As soon as he opened his eyes, he felt
it. A strange peace, a calm clarity.
He stretched. Even his limbs were
stronger and surer. He looked at his
phone. Thirty-seven new text messages – and
all while he was asleep. With one click, he
deleted them. The empty screen buoyed him.
Then he got up to bathe, determined to fold
the day into the exact shape that he wanted.
Chimamanda Adichie
Those Levick people had to go. No more
foreign PR firms. They should have made that
article in the American newspaper sound like
him, they should have known better. They had
to go. And he would not pay their balance;
they had not fulfilled the purpose of the
contract after all.
He pressed the intercom. Man Friday came in,
face set in a placidly praise-singing smile.
“Good morning, Your Excellency!”
“Good morning,” Oga Jona said. “I had a
revelation from God.”
Man Friday stared at him with bulging eyes.
“I said I had a revelation from God,” he
repeated. “Find me new Public Relations
people. Here in Nigeria. Is this country not full
of mass communication departments and
graduates?”
“Yes, Your Excellency.” Man Friday’s eyes
narrowed; he was already thinking of whom he
would bring, of how he would benefit.
“I want a shortlist on my table on
Wednesday,” Oga Jona said. “I don’t want any
of the usual suspects. I want fresh blood. Like
that student who asked that frank question
during the economic summit.”
“Your Excellency… the procurement rules…we
need somebody who is licensed by the agency
licensed by the agency that licenses PR
consultants…”
Oga Jona snorted. Man Friday used civil
service restrictions as a weapon to fight off
competition. Anybody who might push him out of
his privileged position was suddenly not
licensed, not approved, not registered. “I don’t
want you to bring your own candidates, do you
hear me? I said I want fresh blood, I’m not
joking.”
“Yes, Your Excellency,” Man Friday said,
voice now high-pitched with alarmed confusion.
“Put that DVD for me before you go,” Oga
Jona said.
He watched the recording on the widescreen
television, unhappy with his appearance in the
footage. His trousers seemed too big and why
had nobody adjusted his hat? Next to The Girl
from Pakistan, he looked timid, scrunched into
his seat. She was inspiring, that young girl,
and he wished her well. But he saw now how
bad this made him appear: he had ignored all
the Nigerians asking him to go to Chibok, and
now The Girl From Pakistan was telling the
world that he promised her he would go. He
promised me, she said. As if the abducted
Nigerian girls did not truly matter until this girl
said they did. As if what mattered to him was
a photo-op with this girl made famous by
surviving a gunshot wound. It made him look
small. It made him look unpresidential. It made
him look like a leader without a rudder. Why
had they advised him to do this? He pressed a
button on his desk and waited.
Violence was unfamiliar to Oga Jona. Yet
when Man Monday came in, his belly rounded
and his shirt a size too tight as usual, Oga
Jona fought the urge to hit and punch and
slap. Instead, he settled for less: he threw a
teacup at Man Monday.
“Why have you people been advising me not to
go to Chibok? Why have you people been telling
me that my enemies will exploit it?”
“Sah?” Man Monday had dodged the teacup
and now stood flustered.
“I am going to Chibok tomorrow. I should have
gone a long time ago. Now it will look as if I
am going only because a foreigner, a small girl
at that, told me to go. But I will still go.
Nigerians have to see that this thing is
troubling me too.”
“But Sah, you know…”
“Don’t ‘Sah you know’ me!” This was how his
people always started. “Sah, you know…” Then
they would bring up conspiracies, plots,
enemies, evil spirits. No wonder giant snakes
were always chasing him in his dreams: he had
listened to too much of their nonsense. He
remembered a quote from a teacher in his
secondary school: ‘The best answer to give
your enemies is continued excellence.’ What he
needed, he saw now, was an adviser like that
teacher.
“Sah, the security situation…”
“Have you not seen Obama appear in
Afghanistan or Iraq in the middle of the night
to greet American troops? Is Chibok more
dangerous than the war the Americans are
always fighting up and down? Arrange it
immediately. Keep it quiet. I want to meet the
parents of the girls. Make gifts and provisions
available to the families, as a small token of
goodwill from the federal government.” He
knew how much people liked such things. A tin
of vegetable oil would soften some bitter
hearts.
“Sah…”
“From Borno we go to Yobe. I want to meet
the families of the boys who were killed. I want
to visit the school. Fifty-nine boys! They shot
those innocent boys and burnt them to ashes!
Chai! There is evil in the world o!”
“Yes Sah.”
“These people are evil. That man Yusuf was
evil. The policemen who killed him, we have to
arrest them and parade them before the press.
Make sure the world knows we are handling
the case. But it is even more important that we
tell the true story about Yusuf himself. Yes,
the police should not have killed him. But does
that mean his followers should now start
shedding blood all over this country? Is there
any Nigerian who does not have a bad story
about the police? Was it not last year that my
own cousin was nearly killed in police
detention? Let us tell people why the Army
caught him in the first place. He was evil.
Remember that pastor in Maiduguri that he
beheaded. Find that pastor’s wife. Let her tell
her story. Let the world hear it. Show pictures
of the pastor. Why have we not been telling
the full story? Why didn’t we fight back when
The Man From Borno was running around
abroad, blaming me for everything when he too
failed in his own responsibilities?” Oga Jona
was getting angrier as he spoke, angry with
his people, angry with himself. How could he
have remained, for so long, in that darkness,
that demon possession of ineptitude?
“Yes Sah!”
“You can go.”
He picked up the iphone and spoke slowly. “I
want to expand that Terror Victims Support
Committee. Add one woman. Add two people
personally affected by terrorism. How can you
have a committee on terrorism victims with no
diversity?”
On the other end of the phone, the voice was
stilled by surprise. “Yes Sah!” Finally
emerged, in a croak.

