Which Kind Yeye Revolution Now?

The place was Ajegungle, on a hot afternoon when the blazing ball of the sun shined brightly in the sky. The kind of sun which shined on that Monday afternoon was different; it was the kind of sun that would make Yoruba elders to tell their pregnant daughters to either stay indoors or clip a safety pin to their gowns, to prevent wandering evil spirits from possessing the unborn child.

In a large face-me-I-slap-you bungalow down the street, Adamu was peaceably asleep, a swirling ceiling fan humming above his bald head, when a knock came on his door. It was Emeka, Adamu's next door neighbour and friend.

Without waiting for response, Emeka shrieked the door, peeped, and found Adamu on the rafia mat on the floor. Emeka tiptoed to avoid stepping on sticks of cigarettes and prayer beads littering the floor.

"Wake up, Adamu," Emeka touched Adamu's hands and continued, "NEPA done dey outside want cut light."

"Eh," Adamu answered and sprang to his feet like a wild cat. He knew that that day would come and had been readying himself for it. "How many times them bring light last month way them want cut light? I go show them pepper today."

Emeka and Adamu hurriedly walked past a long queue of rooms which faced each other like the holes in the traditional Ayo game before they finally arrived the scene - just outside the house..

By now, one of the NEPA officials had climbed to the peak of a silver ladder leaning on the concrete electric pole. Two male NEPA officials stood at the foot of the ladder, their hands firmly supporting the leaning ladder to give the man above the needed confidence.

A few yards away from the action scene, under the shade of an elephantine almond tree, a slender-looking lady, an exercise book in hand, stood. Obviously, she was the leader of the NEPA officials.

At once, Adamu rushed to the foot of the ladder. "Why una they cut our light? We only get light for three days throughout last month.

" We dey cut una light because una no gree pay una NEPA bill for last month." One of the men at the foot of the ladder answered sharply.

"Nonsense." Emeka answered. "Pure nonsense. Why we go pay thirty thousand naira for only three days way we see light last month?"

"Yes, nonsense." Adamu protested too. "Wetin we dey use for this our house self? Although we get twenty four rooms in total including the boys quarters way dey for backyard, na only ten people get television and radio for their rooms. Na only ceiling fan and bulb the rest of us get for house."

"Exactly," Emeka stammered.

"If una cut this night," Adamu threatened, "I go cut off una head with my dagger."

"Take it easy, my brothers." The woman standing under the shade of the tree said in a fine British accent that made Adamu and Emeka wondered whether she was a Nigerian or an alien from Jupiter. "You know that what we bring here is an estimated billing. So, whether we supply you power or not, you've got a duty to pay your bills. That's the rule. Do you understand?"

"Abeg madam," Emeka yelled, "hold am there. I no dey understand nonsense. No be your fault. If no be the yeye country way we dey, shey you go dey talk like this? You think say grammar fit correct nonsense? You dey defend corruption and impunity and your belle dey sweet."

"Walai, we die here together if una cut this light," Adamu added, "In short, you fit cut this light o but I go cut person head. Make who want die wait for me."

The grammar-speaking woman watched Adamu bolting into the house. At once, she perceived trouble and signalled her boys to quickly vacate the scene to avoid violence.

By the time Adamu returned, the NEPA officials had fled the scene, leaving the power supply untampered with.

"You see," Emeka smiled at Adamu, "we suppose dey fight for our rights. Why them no wait for you to come back? Na so the government dey fear the people too. Na why them arrest Sowore. Dem dey fear wetin the people fit do. We need revolution for this country now."

"Which kind yeye revolution now?" Adamu answered angrily. "Emeka you know wetin them dey call revolution? You even know the colour of revolution? After Sowore done lose elections, him dey call for revolution. Why him no call for revolution before him contest the elections? Na politics Sowore dey play. We no need revolution. Wetin we need na good government. By the time way dem deal with am finish, him go know say khaki no be leather."

