DINO MELAYE: OBJECTIVITY IN THE HAY

‘Like a needle in the haystack’

Each time I close my eyes to picture this saying that has become cliché for almost every shade of expression, I see stress, despondency and near-futility engraved in capitals in my mind’s eye. I can picture a 14^th century medieval mother, intent on probably giving vent to her marital frustrations on a hapless maid, commanding her to go to the stable where the horse was tethered, to look for the ‘only’ needle she needed to finish an urgent job. I can imagine the despair personified on the face of the little girl, who actually knows what her chances of success are at such a feat. Yes, a feat.

Over the past week or so, there has been so much hue and cry over an altercation between the senator representing Kogi West constituency, Mr Dino Melaye and the erstwhile first lady of Lagos State, Mrs Oluremi Tinubu, also the senator representing Lagos Central. The convergence of all the spurts of spleen has been on the alleged outburst of Mr Melaye, who allegedly threatened to impregnate and beat up Mrs Tinubu, over his comments about people who decided to testify against the principal Senators in the country, Bukola Saraki and Ike Ekweremadu.

Expectedly, various human rights groups and liberty organizations have taken turns to outlaw and demonize the unfortunate utterances from a supposedly revered lawmaker, with dissociations and demands for apologies colouring and dotting the landscape and news space as it filters in.

Without any speck of doubt, the lawmaker acted in the most unruly manner undeserving of not only his mettle, political pedigree and positioning in the Federal Republic of Nigeria, but also the Divine sculpting of his facial features. His gory and gross antecedents in the House make this latest no less suprising, and lends credence to snippets of slight psychological and psychomotive imbalance, which is in acute need of professional attention. But as the saying goes, the truth can have two faces sometimes.

   

   I am not and can never be a proponent of abuse in whatever colouration, hue or shade, especially when a woman is involved, bearing in mind not just the frailty of her composition which puts her in somewhat of a vulnerable position, but also the potential her complete emancipation from this vice holds for the world at large, should civilization succeed in stamping out abuse in its entirety. However, every agitation needs to have at least a rational and logical face, so as not to assume the ‘basket of water’ stance.

     

     I do not want to believe that I am the only one who can conveniently say that the attack of Mr Melaye on Mrs Tinubu was a provoked one.  Neither do I believe I am the only one who read that she called him a thug and a dog, which elicited that reaction, uncouth as it came out, unfortunately. I also want believe that I am not the only one who is noting how skewed the inclinations of people are, in favour of the ‘weaker’ Mrs Tinubu. In the news space, the report of the former first lady nearly assaulting a senator is not anywhere in the purview. Suddenly and completely, she has been absolved of every blame whatsoever. Because she sits magnificiently and protectedly on the side of general sympathy, she has the right to call a man names, with no consequence whatsoever. Of course she is the one whose attacks ought to be swallowed and masticated and ingested to nourishment. She is the woman. Because she is weak, she is on a freeway of uncensored thought, word and expression. Her faculty of self control is permissively redundant, and it doesn’t matter, afterall she is the woman. It doesn’t work like that on the balance of fairness and objectivity.

    As Stone Age as this may sound, any civilization that seeks to view gender balance with any taint of skew is unfair and unacceptable. Some of the ‘abuses’ that necessitated this worldwide demand for gender equality were at some point provoked ones. But the opinion of the critical mass, engineered deliberately by some forces with a mapped out world agenda, has been moulded to only dwell on effect and extent, without recourse to root and cause.

   Without meaning to sound misogynistic, there is a certain way nature has fashioned this cosmos, and the equality of the genders is not part of it, in any way whatsoever, Divinity appending its signature by way of the Scriptures. Because of the role of the woman in the fall of our first parents, she was to remain subservient to the man, albeit fairly (Genesis 3.16).

Dino ought to tender an unreserved apology for his actions. But objectivity ought to be concertedly hunted and rescued from that haystack.

Ogbonna Nnaemeka Henry

Lemuel 2

Feelings was just Lemuel wanted. Or what he needed to drown his guilt that evening.