He put down the phone. There would be no
more committees. At least until he was re-
elected. And no more unending consultations.
He picked up the Galaxy, scrolled through the
list of contacts. He called two Big Men in the
Armed Forces, the ones stealing most of the
money meant for the soldiers.
“I want your resignation by Friday,” He said
simply.
Their shock blistered down the phone.
“But Your Excellency…”
“Or you want me to announce that I am
sacking you? At least resignation will save you
embarrassment.”
If those left knew he was now serious as
commander-in-chief, serious about punishing
misdeed and demanding performance, they
would sit up. He ate some roasted groundnuts
before making the next call. To another Big
Man in the Armed Forces. They had to stop
arresting Northerners just like that. He
remembered his former gateman in Port
Harcourt. Mohammed, pleasant Mohammed
with his buck teeth and his radio pressed to his
ear. Mohammed would not even have the liver
to support any terrorist. He told the Big Man
in the Armed Forces, “You need to carry
people along. Win hearts and minds. Make
Nigerians feel that you are fighting for them,
not against them… And when you talk to the
press and say that Nigerians should do their
part to fight terrorism, stop sounding as if you
are accusing them. After all, let us tell the
truth, what can an ordinary person do?
Nothing! Even those people who check cars, if
they open a boot and see a big bomb, what will
they do? Will they try to subdue an armed
suicide bomber? Will they pour water on the
bomb to defuse it? Will they not turn and run
as fast as their legs can carry them? Let’s
start a mass education campaign. Get
proposals on how best to do it without scaring
people. When we tell Nigerians to report
suspicious behavior, let’s give them examples.
Suspicious behavior does not mean anybody
wearing a jellabiya. After all, was the one in
Lagos not done by a woman?” He paused.
“Yes, Your Excellency!”
“As for the girls, we have to go back to
negotiation. Move in immediately.”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
“I should not have listened to what they told me
in that Paris summit. Why did I even agree to
follow them and go to Paris, all of us looking
like colonised goats?”
From the other end, came a complete and lip-
sealed silence. The Big Man in the Armed
Forces dared not make a sound, lest it be
mistaken as agreement on the word ‘goat.’
Besides, he had been part of the entourage
for that trip and had collected even more than
the normal fat juicy estacode.
“I don’t want to hear about any other mutiny,”
Oga Jona continued. “You will get the funds.
But I want real results! Improve the conditions
of your boys. I want to see results!”