"Ah Adamu, I no believe say na you dey talk like this. Since way Nigeria collect independence for 1960 till today, wetin done change for Nigeria? Light, we no get. Good roads, we no get. Better hospitals, we no get. Food and water, we no get. Herdsmen and Boko haram dey slaughter our people like chicken. Even SARS way suppose they arrest armed robbers, na innocent citizens them dey shoot. Our senators dey pay themselves elephant salaries but to pay the poor minimum wage na still wahala. Na those things Sowore say must stop. Na the revolution be that."

"Which kind yeye revolution?" Adamu and Emeka had by now sat under the shade of the elephantine almond tree that shielded the grammar-speaking woman earlier on. "Sowore just dey deceive people. Him don collect money to burn Nigeria then come run go America. We no go gree make them spoil this country."

"See you, wetin better for this country way them never spoil already? We need revolution now."

Before Adamu could give a response, his phone had started ringing. He picked it up and broke into the Hausa language for a short while. It was a call from Kano. A group of herdsmen had razed down Adamu's village, killing dozens of villagers including his twin brother, Yaro.

As soon as Emeka heard about the untoward incident, he shook his head and said, "Adamu, we need revolution now. This killings must stop."

Adamu wanted to say, "Which kind yeye revolution now?" but he couldn't say it. He just nodded his head instead.

In memory of all those who have lost their lives to insecurity in Nigeria. #freesoworenow #revolutionnow.

David Ademule is a student of human society and crime. He lives and writes from Lagos, where he goes about carrying his magical pen in his pockets.

Cityofdavid:
Which Kind Yeye Revolution Now?

The place was Ajegungle, on a hot afternoon when the blazing ball of the sun shined brightly in the sky. The kind of sun which shined on that Monday afternoon was different; it was the kind of sun that would make Yoruba elders to tell their pregnant daughters to either stay indoors or clip a safety pin to their gowns, to prevent wandering evil spirits from possessing the unborn child.

In a large face-me-I-slap-you bungalow down the street, Adamu was peaceably asleep, a swirling ceiling fan humming above his bald head, when a knock came on his door. It was Emeka, Adamu's next door neighbour and friend.

Without waiting for response, Emeka shrieked the door, peeped, and found Adamu on the rafia mat on the floor. Emeka tiptoed to avoid stepping on sticks of cigarettes and prayer beads littering the floor.

"Wake up, Adamu," Emeka touched Adamu's hands and continued, "NEPA done dey outside want cut light."

"Eh," Adamu answered and sprang to his feet like a wild cat. He knew that that day would come and had been readying himself for it. "How many times them bring light last month way them want cut light? I go show them pepper today."

Emeka and Adamu hurriedly walked past a long queue of rooms which faced each other like the holes in the traditional Ayo game before they finally arrived the scene - just outside the house..

By now, one of the NEPA officials had climbed to the peak of a silver ladder leaning on the concrete electric pole. Two male NEPA officials stood at the foot of the ladder, their hands firmly supporting the leaning ladder to give the man above the needed confidence.

A few yards away from the action scene, under the shade of an elephantine almond tree, a slender-looking lady, an exercise book in hand, stood. Obviously, she was the leader of the NEPA officials.

At once, Adamu rushed to the foot of the ladder. "Why una they cut our light? We only get light for three days throughout last month.

" We dey cut una light because una no gree pay una NEPA bill for last month." One of the men at the foot of the ladder answered sharply.

"Nonsense." Emeka answered. "Pure nonsense. Why we go pay thirty thousand naira for only three days way we see light last month?"

"Yes, nonsense." Adamu protested too. "Wetin we dey use for this our house self? Although we get twenty four rooms in total including the boys quarters way dey for backyard, na only ten people get television and radio for their rooms. Na only ceiling fan and bulb the rest of us get for house."

"Exactly," Emeka stammered.

"If una cut this night," Adamu threatened, "I go cut off una head with my dagger."

"Take it easy, my brothers." The woman standing under the shade of the tree said in a fine British accent that made Adamu and Emeka wondered whether she was a Nigerian or an alien from Jupiter. "You know that what we bring here is an estimated billing. So, whether we supply you power or not, you've got a duty to pay your bills. That's the rule. Do you understand?"

