And so Margaret Died... Just Like That.

And so Margaret died... just like that.

“All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.”         -          Edmund Burke

Friday, the 12^th of October, began like any other day for the household of Col PAM Ogar (rtd), a former Military Administrator of Kwara State, resident around the Polar Road area of Ungwar Rimi, Kaduna. Members woke up, got set to carry on with their respective daily pursuits with hope of making a success of the day. Those that would go out to work did step out; all of them wishing each other well. They all looked forward to reuniting at the end of the day, sharing a meal together, sharing the joys and the hard knocks of the day together, consoling each other, laughing at themselves and with each other for mischiefs and other sundry vicissitude during the day, praying and retiring to bed, probably after watching a bit of a home movie.

Margaret Aruku, commonly known as Meg, was a member of that household; a daughter. She was an ebullient and vivacious lady. She loved to sing and had infact been a chorister in church for many years. She enjoyed the company of friends and was ever ready with a quip in the pouch any time you passed by her. She also stepped out that fateful Friday morning to her business located at the Marafa area of Independence Way, Kaduna. She, like the rest of her family, looked forward to returning home at the end of the day. Her business day did come to an end in the evening. She then went over to Narayi for a prayer meeting which finished between the hours of 8 and 9pm. She called home to tell them that she had finished from the prayer meeting and was on her way back. She then picked an Okada bike. She would vanish into thin air!

Meg’s family’s relaxed expectation of her return gradually turned into an anxious wait as the night crawled on. It would dawn on them that they would not sleep that night. By morning they would be in an ominous limbo. They had made all manner of calls and were still making more. Gradually, more friends and well wishers got to know that Meg was missing. Notice was up on Facebook and, as time went on, friends called upon each other to pray for her to reappear, safe and sound. The anguish deepened for all who knew her, but most especially for her family, as the days kept counting. Finally, on Monday the 22^nd of October, ten days after she went missing, Meg’s corpse was discovered, already fast decomposing, around the Ungwar Mai Gero-Karji area along the new by-pass that links Ungwar Rimi to the southerly end of Kaduna at the NNPC Refinery junction. Of course by that new route, it would only take Meg barely 15 minutes to get home, in Ungwar Rimi, from Narayi. The police are investigating the incident.

You are reading Meg’s sad story probably because this writer had known her personally – for at least 20 years. But the truth is that there are many such stories happening every other day across our country. Meg’s case is probably better because her remains were found and she would get a befitting burial. Her family will have the consolation of pointing to her grave as a concrete reminder that she once lived; that they once laughed and cried together; quarrelled and settled, and stood for each other. Many others do not get to enjoy this “luxury”. For such, it’s like going with the wind, for the deceased, forever; and for their families and friends, it’s an abyss of uncertainty, gnawing with painful expectation that only the joy of knowing the true fate of their loved one can assuage. They would not experience that joy and that would haunt them for as long as they live until they also die and then they would know, for they would meet the lost one in the hereafter. You know, as things stand in this country, such fate could easily be your lot too.

Meg’s sad story, as with many others, throws up issues concerning the realities that are Nigerians’. Every Nigerian lives under circumstances of extremely high vulnerability, never mind such threats as Boko Haram. There is very little around that gives him comfort with regards to his security in whatever terms one wants to view the concept. A Nigerian, whether he realizes it or not, goes about knowing that he could drop dead at the most insignificant of incidences and would only amount to a mere number: no one would remember even his name except of course his family and close ones. This speaks to the failure that the Nigerian state has become to its citizens. This is an indictment on government on the quality of services they have rendered to Nigerians.

Let’s look at Meg’s story. Meg would hardly have died under such circumstances if government had clearly identified that proper urban/town planning and execution is really largely a matter of security and safety. They would then have been working assiduously to ensure that such plans are strictly adhered to; that roads are very well laid out and well paved; that installing streetlights everywhere and properly maintaining them is not an extra... an icing on the cake, sort of, but infact really an integral part of the whole works. That way, our cities and towns will not have been so full of many dark alleys and corners that provide evil elements with the conducive environment to carry out their activities. Meg would hardly have died under such circumstances if government had long realized that transportation in a 21^st century society, with its multifarious influences from far and wide due to globalization, must necessarily be a systematized structure. If you seek to ensure the security and safety of citizens, then you cannot afford to allow just any other person without proper documentation, and probably without an address even, to come in and begin to render transportation services. This is what you get if you do that: Many dead Megs; many of whom no one gets to hear about.

Government must do something. 21^st century societies do not run on uncoordinated templates; they run on systems. Nigeria’s leaders must be seen to be deliberately working to install systems that will minimize the risk that has become being a Nigerian and living in Nigeria. Governors, especially, must take note and the Local Governments must be provided the right framework to be able to deliver on their mandate and play their role in this whole matrix.

Meg was laid to rest on Friday, 26 October 2012, in Cross River State. We do not entertain much hope that the police will work hard to fish out her murderers, but we shall be consoled if they succeed, even if ten years later. For that will begin to show to us that as Nigerians, we are not just some number, but real people with names and identity. To Meg we say: requiescat in pace. Adieu!

MJ, your Next-floor Neighbour

MJ, your Next-floor Neighbour

From the Give-Me-Back-My-Muse Series

By ZWAHU, Y.E

May 22, 2013

   You are alone in the theatre, or so you think. It is eerily dark... not too dark really, but surely not bright. Yet you are not afraid. Infact you are most comfortable, for the theatre is home to you: a second home. Then the song begins to waft through the air, at first gently, like the distant fragrance of the Queen of the Night; then it envelopes the entire atmosphere and the atmosphere becomes it and it, the atmosphere.