The Big Man in the Armed Forces started
saying something about the Americans.
Oga Jona cut him short. “Shut up! If somebody
shits inside your father’s house, is it a
foreigner that will come and clean the house
for you? Is Sambisa on Google Maps? How
much local intelligence have you gathered?
Before you ask for help, you first do your
best!”
“Yes Your Excellency.”
“And why is it that nobody interviewed the girls
who escaped?”
There was a pause.
“By tomorrow night I want a report on the local
intelligence gathered so far!”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
Oga Jona turned on the television and briefly
watched a local channel. Who even designed
those ugly studio backgrounds? There was a
knock on the door. It had to be Man Thursday.
Nobody else could come in anyhow.
“Good afternoon, My President,” Man
Thursday said.
Short and stocky, Man Thursday was the
soother who always came cradling bottles of
liquid peace.
This time, Oga Jona pushed away the bottle.
“Not now!’
“My President, I hope you’re feeling fine.”
“I received a revelation from God. From now
on, I will stop giving interviews to foreign
journalists while ignoring our own journalists.”
“But My President, you know how useless our
journalists are…”
“Will Obama give an interview to AIT and
ignore CBS?”
“No, Your Excellency.”
“I know some of our journalists support
Bourdillon, but we also have others on our side.
I will beat them at their game! I want to do
interviews with two journalists that support us
and one journalist that supports Bourdillon.
Find one that will be easy to intimidate.”
“But…”
“I want names in the next hour.”
“Yes, Your Excellency.” Man Thursday now
stood still, lips parted in the slack expression
of a person no longer sure what day it was.
“Tell the Supporters Club to change their
television advertisements. They should stop
mentioning ‘those who are against me.’ I will
no longer give power to my enemies. They
should mention only the things that I am doing.
I like that one with the almajiri boy. It shows
Nigerians that I have helped with education in
the North. They should make more
advertisements like that.”
In response, Man Thursday could only nod
vigorously but mutely.
Later, after eating vegetable soup with
periwinkle and a plate of sliced fruits – he
was determined to keep himself from looking
like Man Monday – he asked Sharp Woman
to meet him in the residence. Not in the main
living room, but in the smaller relaxing white
parlor. Sharp Woman was the only one he fully
trusted. He had sometimes allowed himself to
sideline her, when he had felt blown this way
and that way by the small-minded pettiness of
other people. She was the only one who had
not allowed him to dwell too much on his own
victimhood. Once, she had told him quietly,
“You have real enemies. There are people in
this country who do not think you should be
president simply because of where you come
from. Did they not say they would make the
country ungovernable for you? But not
everything is the fault of your enemies. If we
keep on blaming the enemies then we are
making them powerful. The Bourdillon people
are disorganized. They don’t have a real
platform. Their platform is just anti-you. They
don’t even have a credible person they can
field, the only major candidate they have is the
one they will not select. So stop mentioning
them. Face your work.”
He should have listened then, despite the many
choruses that drowned her voice.
It was she who, a few days later, and after
the four rubbish candidates stage-managed by
Man Friday, brought the new PR people,
Kikelola Obi, Bola Usman and Chinwe Adeniyi
– when he first saw their names, he thought:
and some crazy people are saying we should
divide Nigeria. They were in their early
thirties, with rough faces and no make up; they
looked too serious, as if they attended Deeper
Life church and disapproved of laughter. They
started their presentation, all three taking
turns to speak. They stood straight and
fearless. Their directness and confidence
unnerved him.
“Sir, we voted for you the first time. We felt
that you would do well if you had the mandate
of the people instead of just an inherited
throne. We liked you because you had no
shoes. We really liked you. We had hope in
you. You seemed humble and different. But
with all due respect sir, we will not vote for
you again unless something changes.”

