Diary Of A UIMSAite: This Is No Place To Die.
I stood in a red uniform, lots of medals bloodied and pinned to my chest, and a constellation of stars on my shoulders. The other Generals sat at attention, hanging onto every syllable I uttered. Their fear was palpable, but their respect was even more so, and both emotions were tightly hidden behind their masks of stoic composure.
I was the storm. I was the storm in their fragile calm. Furthermore, they disgusted me. They were weak and wanted a cease-fire, a surrender disguised as diplomacy.
The Generals’ voices grew louder, their words blurring into a maddening buzz—until the drone of mosquitoes jarred me awake. Reality struck with the same dissonance: 6 a.m. in ABH,where even the darkness carried its oppressive, mind-numbing lethargy.
Dawn comes with its battles, but I remembered Wednesday, how it was different. That was the day we finally marched out and screamed in despair, the kind that filled the air with defiance. It would have been impossible for anyone not to listen.
I joined early, with my headphones and my scrub cap. It fell out of my box the night before, like a sign from the heavens, and why not? Some others had the same idea but not with as much aura as I exuded. There was a Chinese (or Japanese) symbol on the cap. It looked fierce.
I believed the turnout would be low. Despite their intelligence, many in the kingdom of darkness preferred to cower and hide when the going got tough, reserving all their fight for thehallowed chambers of the exam hall, salivating for pieces of paper that would bear the brunt of their supreme knowledge.
And for those without more important prior engagements, I think they were simply unconcerned. Perseverance is a virtue, and it was indeed easier to bend over to whimper and weep than to stand against oppression. But it frustrated many; how could they sit idle while we drowned in darkness? Had they no shame?Surely, they weren’t groveling worms, so where was their spine?
I was right. When I saw the sparse crowd at first, my stomach twisted— not from surprise but from resignation. When it came down to it, courage was always scarce. But sometimes, it is hard to remember that we weren’t going through the darkness alone. The PGs were there early too, and the UItes, arriving to much cheer in their bus, adding to our numbers. Now, it was on.
The sun bore down and as we were clad in black, the heat reached insane levels. However, few noticed. We were at the main gate then. There was no turning back. The beat of the bass drum echoed in my chest. I could feel sweat running down my back, an itch I couldn’t reach. There was the smell of asphalt and the insane honking of vehicles demanding right of passage. But not that day. It was time to wrest their attention from mundane monotony and turn it to our grievances.
Somali is usually called the Horn of Africa, a war-torn country I first heard of when I read about the Lufthansa hijack of 1977. Four hijackers took control of the Boeing 737 shortly after takeoff, demanding the release of their compadres imprisoned in West Germany and $15 million in ransom. The plane ran out of fuel twice before landing in the capital of a country most of the 100 captives hadn’t heard of, a country on the horn of Africa.
Why am I railing about Mogadishu in the middle of a supposed diary of an ordinary ( I am not ordinary!!) member of this association? It’ll probably be deleted along with this interlude when I’m critiquing furiously later on. Or I might go on a rampage and write everything I want to. My diary shouldn’t be censored, yes?
“It does not do to rely too much on silent majorities, Evey, for silence is a fragile thing, one loud noise, and it’s gone.”
Has anyone read V for Vendetta?
Back to what I am supposed to be talking about. Is it weird thatpeople would suffer and not take steps to end it? How do you wallow in impoverished conditions? How do you sleep knowing that you’ll wake up to your nightmares, but still set your pillows and go off to Lala land?
The TV crews were there with their cameras and microphones. We waved eagerly to some of the doctors, the smiles on their usually stern faces a silent approval, an invisible fist raised in solidarity.
There were the placards, drums and familiar songs retrofitted toraise the crowds’ spirit. I expected face masks to be aplenty, but as we marched towards the Secretariat, I met many discarded on the ground.
Anonymity was similar to having erectile dysfunction in the midst of an orgy on Olympus, a gathering of beautifully mighty gods for one singular purpose. Hiding was useless then, akin to doing nothing but flaccidly dangle impotently in the face of other intense priapisms. I threw away my mask too. There was no reason to hide. When our rights were struck, it was done without ceremony, in broad daylight.
Our first port of call was the Secretariat. There was disgust in some quarters. Apparently, some of the “officials” there didn’t want to be disturbed, and they didn’t hide the contortions in their faces as we approached. But I liked that. We disrupted the flow of traffic at the roundabout while singing anthems that reminded me of my time at Baluba.
The impromptu gyrations around B-block then were also met with disgust by the ladies that had to pass through us to get to their hostels. I was never on the drums at a gyration, but this time, at the Secretariat, with my cap, a turning stick, and a bigol’ round bass drum, it was Baluba once again.
Kẹ̀ké Kẹ̀ké,
Kẹ̀ké Bàlúbà,
T’ógún bádé ko gbémi fò
At Baluba, drums were for camaraderie; today, they fueled our defiance. The rhythm was different, but the spirit was the same.