   Then, as if from out of nowhere, MJ emerges on stage and begins to dance his consummate dance to the music. You are not surprised because, wherever he emerged from, you know; for you have seen him so emerge before and you have never ceased to be enthralled each time he emerged. He is infact your next-floor neighbour. And it is always to this song, “The Comforter has Come”, that he helplessly emerges. You have heard the song before... this same arrangement and rendition, yet you are hearing it for the first time. The arrangement is almost nebulous. The orchestration and rendition are spooky yet celestial, and the way MJ connects with it is almost esoteric. He dances to it so passionately; gyrating and doing the groin grind concurrently... seamlessly. He moonwalks, kicks the air, punches the air, screams with eyes tightly closed, then straightens up while wiggling his right wrist and fingers and pulling up his left trouser with the other hand in one smooth move; he breaks into a sudden run with his eyes now blazing. He stops at one end of the stage to the side, he takes the karate slight squat posture with his right foot, which is behind and on which he rests, positioned vertically and his stretched forward left, horizontally.  His right hand is outstretched as he snaps his fingers to the cryptic rhythm of the music which only MJ, and MJ alone, can make out while his other hand is again holding on to his left trouser at the thigh. He is stamping the floor of the stage with his left heel with the toes firmly glued to the floor. His socks are now more exposed, for they have always been, owing to his above-the-ankle pair of trousers, and you notice that they are as red as those of a Bishop whereas, when he first emerged, they were white! It’s all not strange to you. He is screaming. Everything combines together to give the atmosphere a trance-like fit. And all of a sudden, WHAM...! MJ is on fire. It is a conflagration. It is pyrotechnics. You are transfixed. You are enthralled. You begin to shed tears. Your heart is seized by joy; pure joy; warm joy.

   Then you see a man on stage, from wherever, with a water hose. He sprays MJ with water and there is no longer fire, instead, you see MJ’s face partly smeared with make-up things: you had not noticed that he had any make-up on. You had not noticed that the music had died down either; everything seemed alright and normal to you. Just then a woman, who turns out to be the manager – or something – of the theatre barges in in a fit of hysteria, thinking that all hell has broken loose. MJ gives her a reassuring look and a mischievous smile, the type he gave to the cast and crew of the “Liberian Girl” video, and leads her to the sound system by the side and presses the play button again. The spooky yet celestial sound of the song “The Comforter has Come” filters out again and she too understands.

   All the while you are watching this spectacle and wondering to yourself what the world is missing by not having, as you do, MJ as your next-floor neighbour... all the free performances! You finally decide to compose a post for your Facebook and Twitter accounts: “When your next-floor neighbour is MJ, you are...”, but then you trail off, yet you know and are sure that your proposed post is complete and so you reach out for your Tab to make the post but you realise that it is at home, your ground-floor apartment beside the theatre whose next floor is MJ’s. You rush out to your ground-floor apartment and at the entrance you realise you have to go up a flight of stairs(!) to get in. The area around the staircase is dark and dingy, with the stairs themselves looking quite uncompleted; with aged cement and dust generously layered on them. Your nasal cavity had been blocked by phlegm and you had, while rushing back home, instead of blowing out from your nose, pulled it into your mouth and had collected quite a handsome amount of it. On reaching your dingy stairway you spit out the quantum of phlegm to one corner unto the wall. Just then you realise that there is someone, whom you don’t quite know and really don’t care to know, sitting on the railing midway up the staircase. You are only slightly embarrassed at being caught red-handed spitting around carelessly. You make your way up.

   Just then you hear the word “Daddy”, as if from a distance. It is clear and almost urgent. You are sure the call is directed at you. You do not know how many times you had been called but you are sure you heard the “Daddy” at least once; perhaps the only one time. You gradually realise that you are lying down on the floor of your sitting room. You actually had been sleeping on the floor every night for over a week, thus denying your spouse of her God-given and God-ordained right to the warmth of your body, and yourself  of the dizzying scent of her hair: all owing to a nagging backache that has treacherously lingered, which you had picked from your mattress. You have promised to change that mannerless mattress since vultures still had hair on their heads but you have not yet gotten around to helping yourself. You stir awake, half awake really, and the room is dark but you sense a presence... somewhere around the two-seater. You call out “Nana..., Lovely”, thinking it’s your over three-and-a-half year old daughter, but there is no answer. You call out yet again and no answer, but you notice some slight movement in the two-seater. You begin to become more conscious and then you realise that it is your eleven year old daughter.

   “Why are you out of your room?” you ask her. She doesn’t say a word. You suddenly are fully awake and anxious. “Why are you awake?”, for it is the dead of night – or is it the dead of morning? Whatever! It is already calendarly morning: it’s that nighttime that happens before the daylight that happens before the nighttime that you call night.

   “I am afraid, my room is dark”, she finally responds meekly. You realise that she probably was awoken by a nightmare and is scared of staying all by herself in her room. Actually the whole house is dark because NEPA has resumed duty. You take her back to her room, put on the only living rechargeable lamp for her in the room, and then light a candle in the hallway, leaving her door open just to assure her you are watching over her.

   As you are taking care of your little girl you realise that your life with MJ had been all a dream. You lie back down; recall that the last Sunday was Pentecost and you sang “The Comforter has Come” in Church; and remember that it had been raining with violent thunder storms when you went to sleep as you rehash your phantasms... and doze off again.