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OPINION: Death Has Made Another Mistake

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Tunde Odesola

After a five-week break, I’m back at my desk, thankfully. Where the heck did I go? I went to the Land of Moriah. Tunde tun ti de o; where on planet Earth is the Land of Moriah? Moriah was the land where Abraham, the Father of Faith, took his son, Isaac, and bound him hands and feet, clutching a razor-sharp knife, ready to spill blood by the jugular.

Only a handful of friends and family know I bear Isaac, a name I grew to dislike for a couple of reasons, one of which is that it sounds like I-Sick. Another reason is that the name is utterly unrelatable to me. And, if Jews don’t bear Nigerian names, why should I bear a Jewish name? For me, nothing is special in Isaac; if you gave a rose another name, it would smell just as sweet.

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As all Yoruba names, all the variants of Tunde – Babatunde, Awotunde, Oguntunde, Ifatunde, Omotunde, Ayotunde, Olatunde, Yetunde, Iwintunde, Sotunde, Obotunde, etc, carry the weight of family history. The name Tunde connects a symbolic thread between an unpalatable past and a palatable present. I don’t feel Isaac in my core, probably because my father was not 100 years old like Abraham, nor was my mother 90, like Sarah, when I was born. They never laughed in disbelief at my conception and birth. Both expected and got me.

It wasn’t my father who bundled me to the Land of Moriah, it was my children. But instead of binding me by the limbs like Abraham bound Isaac, I was anaesthetised and placed on a slaughter slab where I lay, as dead as a dodo – before I was knifed by the neck. If my description of a hospital bed as a slaughter slab feels like an exaggeration, what else can I call a bed upon which I was placed, while my neck was split halfway? Do I call it a waterbed or a bed of roses?

By the way, how did I become a specimen for Moriah? I’ll explain. About 13 years ago, a little lump, the size of a cashew nut, sprouted under my left jaw. The lump wasn’t as visible as the horn on the head of a rhino, but it was there all the same, tucked out of sight, like the trigger of a gun. Because it wasn’t painful, I adopted a ‘live and let live’ philosophy and let the lump be, even though it grew slightly bigger over time.

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After church service, one Sunday, my daughter, Ara, pointed to my neck while we were walking in the car park. “Oh, this?” I asked, feeling the lump, and explaining, “It’s a lump I’ve been carrying since God-knows-when.” She became curious and took a closer look at it. “You need to have a doctor check it out, Baba-T,” she said. “I will,” I promised.

After some weeks of pussyfooting and Ara harassing me, I activated my workplace medical insurance. Then, I shilly-shallied on the hospital I wish to go to. Finally, I picked the hospital of a Nigerian-American general practitioner, who has been in the US for donkey’s years. He asked me question upon question and checked out the lump by feeling and measuring it, explaining that it wasn’t likely to be cancerous because it wasn’t painful; it hadn’t grown much bigger, it wasn’t fixated to surrounding tissue, and because I hadn’t lost weight.

“But we must have it checked out by specialists,” he said. So, he recommended a diagnostic centre to me. After asking me what time and date I preferred, the hospital booked an appointment with the diagnostics centre. “Do not eat from the evening of the day before the appointment,” said the doctor. “Yes, sir,” I replied. The diagnostic centre called me a few minutes later to confirm my appointment.

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Since way back during my cigarette-smoking, youthful exuberant days, I have loved to wear good perfumes, but Americans are far more perfume-centric than Nigerians. Like their sophisticated ultrasonic aircraft, the nose of an average American can pick up an odour or a scent meters away. So, I arrived diagnostic centre, perfumed and looking like I just stepped out of a magazine.

After the diagnosis, I asked for the result. The medical officer said the result would be sent to my doctor. I insisted on knowing the result, and she assured me there was ‘nothing serious’. Nothing serious? Uhmm.

MORE FROM THE AUTHOR:[OPINION] Wasiu Ayinde: The Shame Of A Nation (2)

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Because my next appointment with my doctor was for another day, I had to wait, wishing ‘nothing serious’ wasn’t a euphemism for ‘something disastrous’. Punctuality is key in medical appointments; otherwise, you risk being surcharged for a failed appointment. I no fit risk am, money wey never complete.

I was prompt with my next appointment with the doctor. As he swept into the consultation room, I peered into his eyes as though I could read the result on his forehead. He broke into a smile and said all was well. “The results came out fine, but…”

But what? I kept my cool. “You need to be booked for surgery. And another round of tests?” “Why?” I asked. “Because there’s a lump in your salivary gland. Though it is not malignant, it is recommended that you remove it surgically. The head and neck specialist at the hospital I’m recommending for you wants you to do another round of tests because that’s what he personally requires for patients above a certain age.” I silently wondered if I was Methuselah. So, he had me booked for surgery and another series of tests.