It was pure chaos. We were rowdy. We were discordant, and the drums clashed with the singing. The horns of the disparate drivers, desperate for us to leave, only added to the din. I wished for trumpets then, to be given to the least attuned to music among us, so he would add to the melodious cacophony, clashing too, with the horns that didn’t seem to get the idea that we weren’t there to dilly-dally.
We were directed to the “Federal” Secretariat at Ikolaba. It was further down and we had been strengthened by the only elixir known to stay the effects of heat stroke and bring succor to the downtrodden and heavy-laden— very cold, ice-splintered pure water. And away we went, leaving the frowning faces behind.
On the way, many waved. I liked the nods of approval too. Placards changed hands as they got tired, and we danced around roundabouts and intersections. Once, I stood on a pavement and looked on the black horde that were my compadres today. Many confessed that it was their first time on a protest but it was impossible to guess from their vigor.
We were dancing. We were clapping. We were screaming. We were drumming. We were marvelously defiant. No stars were on any shoulders to separate any senior, or chest medals to tell the PGs from the UGs. We were one, we were black, we were the hordes of Hannibal at the gates of Rome. And by God, our siege was wondrous.
At the Federal Secretariat, we weren’t let in at first. The powers in the building were probably weighing the cons of granting us entry versus allowing us to disturb traffic even more. But no siege lasts forever, and the student leaders looked like a reasonable bunch.
My first interaction with Aweda, aside from Twitter, was when I was still at Zik, and he was canvassing for votes, going from room to room. He had barged in without knocking and came straight to my corner, rudely removing the partition that gave me whatever privacy I had in that jungle. Seeing the situation, he was apologetic and vanished immediately. He never came back.
Now, a year later, it was impressive seeing him talk to the newsmen and adamantly refuse to turn us back until we were heard. I could see him shaking his head aggressively and frowning, a far cry from the jovial “Aweda The First” on Twitter and the apologetic aspirant looking for support.
That day, we met many politicians and government officials all saying the same thing. It was expected. It was almost as if they had a script, a handbook, a break-in-case-of-emergency axe thatthey tried to use to break down our resolve. Soon, tiredness set in and legs began to falter but we roused each other admirably.
Up General, up. This is no place to die.
But if anyone stood out, it was the last “official” we met— TheOba Solomon.
He brushed past us at the gate in his white flowy agenda and colorful cap, and pleaded for our attention. He went into a rant about electrical engineers and how he always kept to his word. But that wasn’t what we were there for.
Listen to me, listen to me. I’m a man of my word. I’m not going to whine you. Believe me, don’t worry. I’m not going to whine you.
He promised the light would be fixed on, or before, Friday. Well, this is Friday and darkness still reigns supreme. Maybe towards evening. Maybe on the stroke of midnight. Or maybe over the weekend. I do not yet know if I have abandoned hope.But then again, another issue rankles.
Remember Mogadishu? The German government sent their most elite forces, the GSG-9, to stage a rescue operation on the other side of the world. It didn’t matter that it was a foreign nation. They didn’t keep quiet and hoped they Somali soldiers would do them a favor. There were German citizens involved, and that was that.
But over here, the man on whose turf we are settled, whose people come to this hospital the most, has been completely absent, a bystander looking the other way.
Why is he awfully quiet regarding the debacle? One could argue that the hospital and university is an FG institution but doesn’t it matter that the bulk of patients are from his state?
Staphylococcus and Moraxella do not inspect the vocal chords of their patients for the Ibadan inflections. They do not scan the faces of those they’ve infected to see if they have singular vertical tribal marks under each eye. Those in dire need of medical attention in the state, in the STATE, all flock to UCH—everyone from the slums of Agbowo to the gardens of Agodi. Why then is the governor silent even when there have been various protests against the abysmal conditions of the hospital?
For a man who’s popularly known as GSM, his communication skills leave a lot to be desired. But then again, it’s politics. You would think someone would step up and use this avenue for personal glory, to pad up achievements when it’s time for pandering to the masses. But it’s not an election year. Not yet.
Dear diary, I’m nearing the end of my long, long epistle. I don’t think there will be light today. That probably means we’ll be knocking on Oba Solomon’s door on Monday. I wonder if he’ll be there, I wonder what he’ll say. Secretly, maybe I want him to pull a Thanos.
You could not live with your own failure. Where did that bring you? Back to me.
Those who are well versed in MARVEL lore would be able to recognize that I’m probably watching Avengers: Endgame once again. It’s nice and brings a bit of nostalgia but my phone, the sturdy brick wall between me and unbridled boredom, is dying.It wouldn’t be the first time, anyway.
Dear diary, we’ve learned something—it is not the stars on shoulders or medals on chests that make a General. It is the willingness to stand, to fight, and to lead when it would be easier to surrender.
We may march again on Monday. We may knock on doors that refuse to open. But this is no place to falter. This is no place todie. The storm is ours to make and we’re far from done.
-Kehinde Olajiga