By Chuks Iloegbunam
My late mother, Gwamniru!,
bless her soul. She used to tell us, her children, during discussions on
placing a finger on the truth of any circumstance or situation, that a man
accused of suffering from hydrocele or elephantiasis of the scrotum had his job
neatly cut out. If his scrotal sac wasn’t a mighty calabash filled with fluid
of indeterminate composition, he enthusiastically stepped into the market
place, abruptly shed his clothes, and danced in a number of directions, thereby
convincing ora na eze, or ira ni igala, or
the mighty and the lowly – in short, all comers – that his accusers were
disreputable scoundrels.
Of course, the people, whose voice was the voice of God,
would never deny the evidence of their own eyes, to wit that the man allegedly
accursed with the deadweight of pumpkins in a difficult portion of the human
anatomy was, in fact, free of any such encumbrance. No one, except the deranged
or those previously afflicted by a touch of fencham –
characters never to be taken seriously – would ever again charge that, between
his thighs, was an outsized, water-laden keg, the sort that impeded movement,
and made the unsurpassed joys of strolling such a nightmarish contemplation.
Thus, if you accused Chuks Iloegbunam of owning no university
degree; if you swore that all that grammar he purports to blow on newspaper
pages was gathered listening attentively to white men and women during his
decade-long sojourn in the United Kingdom, or assiduously garnered by reading
innumerable thrillers of the James Hardley Chase vintage, he would have, a
straight and direct path to refutation. Chuks Iloegbunam would readily produce
his degree certificate, signed in 1980 by the then Vice-Chancellor of the University of Ife
(now, Obafemi Awolowo University )
Professor Cyril Agodi Onwumechili, and two others – the Dean of the Faculty of
Arts and the University Registrar. If rats, blasted vermin, had eaten up his
certificate, or fire’s incendiary flames had reduced it to ashes, he would
drive for less than three hours from Lagos
to Ile-Ife, and get the revered institution’s authorities to give word that he
had, indeed, earned a degree there.
If, instead of taking this easy and rational course of
action, Chuks Iloegbunam chose rather the labyrinthine and prohibitively
expensive option of hiring a dozen or more advocates, attorneys, barristers,
lawyers and solicitors, to bring down the courthouse with a torrent of
polysyllabic casuistry and sophistry that is bereft of the tiniest particle of
evidence, to the effect that he has a B. A. (or a Begin Again), he would, of
course, cause the raising of a million eyebrows. He would lead people into
thinking that work was no longer being carried out on the appointed site. He
would incite people, his detractors and supporters alike, into the avoidable
temptation of thinking or believing that he was no more than a butterfly
pretending to be a bird. The entire development would leave him somewhat like
dirty linen indecorously spread on a clothesline next to a busy thoroughfare.
The surprised, the alarmed and the outraged may then have no alternative than
to consider the viability of posing that kind of question found in Blackie na Joseph,
a 1960s folksong by the inimitable crooner Okonkwo Asaa, alias Seven Seven: “Is
this your residence that we have entered, or is it some other person’s
residence that we have entered?” So asked the village belle, Blackie, upon
venturing into would-be lover Joseph’s house, only to find the place filthy and
disordered!
But we must allow Chuks Iloegbunam to mind his business,
strictly, while we revert to good old pronouns. The cynosure of all eyes should
not dab their face in charcoal. So the saying goes. That’s the counsel the
country refuses to countenance. Office, high and low, cultural, judicial,
religious, political or traditional imposes certain standards of conduct on the
incumbent. When the specific conduct becoming of a particular position is
negated, questions are, perforce, asked in serious societies. Thus, if a
competent board of investigators incontrovertibly adjudges a university vice
chancellor to have obtained a doctorate degree by the sleight of plagiarism,
his position automatically becomes untenable. If the official chaperon of
female contingents to sports festivals were discovered to be a controller of
pimps, prostitutes and porn pubs, their position would, in serious societies,
be automatically determined.
Is Nigeria
a serious society? Or is it a society of anything goes? If the entry
qualification for university education is 200 points, in whose service is it to
have admission floodgates opened to candidates that scored less than 30 points
each? If, according to the Electoral Act, someone less than 30 years, say, may
not be elected to a gubernatorial position, what point would be made if
governors got elected everywhere who were still in their teens? If such
fakeries and forgeries came to light, what should be done? Should judicial
officers employ adjournments, injunctions and technicalities to blunt the edges
of legal enquiry? Should they subvert justice because there are people who
happened on society complete with two heads apiece, rather than the one head
that is normal for Homo sapiens?
When President Yar’Adua was virtually clinically dead, and
after he was smuggled back into the country from some Saudi Arabian hospital,
the country was completely kept in the dark. When he finally died, the matter
was raised in Parliament, to determine those who had led the country down the
garden path of deceit, the unpatriotic that had taken the people for a rude
ride that created an ominously dangerous power vacuum. But the matter was never
debated because loud voices erupted that screamed the imperative of allowing
the dead to rest in peace! People abused national trust. But they were neither
identified nor sanctioned because the dead had to rest in perfect peace.
Similarly, it was said that laws existed prohibiting the
ownership of foreign bank accounts by public servants. One former Finance
Minister was found to have kept a tidy sum in a London bank. When the matter
came to light, he defended himself by claiming to have kept the bank account
since his student days. And the matter ended there because he was pronounced to
have provided a robust and convincing defence. Does it not all say that Nigeria
is a country torn down the middle into the halves of those entitled to carry on
regardless and others doomed to bits and pieces of thralldom and unimportance?
The important jets off to distant lands at public expense,
to get treated for the flimsiest of illnesses, including chills and the
inability to readily imbibe. The insignificant are shot dead for non-violent
demonstration or, in the event of escaping with bullet wounds, are forcefully
removed from hospital beds and liquidated. In Nigeria of 2016! Conceit aside, a
society like this is not marching to democratic rhythm. It is dawdling. It is
wobbling. The lament: elephantiasis of the scrotum impedes its progress,
stultifies its development.
*Chuks Iloegbunam, an eminent essayist and author is a syndicated columnist. He could be reached with iloegbunam@hotmail.com
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