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Preparing a patient for surgery is like preparing the Oloolu masquerader for a carnival. Talk about the eyes-for-details preparation of the bridal train on wedding eve. The truckload of medical literature about the dos and don’ts of surgery, which the hospital gave me, was enough to earn me a lifetime meal as a fake ENT medical consultant.

I visited the specialist hospital twice before the D-Day. On my first visit, I met the doctor who was to perform the surgery and his entire team. During the meeting, my diagnosis, neoplasm of submandibular lymph nodes, aka pleomorphic adenoma, was explained to me. I asked what the underlying cause was. The doctor said a couple of factors could be responsible, including impact and smoking. Impact? What impact did I have when I didn’t cross the path of Antony Joshua or Moses Itauma? It must be that smoking! Ha, after quitting smoking for more than 25 years and washing myself with hyssop, a guilt of smoke still hid in my gland?

The second time I visited, the procedure was again explained to me in the tone of Angel Gabriel talking to Virgin Mary. Every member of the team was patient with patient Isaac. I remember I was given an antiseptic ointment with which to wash the area the night before and on the morning of the surgery.

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Before now, I’ve never had surgery. Only twice have I ever gone to the hospital for treatment. That was the afternoon when one of my kindergarten siblings was running after his ball. The ball strolled over to the dining area from the sitting room. I was eating when the ball came my way, and I decided to show the little man some Jay-Jay Okocha skills.

MORE FROM THE AUTHOR:[OPINION] Wasiu Ayinde: Shame Of A Nation (1)

Swiftly, I abandoned my food on that hot afternoon, and picked the ball up with my right foot, juggled it to my left foot, then to my right, and my left, right, left-right, left-right, moving from the dining to the sitting room, left-right. Still juggling, I looked up, saw the balcony, and decided to make it my final port of destination. The balcony had two sliding doors with transparent glass. With an eye on the ball, I kept juggling and moving towards the balcony. As I made to step onto the balcony, the ball was going to fall off my foot, so I called my thigh to the rescue. I thrust my knee forward to steady the ball back into juggling position, shattering the transparent glass door, which I thought was unlocked. Salem Specialist Hospital, Orile Agege, here I come. Even Lionel Messi never sustained this type of bloody injury.

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The other time I got admitted to a hospital was when I had a decaying molar extracted. So, I looked forward to my appointment with confidence in the American healthcare system, but not without the occasional thought of ‘if’. I shared my inheritance among my children and told them to bury me with my Digger video game and Barcelona hat. “Baba-T, don’t start,” they chorused.

My son, whose nickname is Prof, was behind the wheel, Ara sat at the back, while I sat beside Prof, on the way to the Land of Moariah. At Moriah, my blood pressure was checked. It was unusually high. Abi, Baba-T dey fear ni?, Ara and Prof teased me. I said it probably was because I didn’t sleep enough as I read late into the night.

We were ushered into a private room, where various medical officials took turns to explain the various steps of the surgery. I was placed on a bed and given a clean hospital robe, a pair of socks, gloves, blankets, etc, and a transparent bag to put my belongings. I put my clothes in the bag, but opted to give my phone to Ara.

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A male official came in, strapped me, and wheeled me out to the theatre. This was after a female official had come to explain all the injections and medicines I would be given and all their side effects.

In the white theatre that looked like a ball of floating cotton, doctors began to explain to me the procedure. I wanted to shout, “E don do!” But I kept my cool. “Are you comfortable with the pillows. I can get you smaller ones? You can have your shoes on if you wish. Is the air ok for you?…” Finally, a mask distended from a machine above. A doctor fixed it to my mouth and told me to inhale through my mouth. It felt like methylated spirit in my throat. I breathed in about four, five times, and my eyes felt heavy. I closed them.

After some time, I opened my eyes. It was another room. Why? “When am I having the surgery?” I asked. “It has been done. You’ve been here for more than four hours.” “Four hours?” “Yes.” “Are you ready to go home now?” “Yes.”

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So, the anesthesiologist wheeled me to the room where I was prepared for the surgery. Ara and Prof were waiting. Their sibling, nicknamed Ixy, had to go back home because the hospital could take only two relatives per patient.

Another round of explanatory dos and don’ts began. She told me I was catheterised at the neck to take post-surgery drains. She also told me how to measure and record the drains, and how to clean the spot. “If you feel very uncomfortable after taking your meds, call 911, please,” she said.

