the dessert ‘gist’. Variations depend on the region from which the story is spewed: from the East, through the West, to the North, and even the (claimed) unwilling participants, of the Middle-Belt and the South-South.

The story of the Nigerian-Biafran Civil War is probably the world’s worst-kept secret, as it appears there is some unspoken oath to not speak about it. Yet, mottled versions are bitterly handed over from generation to generation, thereby preventing impressionable youths from hearing other (or objective) versions, and further perpetuating the divisions among us as a people.

Like it or nay, the coup of January 1966 happened. The retaliatory coup of July 1966 also happened, leading to the tribal genocide, leading to the declaration of Biafra in 1967, leading to the Aburi talks (which broke down), leading to the thirty long months of fighting, marred with ugly pictures of Biafran children inflicted with kwashiorkor and hunger on one side, leading to the surrender of the Biafran side, and the declaration of “No Victor No Vanquished” by the erstwhile Nigerian President.

Like it or not, this was our reality. This is a part of our history, which we have never categorically dealt with, but have always swept under the carpet and covered with fleeting political alliances, whipped out conveniently as trump cards by power-seekers in their game of thrones, to their own individual and selfish ends.

But the truth is that until we sit together, and deal with the ghosts of Biafra decisively, it will continue to haunt our general existence, and be the bane of national progress.

Ours is not the first country to have a sordid past. Canada has had its history tinted with its treatment of its indigenous Aboriginal people. The United States have their past entrenched in the sweat and blood of black people across corn fields, even after their civil war. South Africa has been synonymous with apartheid, and was once upon a time a global pariah.

The difference between all these countries and ours is that while they have holistically acknowledged their distasteful past and have intentionally charted steps to unify their people (albeit not altogether successful), we have not as much as acknowledged this horrible history we have, and the blood of our brethren crying from the ground.

It does not matter “who struck first”. After all, to each side, their action WAS a ‘reaction’.

The Canadians may argue that their suppression of Aboriginal culture was as a result of the unfriendly resistance by the Aboriginal chiefs. The Americans may argue that the slaves were sold to them by their own brothers. The Hutus may argue that the Tutsis struck first in their guerrilla-style attacks on the government of the day.

It never matters who struck first. In fact, we may never agree on who struck first… until we AGREE on it. And even if we did, it does not matter.

It does not nothing to the sad fact that scores of lives were needlessly lost; ranging from 1,000,000 to 6,000,000 (as no report has been agreed on globally, regarding the exact figure). It does not erase that a large part of this unknown number were children, who had no choice but be helpless pawns in the selfish skirmishing of 'adults’.

What is fundamental is that there is a need to revisit the events of 1966 to 1970. There is a need for a national 'sit-down’ from all 'sides'. Not the surface-scratching conference of the erstwhile Oputa Panel, but an actual ‘family meeting’, where the war, and its still lingering effects are discussed. Perhaps, there may even be need to travel as far back as 1914, to the birth of the name ‘Nigeria’ by Lugard’s 'Belle' and the amalgamation of erstwhile abjectly different people, now unified by fate.

There is a need to agree on a national story, and infuse it into our history lessons to our children; to be taught at schools objectively, without the bitterness and angst of one-sided narratives, handed down from ancestors to descendants.

There is a need for national discourse on whether the claimed marginalization of the Igbos – such as the outright government disregard of the untapped potentials of the Aba industry - is indeed a fact (or merely a myth), alleged as an outcome of the war which must never be spoken about… or a whether it is a fruit of the systematic failure of government after government who have failed to take advantage of the wealth of resources at our finger-tips, irrespective of the tribal affiliation of the government of the day.

This is not a utopian call; this is a feat achievable in our lifetime, with the determination of a willful government.

Perhaps, if we are able to discuss in the open these hurts we have born individually and collectively for half of a century, we may successfully move on, and chart our future with oneness of purpose. And even if we decide to break our unity, at least, we cleared the air, and made a genuine effort.

Worst case scenario, we will be peaceful neighbours.

In the present however, we can collectively embrace our painful past, without denigrating from our desire for a continued united existence, by acknowledging these sad events which bind us, yet, threaten to disintegrate us. That we are Nigeria need not mean we are not also Biafra.

Because until we are able to face our hitherto ignored history, and genuinely settle our deeply ingrained grievances against one another, “No victor, No vanquished” may forever remain an illusion for the Nigerian people to aspire to.

Paz,

Meg.

Note: Comments on this post will be censored. It is not the desire of the writer to vilify any persons, or enable the promotion of hate in any form.

9 Comments

#FreeEvans?? [Balancing the scales of Justice and "Mercy"]

In the line of duty: who protects the “Protectors”?

Use your ‘Privilege’ … Use it WELL!

Democracy Day… or Biafra Day?

MEG CHINELO EGBUNONU

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