"Abeg madam," Emeka yelled, "hold am there. I no dey understand nonsense. No be your fault. If no be the yeye country way we dey, shey you go dey talk like this? You think say grammar fit correct nonsense? You dey defend corruption and impunity and your belle dey sweet."

"Walai, we die here together if una cut this light," Adamu added, "In short, you fit cut this light o but I go cut person head. Make who want die wait for me."

The grammar-speaking woman watched Adamu bolting into the house. At once, she perceived trouble and signalled her boys to quickly vacate the scene to avoid violence.

By the time Adamu returned, the NEPA officials had fled the scene, leaving the power supply untampered with.

"You see," Emeka smiled at Adamu, "we suppose dey fight for our rights. Why them no wait for you to come back? Na so the government dey fear the people too. Na why them arrest Sowore. Dem dey fear wetin the people fit do. We need revolution for this country now."

"Which kind yeye revolution now?" Adamu answered angrily. "Emeka you know wetin them dey call revolution? You even know the colour of revolution? After Sowore done lose elections, him dey call for revolution. Why him no call for revolution before him contest the elections? Na politics Sowore dey play. We no need revolution. Wetin we need na good government. By the time way dem deal with am finish, him go know say khaki no be leather."

"Ah Adamu, I no believe say na you dey talk like this. Since way Nigeria collect independence for 1960 till today, wetin done change for Nigeria? Light, we no get. Good roads, we no get. Better hospitals, we no get. Food and water, we no get. Herdsmen and Boko haram dey slaughter our people like chicken. Even SARS way suppose they arrest armed robbers, na innocent citizens them dey shoot. Our senators dey pay themselves elephant salaries but to pay the poor minimum wage na still wahala. Na those things Sowore say must stop. Na the revolution be that."

"Which kind yeye revolution?" Adamu and Emeka had by now sat under the shade of the elephantine almond tree that shielded the grammar-speaking woman earlier on. "Sowore just dey deceive people. Him don collect money to burn Nigeria then come run go America. We no go gree make them spoil this country."

"See you, wetin better for this country way them never spoil already? We need revolution now."

Before Adamu could give a response, his phone had started ringing. He picked it up and broke into the Hausa language for a short while. It was a call from Kano. A group of herdsmen had razed down Adamu's village, killing dozens of villagers including his twin brother, Yaro.

As soon as Emeka heard about the untoward incident, he shook his head and said, "Adamu, we need revolution now. This killings must stop."

Adamu wanted to say, "Which kind yeye revolution now?" but he couldn't say it. He just nodded his head instead.

In memory of all those who have lost their lives to insecurity in Nigeria. #freesoworenow #revolutionnow.

David Ademule is a student of human society and crime. He lives and writes from Lagos, where he goes about carrying his magical pen in his pockets.

Actually Mr op, Don't come to thrill us here with Adamu and Emeka...


How many protest by Igbos have yoruba supported.?

This analysis is as worthless as anything...and holds no value.

The revolution of sowore is purely a Yoruba affair, don't drag others into the mess please..


Adamu and Emeka but when others are protesting for same thing u guys will be condemning them.


Take your Adamu and Emeka to other platform.

Every body has their own issue to tackle..

Imagine Adamu and Emeka...Try again and be more realistic generally not trying to draw out what we already know. It won't thrill us.

MelesZenawi:



Actually Mr op, Don't come to thrill us here with Adamu and Emeka...


How many protest by Igbos have yoruba supported.?

This analysis is as worthless as anything...and holds no value.

The revolution of sowore is purely a Yoruba affair, don't drag others into the mess please..


Adamu and Emeka but when others are protesting for same thing u guys will be condemning them.


Take your Adamu and Emeka to other platform.

Every body has their own issue to tackle..

Imagine Adamu and Emeka...Try again and be more realistic generally not trying to draw out what we already know. It won't thrill us.

2 questions
Which national protest has igbos led that Yoruba's refused to support.
How is sowore's protest a Yoruba thing?