MORE FROM THE AUTHOR:OPINION: Oluwo Holier Than The Godless Ilorin Imam (1)

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My blood pressure was measured. It was still high. Quite unusual. Kilode? 150/90. They kept me for a little while, hoping to check if it would decline or continue to rise. Then, one of the medical staff asked if I wanted to pee, because holding back urine could make blood pressure rise. To her question, I said ‘yes’ and ‘no’. I said yes, because I’m pressed, but no, because my children would accuse me of being a jelly.

We all laughed. I made to get up and walk to the bathroom. I staggered. A female nurse offered to go with me. I declined, but she followed on my heels. I came back and changed into my clothes, ready to leave.

“You will be put in a wheelchair, sir,” the female nurse said. “Ha, why put me in a wheelchair when I walked by myself to and from the bathroom?” I protested. “That is the standard practice here, sir; no surgery patient walks out of the hospital,” she said, smiling.

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So, a wheelchair was brought, and I sat myself in it as the nurse pushed me through the hallway of the expansive hospital to the car park. The hand gloves, sanitisers, gauze, bandages, med cups, etc, I was given were enough to open a pharmaceutical shop.

On September 17, my classmate at Abia State University, Maurice Uzoma Ogbonna, called me around 4 a.m. I was asleep. When I woke up, I returned his call. Maurice was born funny. He could have been the Gbenga Adeboye of Igboland. But on this day, Maurice’s voice was low. I asked him, “What happened to your voice, ewu? Are you in a meeting?”

I had to ask where his voice went because if Maurice called you, be ready for jocular harassment and intimidation. He would say, “I no sabi why God make my path with una cross. Na una; you, Oghuehi Dike and Maurice Okeke, teach me all the bad things wey I know for dis world.”

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Still talking in a low voice, Maurice continued, “I have been promoted as Cross River State NDLEA Commander. Shebi Femi Babafemi na your man?” “Yes, Femi Babafemi na my man. He’s the director in charge of media,” I said. “I go need am at the head office,” Maurice said. “I’m driving now. More so, I don’t need to call Femi Babafemi to introduce you to him. He’s a jolly good fellow, just call him and say you’re from me,” I said. “Ok, I go call am.”

Because Maurice’s elder brother, Emmanuel, who had joined the NDLEA much earlier than Maurice, died prematurely in service, I rained prayers on Maurice over his new position. I prayed and prayed for Maurice. That was about 7:10 pm Nigerian time.

I concluded by saying, “I will not abuse you today. I no go flog a man wey im hand dey tied. When you finish your meeting, call me, make I abuse you well, well, ewu.”

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The next day, I woke up to a text from another classmate, Joe Ugwokaegbe, saying, “Mr T, very bad news. Got a message not long ago from a friend in Cross River that Maurice Ogbonna died this morning in his hotel room.”

Must be a joke, I muttered to myself as I put a call across to NDLEA spokesperson, Femi Babafemi. “I am still in shock, Tunde. This was a commander who called me last night, introducing himself as your friend. I spoke with him around 9 pm. Someone spoke with him after that, and the person noticed he was sounding well. I’m devastated, Tunde. He was promoted and posted to Cross River exactly one month ago,” Babafemi lamented.

A few days later, Babafemi told me that the result of Maurice’s autopsy was still being awaited, adding that the Cross River Police Command was still investigating the death.

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I’m still in shock to write a tribute for Maurice yet. As an undergraduate, Maurice, whose father was a police officer, was disciplined, diligent, studious, forthright, amiable and kind. Together with Dike Oghuehi and Maurice Ogbonna, the trio ceaselessly bought me food and cigarettes when funds took a long time coming from my parents in Lagos.

Maurice is gone with his bag of love and humour. An Iroko has fallen! Mbaise is mourning. The ABSU Alumni of English Language and Literature Students (ELSA) are in tears. May his beautiful soul rest in peace. May the Lord take care of his wife and children. Too sad, I won’t see my Moore, my Mbe, my paddy again. Death has made another mistake.

Email: tundeodes2003@yahoo.com

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Facebook: @Tunde Odesola

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Obiano’s Ex-aide Opens Up On Rumoured Former Anambra Gov’s Death

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The former Anambra State Commissioner for Information under Governor Willie Obiano, Mr C-Don Adinuba, has debunked rumours of the ex-governor’s death, confirming that Obiano is hale and hearty in Houston, United States, where he currently resides.

Claims had circulated on social media suggesting that Obiano, who served as governor of Anambra State from 2014 to 2022, had died in London.

READ ALSO:Two Witnesses Testify As EFCC Opens Case Against Ex-Gov Obiano

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Adinuba, in a telephone interview with our correspondent on Friday, described the reports as “provocative” and “unfounded,” insisting that the former governor is alive and well with his family in the US.