Come on, he told himself as he looked, lost, at the bartender but actually miles behind the cellar behind him. The evening is still young and mingle is written in the air. Breathe it and live!

Daniel sipped some brandy, gargled it, came close to him, and in some uncouth fashion, extruded the hot spirit into his ear through the gap in his front teeth.

He came to like some voltage was passed through his system. It was no use; Daniel was already nestled   across the hall between two buxom ladies:  far out of the reach of his wrath.

He helped himself to some Tangaray.

The Lenovo appeared in his hands. He pressed the search button. He pressed ‘B’ in the search box.

Her name was first on the list. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t face her. He had to keep up the façade.

Suddenly, the Lenovo buzzed.

A text message.

He got up and took one last look at his friend and two other men in varying degrees of morally-depraved activity with up to five ladies slithering around them. He walked out, heavy.

Two thousand kilometers away in some cozy hospital, a pretty, fair complexioned lady was staring with trepidation at the electrocardiogram. The sinusoidal pattern that measured the heartbeat was ebbing flat. She looked on in horror.

 ‘Jesus! Save me!’

It picked up once again.

Lemuel walked in, crestfallen. When he saw her, he buckled and landed on his knees, sorrow painting his face.

He knew how she looked when he last saw her. He knew his eyes were not deceiving him, here and now.

She had drifted to sleep, a tired and uncertain one. He could not ask what happened.

Like a gymnast doing the final round of a series of backflip stunts, Sheila threw her bag to the far corner of the room, lifted her fit self, and landed square on the ten-inch spring mattress in the middle of her room,  all in one swift movement. She did not care that her throwing calculations were not so accurate:The bag had missed the second layer of the open closet by inches, fallen on its side, and spilled combs, her vanity box, sweets, an extra weave, and perfume.

She did not care. Today was hectic enough.

She savoured a good twenty minutes’ rest.

Here she was, engaged to the best man in the world, having a 4.87 grade point in her final semester, with the United Nations expository team  watching her academic progress with eagle eyes, impatient to swoop down on her upon graduation, parents to whom she meant the world, and an only brother who would give an arm for her. Could life be any more sweeter and fulfilling at this point?

A Lenovo ThinkPad materialized in her arms from wherever, instantly. She hadn’t networked in like a month, thanks to this hell, otherwise known as school.

She punched in her Facebook password.

Her long time friend, Kemona’s wall came into focus instantly. She had added six new photographs.

Characteristic of the epileptic Ogi network, the fractions of the picture began to fall into place one after the other like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. It started with a head, arms, which looked like they cupped something. She watched on as the image progressed to that of a lady inside the cupped arms. The lady looked fat and white initially, until she saw it was a gown, which flowed and covered like half a metre radius around her, swallowing the lower part of the man entirely, for he was behind her.

The loading progressed.

She could see the man was tall, way taller than the woman, and he had his lips buried in her mass of Brazillian weave, and she could make out a part of his shoe which peeked out of the covering of the gown on the ground. The entire picture was completely formed, but blurred.

Then it became clearer and clearer, pixel after pixel.

Sammie. Her Sammie. She checked the date. Two days before.

With a loud crash, the Lenovo fell and bruised.

Something strong and hard tugged at her heart. She passed out.

Lemuel looked up at the electrocardiogram. There was an urgent beeping sound, and the waves were ominously flat.

‘Doctor! My sister!’

Sheila’s chest received five voltage-induced resuscitations, as well as five more manual ones. But it was useless. She had stopped breathing long ago. And had crossed the divide horribly.

‘Noooooooooooooo!’

Lemuel dashed out of the ward and stared down fifty feet below him. He climbed the balustrade.

He leapt into the air before the fastest of the doctors could reach him. With eyes shut, he waited for the inevitable.

Just as he neared the ten foot mark, an ambulance braked and parked sharply below him.

A heavy thud, as body met reinforced softness.

 'Arrrrrrrrrgh!!!!' My back!!!!'

