There are many emerging groups of drummers and dancers who have learnt to blend their melodies to suit whatever terrible musicals the detectors of anti-sense in this frail nation discover. Their faith has failed them, their hopes have been damned, the promises their deified master made to them are beaten down everyday, and their best defense is to seek new methods and strategies with which to counter-attack whatever disenchantment there is left to hide in their hearts.
These groups have no definite binding force; the only thing that keeps them together is the knowledge that there is a guilt they have to defend. The guilt of having been involved in the process of giving power to their almighty master, and this master having publicly connived against their dreams, has abandoned them to a fate similar to that of hungry dogs wrangling over rotten bones. This fate does not even matter to them anymore; what matters now is that they have been made busy and the adventure of their disillusionment has been rendered less boring.
And what do they do? - Wait for the moment. Sigh in disgust but don't show it. 'Don't let them see you weak'. When the moment arrives, unhook the disgust; it is time to be creative. Discover new ways and tactics to cloak this disgust. Experiment with them. Watch while the cloak fits in. Join the dance. Become the counter-critic of your fate. Don't give up. Watch as the spectators try in futility to undress the mask over your guilt. Watch them fail. Laugh hard and sip liquid cocaine. The drama will soon be over, you know; be patient. Make the excuses. Crush the truths. Deviate from reality. There is no need to clean up the dirt; just cover them up. This war must be won. The crown must be lifted. Win. Just win. You always do. The bones belong to everybody and to nobody, after all.
But when the spectators have given up and gone back to sleep and you have succeeded in winning the game in awful delight, you go back to sighing. A sigh even deeper than that which the gods who watched you while you derailed your own self sighed.
What are you? - A poker faced puppet. You are even more disillusioned than we all are. Your master has your fate wrapped around his little finger, but you don't know it. You are pathetic, but they won't tell you this.
This is exactly what the apologists of the man called Buhari have become. Rattling dogs fighting over sick bones. Defenders of the indefensible. Something worse than wailing.
And that is why yesterday, when their apotheosized master threw another gaffe by insulting their vision while the globe watched, they found other ways to euphemize the situation, that one called Garba Shehu being their head. They said it was sarcasm, humour, wit, and some even called it a compliment. They found the most sickening of subtle ways to defend the madness, and they seriously think they succeeded.
But there is one thing they seem to have forgotten - the art of diplomacy. The fact that their master is the first and most important ambassador of his country. That as a diplomat and ambassador, his fundamental task is to portray a positive image of the country he claims to represent.
In doing this, he has failed woefully.
There is a proverb among my people that goes this way: the dancing to the beat of a drum is done where the drum is being beaten. Buhari has flouted this logic on and on:
My people are criminals, that is the reason they are dreaded in other countries. 97% cannot be compared to 5%; the majority have my special favour, the minority can go to hell. Nigerians are a corrupt people; they steal our money and run to foreign banks. My wife is my property; 'she belongs in my kitchen, my living room, and the other room' (what makes this particular gaffe the most interesting is that he spills it while standing next to a major "recipient" of the appalling faux pas).
He says all these on another soil, foreign soil, and it has become customary. He has danced far away from the stage of the drummers. He has sworn in the name of one god while lodging at the shrine of another god. He has sinned against reason, and of course, he always wins; there is no atonement for his sins.
Sad as it sounds, we cannot successfully gainsay the fact that these gaffes are actually our own reality being broken down into different units. The hypocrites who have pulled out of their shelters to criticise the president for representing their thoughts and actions are no different from the mad man who cannot share his gutter space with another fellow because he thinks this fellow is "mad". It is a pathetic situation.
We should all cry. We are in deep trouble, and we know this.
And if you belong(ed) to the "drummer" or "dancer" category and you've gotten weary from watching this sick melodrama, we feel your pain. You are welcome to be inducted into the House of the Wailers.
Have your seat. Don't be ashamed.