He nearly jumped up from his seat. Small girls
of nowadays! They had no respect! As if to
make it worse, one of them added that if the
election were held today, the only person she
could vote for was The Man From Lagos. Oga
Jona bristled. That annoying man. Even if a
mosquito bit him in his state, he would find a
way to blame the president for it. Still, Oga
Jona could see why these foolish small girls
were saying they would vote for him. The man
had tried in Lagos. But their mentioning The
Man From Lagos was now a challenge. He
would rise to the challenge.
“Sir, the good news is that Nigerians forgive
easily and Nigerians forget even more easily.
You have to change strategy. Be more visible.
Stop politicizing everything. Stop blaming your
enemies for everything. You have to be, and
seem to be, a strong, uniting leader. Make
sure to keep repeating that this is not a
Muslim vs. Christian thing.”
Oga Jona cut in, pleased to be able to
challenge these over-sabi girls. “You think
Nigerians don’t know that it is mostly Christian
areas that they are targeting in Borno? And
what about all those church bombings?”
The three shook their heads, uniformly, like
robots. They were sipping water; they had
declined everything else.
“With all due respect sir, if you look at the
names of bombing victims, they are Muslims
and Christians. If God forbid another terror
attack occurs, you have to come out yourself
and talk to Nigerians. Stop releasing wooden
statements saying you condemn the attacks.
We will prep you before each public
appearance. You have a tendency to ramble.
That’s the most important thing to watch out
for. Be alert when you answer each question.
Keep your answers short. You don’t have to
elaborate if there is nothing to elaborate. Stick
to the point. If they ask you something
negative, be willing to admit past mistakes but
always give the answer a positive spin.
Something like ‘yes, I could have handled it
better and I regret that but I am now doing
better, and am determined to do even more
because Nigerians want and deserve results.’
You have to start reaching out beyond your
comfort zone. Nigeria has talent. Look for the
best Nigerians on any subject at hand,
wherever they may be, and persuade them to
come and contribute on their area of expertise.
Especially the ones who have no interest in
government work. Even one or two who don’t
completely agree with you. Think of Lincoln’s
Team of Rivals.”
“What?”
“Don’t worry, sir. The important thing is to
reach out beyond your circle. Oga Segi was
not a calm person like you. He even used to
threaten to flog people. But he had a good
network. Jimmy Carter is his friend. If he
needed expertise from a university in Zaria or
Edinburgh or Boston, he would pick up his
phone and know somebody who knew or
somebody who knew somebody who knew. But
with all due respect, sir, you don’t have that.
Bayelsa is a small place.”
These girls really had no respect o! He glared
at Sharp Woman, who shrugged and muttered,
“You said you wanted people who would tell
you the truth.”
But he listened.
In his first interview, the words rolled off his
tongue. Those girls had made him repeat
himself so many times. “I want to apologize to
the Nigerian people for some actions of my
government. We could have done better. No
country fighting terrorism can let everything be
open. But we owe our country men and women
honest, clear assurance that we are taking
decisive action, with enough details to be
convincing. I ask for your prayers and support.
I have directed the security services to set up
a website that will give Nigerians accurate
and up-to-date information about our war
against terrorism. I have also hired specialists
to manage the flow and presentation of the
information.”
And the words came easily when he shook
hands with the parents in Chibok, simple polite
people who clutched his hand with both of
theirs. He should have done this much earlier;
it was so touching. “Sorry,” he said, over and
over again. “Sorry. Please keep strong. We
will rescue them.”
The words were more reluctant when he wore a
red shirt and asked to be taken to the
gathering of The People in Red at the park.
But he cleared his throat and urged himself to
speak, particularly because, as he emerged
from within his circle of security men, the
People in Red all stopped and stared. Silence
reigned.
“I came to salute you,” Oga Jona started. “We
are on the same side. My government has
made mistakes. We are learning from them and
correcting them. Please work with us.
Together, we will defeat this evil.”
They were still silent and still staring; they
were disarmed. He thanked them and, before
they could marshal their old distrust, he turned
and left. That night, as he sank to his knees
in prayer, he heard the muted singing of
angels.
Chimamanda Adichie is an award winning
writer and author of bestsellers including
Purple Hibiscus, Half of a Yellow Sun, The
Thing Around Your Neck and Americanah.

“Tell the Supporters Club to change their
television advertisements. They should stop
mentioning ‘those who are against me.’ I will
no longer give power to my enemies. They
should mention only the things that I am doing.
I like that one with the almajiri boy. It shows
Nigerians that I have helped with education in
the North. They should make more
advertisements like that.”

this is so funny!

Nice one from Chimamanda. I hope she won't be labelled an APC supporter sha.

Say No to GEJ 2015

Nice though but a fiction that would never ever happen

the only major candidate they have is the
one they will not select.

i hope Bourdillon is listening. Please field Fashola, Apc only your candidate can save you in 2015.

Very interesting piece.
Adichie is very talented I must give that to her

Obiagelli:
i hope Bourdillon is listening. Please field Fashola, Apc only your candidate can save you in 2015.

Can Chimamanda win election for councillor in Nigeria? Stop overhyping the lady. Virtually anyone with half-a-brain can look good whilst assessing GEJ. There is not much to assess in the fast place other than list what is abjectly lacking.

maclatunji:

Can Chimamanda win election for councillor in Nigeria? Stop overhyping the lady. Virtually anyone with half-a-brain can look good whilst assessing GEJ. There is not much to assess in the fast place other than list what is abjectly lacking.

You will agree with me that fashola stands a better chance against Gej machinery than almost every other candidate the apc produce.
The apc is fast loosing support and it takes fantastic candidate to turn the tide. Nigerians love bandwagon, election to the electorate is like a game of the elites. Nigerians are happy to flow with the tide and mock the loosing side. At the moment, apc is that loosing side.

jossy1luv: Very interesting piece.
Adichie is very talented I must give that to her

Sure she is.

Obiagelli:
You will agree with me that fashola stands a better chance against Gej machinery than almost every other candidate the apc produce.
The apc is fast loosing support and it takes fantastic candidate to turn the tide. Nigerians love bandwagon, election to the electorate is like a game of the elites. Nigerians are happy to flow with the tide and mock the loosing side. At the moment, apc is that loosing side.

The people hyping Fashola are the elites, he does not have the mass appeal to win a presidential election in Nigeria. It is not about gathering uninformed followers alone but about building national spread and relevance.

Fashola does not have that. Nigerians will stop mocking opposition politicians once they realise that they are actually mocking themselves. Most opposition politicians will live comfortably no matter how clueless the government and ruling party are.