The Last Sermon

‘The minute the man of sin takes over the Vatican, the Bride of Christ should start thinking of going up to meet the Lord in the air, and I am sorry for whoever will miss that rapture. For the Bible says there will be such a trouble as there has never been on the earth, and of course never shall be. No man will be able to eat or drink unless he has that mark pledging his allegiance to the anti Christ system, orchestrated by the Pope of Rome. Nobody should be deceived into believing that it is going to be a physical mark on the hand or forehead; it is the symbolic language of the Bible.  For the truth is that the mark on your forehead means that you gave your approving nod to any doctrine that is unbiblical, and the mark on your hand means you participated in any activity that negates the Word of God. The anti Christ is not a person, but a system.  Any form of worship, education, commerce, and every aspect of life and living will be fully in the firm grips of the Vatican, and God help anyone who refuses or goes contrary to the dictates of the system…he will surely be killed.

   ‘Remember that God is not a polygamist, and as the husband of the church that he is, he cannot have two living wives at the same time. As such he blinded the Jews in part, so He could minister to we the Gentiles. When the end of the Gentile dispensation comes, which will be marked by a sudden disappearance of every Christian that has lived true to the Word of God, the Lord Jesus will turn His attention to the Jews once more. By the instrumentality of two prophets of Revelation 11, He will show his true Self once more to His beloved. They will cry and weep, and repent, and it will culminate in the salvation of the 144,000 of Revelation 7. He who has ears, let him hear…….’

    The congregation was stone-cold and grave-sober. Each man, woman and child whose ears had been impinged  by the reflective sermon that Sunday morning was lost in deep thought, and for the two straight hours it lasted, each thought and weighed his or her options of making it. Most of them didn’t even hear when the pastor, in a voice laden with emotion, made an altar call, inviting anyone who needed grace to run the all-important race.

   Every single individual rushed to the altar, as if on cue. Most of them had misty eyes.

Some fifteen minutes later, prayers over, Pastor Nick was preparing to make the final announcements, when there came some aggressive and deep noise coming from the outside. An Armoured Personnel Carrier (APC) had torn into the compound, and had braked sharply, showing one nearby Mercedes 230E the mercy of sparing its rear bumper. The two elastic six-foot antennae on the front and rear were still oscillating from the sudden stop, when at least ten menacing soldiers jumped out, wielding sophisticated weapons. In the far corner, one soldier had just kicked the security guard in the butt, to propel him to obey his immediate orders to begin a five-metre frog jump. His offence was opening the gate five seconds late.

   Major Amu tapped on the auditorium door alright, but didn’t have the patience for any usher.  He kicked the door open, nearly shattering the hinges and locks, and advanced towards the altar. He snatched the microphone from Brother Emmanuel who was asking a question relating to the service.

‘Who is in charge of this place?’

Pastor Nick stepped forward, fearlessly. There was the bark of a Russian assault rifle somewhere deep in the compound, twice and short.

   ‘Can I see your license of operation and incorporation from the Christian Association of Nigeria?’

‘We do not belong to such associations, Major’, Pastor Nick replied coolly, assessing correctly his rank from his decorations. ‘Besides, I am not aware they have started issuing licenses of operation….’his voice trailed off, distributing a knowing look round to his congregation, as the import of that question dawned on all of them. Home going time!

‘May I ask why?’

‘We do not believe that what we are seeing as the church body today is a body of Christians, in the first place. We cannot afford to be in league with churches who conspire to push God out of His place by errantly disobeying His Word. For example, the Bible forbids a woman to teach in the church of the saints. Can you give me a church that is a member of that association that does not flout this commandment?  Most of the churches that gather there are masquerading occultisms with Christianity. We are a different breed here, Major. We take God for His Word.’

Despite himself, the Major could not help listening raptly as the pastor dished out a near sermon to him, but in between, he came to and had to cut the man of God short. ‘We have authorization to shut down any church that does not show us the proof we need! Every body down!’ he boomed, and a flurry of activity marked the people’s hurriedness to comply. The pastor was the last to obey, going down on his belly, but not until the American bazooka in the hands of the soldier communicated how serious he was. The bullets ate up a large chunk of the ceiling, and indeed the roof.

