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Opinion/Article
People & Events
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                                            My Small Voice by Hakeem Babalola
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I am Tired
Hakeem Babalola

There is barely any subject that has not been touched by the Nigerian writers, journalists,
commentators. We have criticised with malice and we have done it with objectivity. We
have called for the heads of those who make us poorer and make us suffer as each day
wax.

We write each day and there's nothing else to write about. But because of our
doggedness, we continue to repeat what we have written long time ago. We must write
because we believe it is what we must do. We believe it is what God or Satan has
ordained us to do.

Once I had dreamt to change the unchangeable. I carried all the wahala on my tiny
shoulder. I thought the most powerful had given me the go-ahead. I thought the most
powerful had spoken to me while I was sleepwalking. I thought the most powerful had
chosen me to deliver the masses from self oppression. I thought I would make a
difference with my writings. Now I know better.

On a previous night I had eaten moin moin and eko with Eledumare somewhere along
Arojeka in Ibadan. Since then She has not appeared to me in my dreams. And since then
the wahala on my shoulder has weighed me down. Though I had promised Her not to
exchange good name for a mere porridge, I am beginning to think otherwise. I am
beginning to open my eyes. I am beginning to remove the cotton that had blocked my
ears.

I don't want to die being foolish. Although I abhor the phrase, if you can't beat them, join
them, I am thinking to think of joining them. I am beginning to see things in a different
perspective. I want to shun idealism and embrace the real thing: realism.

If I embraced realism, I believe the world would not laugh at me. They would stop
mocking me as an idealist hypocrite. There are many advantages in this. If I adopted the
English mixture of extreme practicality and dreaminess, even if I looted the treasury,
people would not attack me as much as if I were an idealist. I want to hide under the
hide. A thug who kills is not as shocking as a saint who kills.

As I write, I allow my mind to wander. I torture myself in order to find excuse for my
new thought. I am poor but they cajole me, saying I am the happiest man on earth.
Nonsense. They mislead me by telling me that it is the poor that will enjoy the kingdom
of God. How do they know? Come to think of it, none of those idealist has come clean
before their fellow man and woman. The way they persecute the devil is the same way
they persecute the saint.

Yes, the garment of the saint is full of blood as that of the devil. They dine and wine
together in secret only to attack each other in public. It's a joke, a joke carried too far.
It's a slap, a forever slap on the gullible ones in the society. Enough is enough. Anyone
who is shouting war should go to war; anyone who is shouting revolution should start it
now. Stop telling me to take arms while you stay in the comfort of your room. Stop
inciting violence while you run to another land with your family.

Ever since the beginning of the struggle, the devil had won most battles. The devil, it
seems, has many disciples. The devil is well organised. He is wining because he doesn’t
pretend like the saint. I know the aims of the devil but that of the saint is cloaked in
anonymity. The saint is preaching something but doing the opposite. The more they
shout Hallelujah, the more they shed blood in their midst. They have put me to the limit.
They have succeeded in diluting my thought. They might win because those saints I look
up to are not better.

In retrospect, I wonder if I should have disobeyed my parents who taught me not to
steal, who always said that a good name is better than gold and silver. I would love to
know if my parents still think the same in today’s society where thugs, armed and pen
robbers, liars are role models. I would love to know their stand regarding the path I have
chosen until now when I write this. Are they proud of me or would they have preferred
if I had been a governor or local chairman or senator who stole people’s wealth. I am
curious.

I am tired. I am tired of me. I am tired of you. I am tired of us. I am tired of them. I am
tired because everything seems meaningless. I am tired because it seems the battle has
been won and lost. What we said some forty years ago is exactly what we are saying
today, and it is what we shall say tomorrow, even fifty years from now. I am tired
because many are now joining them because they think they can’t beat them. I am tired
because at the moment when it should be clear to us, my people are still debating
whether a Atiku or an Obasanjo is hero or villain.

I am tired because those I had thought could pass for "Conscience is an open wound,
only truth could heal it", are themselves do not know what it entails. I am tired because
credit has never and may never be given to whom it is due. I am tired because it has
become so easy to buy those who claimed to be the watchdog of the society. I am tired
because we are still talking about the same old people every now and then. I am tired
because it is seemingly difficult to determine who is actually fighting a genuine fight. I
am tired because I am confused.

For me, the most dashing hopes is the unpredictable nature of most Nigerian journalists,
critics, human rights activists and the so-called democrats. They have betrayed me many
a time. I may forgive but I can’t forget, for example, two prominent Awoists serving
under one of the most brutal authoritarian regime. I am talking about Ebenezer Babatope
and Lateef Jakande who served as ministers under a man who ruled Nigeria with
tempestuous mind. I may have forgiven Wole Soyinka and other academics for serving
under a repressed administration, but will never forget the negative effect if their silly
mistake.

The present situation is fraught with danger because it has become a pattern. The
watchdog of the society themselves need to be monitor twenty-four hours. I have seen
the latter day journalists or writers who had ferociously criticised a certain government
or individual but later served under them as spokespersons. Diran Odeyemi, Niran
Malaolu, Segun Adeniyi easily come to mind. These guys in their hey days wrote
extensively about the ills of their society, but like a wild bullet deviated from an intended
course.

Yesterday I would have stoned them for betraying my trust but not today. My doormat
mind is seeing things in another way. Perhaps these guys have seen what I have not
seen, privileged to know what I may never know. Perhaps these guys are being realistic
whilst I engage in self-deceit thinking I am holier than thou. See, I am tired. It is a pitiful
fate but I may have to join them. I may have to mortgage my soul for a loan.

Oh, once upon a night I had built my hope on a nation that would be great. I had worked
toward that path. I had believed in GOWON, Murtala Mohammed, Olusegun Obasanjo,
Buka Suka Dimka, Shehu Shagari, Muhammadu Buhari and Tunde Idiagbon, Ibrahim
Babangida, Objoke; even Dim Ojukwu who would have been my main man had he died
fighting for that cause. But they all played their pianos with a wild exuberance. That’s
why I am tired.


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