As I write, the wild beasts are in the house, our house, your House; according to their kinsman, to ‘do business’. How could a race of people known for their resolute prowess of Africa’s wildest outposts, people who beg for a living, have the wherewithal to do business?
Dear God:
I hope you will find the time to read this. I have been wanting to write you over these years, but the story about your remarkably busy nature is discouraging, it was hard to fathom the depth I had to go to get this baby in your Hands.
My first attempt was to talk directly to you. Given your natural history and the incomprehensible tales of sheer magnanimity, I knew it would take two hundred million light years if I gave it to one leaving earth on this day before it would get to you. And what if the one never gets to you at all? The devil could end up with my letter to you…and would probably read it out loud in hell to the likes of Osama Bin Laden, Adolf Hitler and Josef Stalin. That wasn’t a very good option.
The other would be to give it to anyone of these pastors, priests, and have them hold it up during a bona-fide homely, or wedged inside the pages of your Holy Book, and/or have it under a cloth or vestment during Mass. I thought any one of those would be the best way to draw you out. But, knowing you, and how much you have had it with this creation of yours…the shenanigans of men on this earth, that is, drawing you out could very well grant you that opportunity to look down here and blow it up. So, I ruled against that. And besides, some of these ‘Men of Yours’ pastors and priests, that is, have dual loyalties, and could be serving any number of deities besides you. You know that, don’t you?
How then could I swing this? Even in your complexity, I have been told that you are as simple and as uncomplicated as one would recite the letters in the alphabet table. All I needed was to get it onto a platform…to make you catch a whiff that an earthly mail, in all its originality, from me, was in transit.
If mother Teresa were here, trust me, I would be on the next flight to India with the letter. You know, Father, we are running out of time.
That platform has eluded me. If mother Teresa were here, trust me, I would be on the next flight to India with the letter. You know, Father, we are running out of time. It is why I am trying to break the line to reach you. Getting your attention ain’t easy…no matter what anyone says. They are not looking at the number of people you take care of daily…and that the Watchers you have out here are overwhelmed and heart-broken themselves with the policymakers in Washington to the Sahel to the tropical and Savannah lands of Nigeria.
You will agree with me that your own chosen people went through hell at the hands of the Nazis. I have always wanted to ask you…you know…come on, Father…how come…you see, six million people killed…just asking, how come you…um…let that happen? I mean, if you allowed that to befall your own people, it scares me to death to think that you wouldn’t care so much about any other race of people.
The situation in Nigeria…in southeastern Nigeria with the igbos is getting out of control…and if you did nothing to help us, Father then, we will be doomed, just like the Jews were doomed.
Father, I know that I am wrong in my thinking. It is what makes me human. But by the same token, if you looked the other way and not care so much about what Adolf Hitler was harping on, then we are screwed with these damn Fulani invading our lands. The situation in Nigeria…in southeastern Nigeria with the igbos is getting out of control…and if you did nothing to help us, Father then, we will be doomed, just like the Jews were doomed.
And in so many ways, the rest of us believe that you were angry at your own people…for desecrating the Temple in Jerusalem at the time your Son was there. I knew it wasn’t because they killed your Son that caused you to look the other way; it was because Caiaphas and Annas, the two most notorious high priests allowed despicable acts to flourish, even as your Son rained vituperations on them to cut it out. They traded in the Court of the Gentiles and prevented foreigners from worshipping you. That really made you angry. But Father, I know you know that the Igbos were part of the Jewish State at one time…and that we never took part in the desecration of your House. We couldn’t have done it. It was why we packed up and left just before the Romans arrived.
It is why I have this crippling fear, that you would apportion a measure of blame against the Igbos, and will then look the other way when these FULANI, GWORO-CHEWING, UNEDUCATED, DENIZENS OF THE OPEN RANGE sanamabitches would rise, in the dead of night, and do to us what the Tutsis did to the Hutus/Hutsis in Rwanda…or was it the other way?
Dearest Father…you that swallowed the one that swallowed the elephant…these wild beasts are in the house…in your House as I write this…according to their kinsman, to ‘do business’. How could a race of people known for their resolute prowess of Africa’s wildest outposts, people who beg for a living, have the wherewithal to do business?
It is their guise, a red herring to their scheme, to infiltrate our lands before the slaughter. And then, the heartbreaking aspects of this bad situation, Father; the betrayal parts of this equation. Like Judas did to your Son; we have some southeastern governors playing along with these deadly merchants of death.
Let me know, Father, what you want me to do. Waiting to hear from you. Thank you.
Your very obedient Son,
Don Okolo
♦ Film-Maker, Professor Don Okolo, is on the Editorial Board of the West African Pilot News. He is an author of many books.
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