  ‘Throw your Bibles on the altar!’ he cried, like he was barking to some young recruits in training. Obedience was immediate, and his colleagues gathered them.

‘The offering box…where is it?’ an officer who looked younger asked Pastor Nick, and was told what he needed to hear, but when he looked up to Major Amu for approval, the menacing glare he got was all he needed to check himself. They quietly gathered the Bibles, and they ended up in the boot of the jeep.

  ‘The new directive is that no religious building has the right to operate without permission. I do not want to hurt God’s people. You had better confer with the Christian organization to get yours, or I wont have this conversation with you any more, when I return and you don’t produce it. That is if you are alive to tell the story.’

  He barged out.

   The minute the last soldier closed the oak door of the church, over one hundred and fifty members of Spoken Truth Assembly, including the pastor, vanished thinly into oblivion, seamlessly, soundlessly and immediately. Other personal effects were left behind. The remaining thirty lifted their voices, and wept bitterly.

When they prepared to drive out, two hours later, after growing bored of weeping, there was a pool of blood near the gate, and the body to which it belonged was nowhere to be found. Beside the pool stood a pair of old Cortina sandals.

More weeping and wailing.

The disappearance of people all over Omi town took residents by surprise, though the ‘victims’ were so insignificant and infinitesimally small. At most police stations, scores of pictures were pasted, while relatives and associates besieged the stations by the day, inquiring after their loved ones.

     Brother Damien sat staring into space that morning, knowing it was all over for him. He knew exactly what to expect within the next few months, even days. With this new directive, he knew everything would fall in place quickly and perfectly, and he knew life would be a living hell for him and his five-strong family. He was due to resume at the Federal Ministry of Works the following week, and he had nearly run out of supplies. O God gracious! All the while he had been progressing in fatal assumption, believing he had a spiritual claim to the Rapture. He was a minister in Spoken Truth Assembly, and had performed countless miracles that had drawn no fewer than fifty converts to the church. As he sat tear-eyed, the Technicolor image of his journey into Christianity played before him, and he was sorrowed most deeply by the part wherein his father publicly disowned him before the elders of his town, for seceding from Catholicism, his traditional family faith. The fact that he was now in the same condition with his herbalist father heightened his grief, and he felt like ending it all.

  There came two sharp beeps on his HTC Desire mobile phone.

Jolted, he picked the phone see who was texting him this early. Jasmine.

‘I know your wife is out; I have changed venue to your usual home away from home. I am waiting, you will like what you will see…..Muah’, the small lettering communicated the lewd message to him.

If only this kind of message had come just a few weeks earlier………..

  He got up, and stared out the window. Life was still carrying on like nothing had happened. The early morning street buzzed and blared, cars in the usual routine of beating traffic to get to their destinations on time.

  In the far corner of the street, he suddenly saw that soldiers were jumping down from a huge truck. One who looked like the leader had a sheet of paper, and was moving from house to house, and doing what looked like some checking. A few people were hurled from their stores and homes, and he was surprised they were neither shot nor manhandled.

He had been hearing this over and on, and he could not forgive himself. Full control was in the hands of the state now, and anything could happen from now on. He dashed to the radio, and the governor was just concluding his speech.

‘The only recognised form of Christianity is the Roman Catholic church, Islam the Ansar Ud-deen, but there is no restriction on any other form of religion. They will be in full control and determine every form of our national life, from employment, to movement, to travelling, commerce, and everything. I will call on every resident of this state to register with them for permits…….’

Damien fixed the chair, and fastened the twine to the ceiling fan.  Next, he mixed the rat poison and bleaching cream in boiling water, and filled it into an Aquadana bottle. He dropped the bottle, and climbed the chair. He inserted his neck in the noose, and dangled.

  Ten minutes, and though the grip was choking, it looked like his wind pipe was insulated from the pain and choke. This was going to be useless, as he knew and expected. He disengaged, and gulped the mixture.

The effect was two loud belches, and one long and hard fart that woke his three year old son.

‘Daddy, I’m hungry!’