Chief Femi Fani-Kayode had something to say, and he said it in this ten-minute, Facebook oration of pure substance, meaningfulness and brilliance.
I watched this brutal, honest-to-goodness diatribe, more of a controlled outburst, a measured chewing and spitting out of a second-rated country, on her death bed, touting her avowed intention to keep the Igbos marginalized.
Before this, I couldn’t tell Femi Fani-Kayode from Femi Ransome Kuti from either of their politics or music. But in truth, the eerie similarities in these men’s beliefs are notably didactic (moralistic) and just as worthy and ethical as the lessons one gathers from the teachings of the Master, Jesus, the Galilean.
He had my complete attention in that ten-minute rant. By the halfway point, he took the wits about me; my senses were whack, and I was seeing vestiges of irrationality pooling together into a mesh of impoliteness and anger enough to wish Nigeria, as a country, was dead. I have never been one to spring forth absurd, well, harebrained variations of softball poetry in praise of the most corrupt polity on the face of the earth.
Femi Fani-Kayode’s berating of the northern oligarchy’s mind was pure Bossa Nova to my ears…the Brazilian-styled music known for her all-out palliation of the sick and/or troubled mind. I wanted the country dead. Her citizens dead. Her founders dead. The British who worked this slimy tapestry together, dead. That was me as Robert DeNiro, him as Al Capone, in the film, ‘The Untouchables’…just before he bashed the skull of the one sitting and eating dinner with him.
This was the first time I was overwhelmed with this much anger in a span of just a few minutes, it took an intervention from my Chi to rewrite the quotients in my general psychological profile.
I have since recovered, and the wits about me that took that wild bolo punch at the scar-faced nonentities, the half-witted, desert waifs have made a comeback, and wants me to recalibrate and telegraph better. My Chi is telling me to find that enviable trajectory, where the course is pointed and not crimped in its travel. There is virtue in patience, he cautioned. Loose the freaking anger, he nudged me: It will expose you and leave cracks in the resolve you have so well crafted. This was the first time I was overwhelmed with this much anger in a span of just a few minutes, it took an intervention from my Chi to rewrite the quotients in my general psychological profile. It was searing enough, with double vision to boot, I thought I was going to have a heart attack. Now I get Nnamdi Kanu and his IPOB diehards.
Now, I freaking get it. It could be Nnamdi Kanu has a mandate from God. How could he have survived imprisonment? They had him…bound and strapped. If they were afraid to shoot him for treason because the world would have balked at that, they could easily have set him free after they had fed him enough poison to kill a herd of elephants.
Maybe, just maybe, God could have sent Archangel Michael to free Nnamdi Kanu…just like He sent an Angel to free St. Peter during his own incarceration. I hate to sound like a deranged man citing these biblical references. But the probability of a likelihood that Kanu was saved by Divine intervention is now plausible.
The quintessential indolent and fawn-meister nation; dullness encrypted in their DNA. Gavel-brained they couldn’t hold on to an elementary…nursery school information to last them a lifetime.
I have figured the Northerners out…and any fool could do the same. They are effing jealous of the Igbos. Period. Stay with me; I will break it all down and serve you this dish on a sizzling platter of conviction. They are poor in spirit. Their form and structure are the furtherance of deep-dive dilution, from that paste of waywardness, lackadaisical personality, and that sloth-like, crippling apathy they wear like halo. The quintessential indolent and fawn-meister nation; dullness encrypted in their DNA. Gavel-brained they couldn’t hold on to an elementary…nursery school information to last them a lifetime.
The rent they have dug up for the rest of the nation is deep…and we have been filling it while they sit with browned teeth, drinking hand-me down, three-day old furaah de nono…while their kinsmen steal with wanton cruelty from the public coffers and usurp the titles reserved for academicians and people who use their minds on complex disciplines to solve society’s problems.
They grant themselves doctorate degrees, when ninety-nine percent of them never left the borehole in Kawurah Namoda to attend school. These are the people that are in charge. These are the people that want the Igbos enslaved. Their fashion begins when they are out of use and staled by other men. (Shakespeare). These are the people who want sharia law enshrined in the doggone constitution, so they could waltz into the territories owned by Amadioha, Ojemba Ewe Ilo, Dike-Ana Agbaluizu, Gaga N’ogwu and Oku N’agba Ozala and convert us to the principles of their Moslem faith. Tufiakwa!!!
Hear me out: Cowards die many times before their death. The villain never taste of death but once. Of all the wonders I yet have heard, it seems to me most strange that men should fear. Seeing that death, a necessary end, will come when it will come.
I am livid that I am even pissing in the same hole with your like. It is hard enough to wake up next to you…you, the sharia law enthusiast, wanting to rewrite the norms to benefit your warped ideals of a Moslem nationhood. Me, the consummate, standard, principled adherent to agreed models, without the benefit of religion, would rather mosey on and leave you in the trenches of sand and dryness to your compositions borne out of sadistic idealism. I have a musical opus in the making…inspired by the chutzpah of one million…nah, nine million geniuses…the music of one thousand harmonies…the same music God Himself listens to.
We play it for Him daily…the divine composition, His own Son conducts. You think He would walk away from this symphony and grant you the audience of Three? You think He would want to listen to that cacophony…the shrill, piping noises that you play out of a vacuum? Abeg make you go siddon!!!
COULD WE LET THIS HAPPEN? FIND THE FEMI FANI-KAYODE’S PIECE AND LISTEN TO IT. (MORE THAN 100,000 IGBOS KILLED. MORE THAN 300 IGBO MILITARY OFFICERS KILLED. AND WITH THE WAR, MORE THAN 3,000,000 CIVILLIANS DIED) LISTEN TO A YORUBA MAN WHO WAS IN THE WAR TELL YOU SO HIMSELF.
♦ 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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