He said, “I have been asked some probing questions by journalists and have heard a provocative rumour about the death of former Governor Willie Obiano. The rumour is not true. I just spoke with the former governor and members of his family a few minutes ago. He is hale and hearty in Houston, United States, where he resides.

“Contrary to the reports, Obiano is not in London and has not been hospitalised. He is strong, hale, and hearty, and bouncing in the US. Ignore the rumour—it is not from a credible source. Please, the report is fake; Obiano is still alive.”

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Adinuba urged the public to disregard the claims.

Obiano’s personal publicist, Tony Nezianya, also told The PUNCH that he had not received any information confirming the rumours.

READ ALSO:Alleged N4bn Theft: Soludo Visits Obiano In Abuja

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He said, “I can’t confirm this; I am not aware of such news.”

Obiano served as governor of Anambra State from 2014 to 2022, succeeding Peter Obi, and handed over to the incumbent governor, Prof. Chukwuma Charles Soludo, in March 2022.

He hails from Aguleri in Anambra East Local Government Area and was born on August 8, 1955.

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Obiano is currently under investigation by the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC) over an alleged N4 billion fraud.

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OPINION: The ‘Fool’ Who Stopped Wike

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Tunde Odesola

The bully in me met its match in my primary school classmate, Lukman Oluwuyi, on our way back home one afternoon. In the eyes of a schoolkid, St Paul Anglican School, Idi-Oro, Lagos, was a couple of giant two-storey buildings on an expansive compound which served as an assembly ground in the morning and a football field during break. That was in the 70s when any elder on the street could fetch a cane, flog a wayward child, and march the culprit home to the applause of the entire neighbourhood. In those days, an erring child preferred a quick, anonymous beating to the humiliation of being beaten and escorted home by a Good Samaritan stranger.

Caramel-complexioned and restless, Lukman was a wiry boy with wavy, matted hair that glistened. Were he white, he’d have passed for a brunette; I, in my childish rascality, thought him an Arab. Lukman was ‘my boy’ until one day when a tiff broke out between us. Time has blunted the exact cause of our disagreement, but I remember it was on Ojowere Street, near Alli Lane, Mushin – two streets I learnt have been swallowed by the Lagos railway projects of the Babajide Sanwo-Olu administration.

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On the fateful day, Ojowere Street was a long stretch of clay, having just been graded, as my friend and I plodded along in the simmering heat. Clad in a green khaki shirt and shorts, I was heading home to Lawanson Crescent, while Lukman was going to their house off Kayode Street, before the Deity at Crossroads, Èsù Láàlú Onile Orita, decided to meddle in our affairs.

I was democratic in my bullying. “I’ll beat you, Lukman,” I warned. Lukman did not retort; he merely struck a Kung-fu pose, evidence of the Indian and Chinese films he had been watching lately. I was livid, “Is this not Lukman, my bo-i? Lukman!! Lukman, who I’m bigger and stronger than? Lukman, whom I would tell to shut up, and dared not say a word, now turning against me?” I lunged at him, throwing the combinations I had learnt watching the Great Muhammed Alli on TV. But Luku, clever and resilient, found a way below my blows, scooped me halfway up, and slammed the pot of my rump (ikokodi) hard on the new road.

That act of gross rebellion got me madder. I sprang up, chased and quickly caught up with him. Probably out of fear, or not wanting to rub salt in injury, Lukman seemed unwilling to fight, but I was determined to avenge the insult. I knew I was the tiger. Lukman was the lamb. So, still on Ojowere Street, I engaged him in another round of fighting. I was bigger and stronger, but in no time, I found myself under Lukman the second time. Each time he slammed me, he quickly got up, like someone afraid, picked hup is bag, and walked away as if nothing had happened.

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In our time, to cement your victory over a vanquished, the victor fed his victim with soil. In my opinion, Lukman’s failure to do that meant he wasn’t victorious yet; ìjà sèsè bèrè ni’.

“Mi o ni gba, Lukman won’t get away with this sacrilege,” I sprang up and went after him. He struck his Kung-fu pose while I squared up in my boxer’s pose. Gbangan! I found myself on the ground again. I got up, chased and caught up with him for the fourth time, warning, “Lukman, ma na e, I will beat you.” That was the moment an old trader, who sold keys, padlocks, nails and hoes, etc, along the road, shouted, “Ma na e, ma na e, o ti la o mole ni emeta, o je kori sile, yio kan na o pa. Ole!” (You keep shouting ‘I’ll beat you’, yet he has floored you thrice; you’d better head home before he kills you, lazy boy!)

Quietly, I picked up my bag and headed homeward, seething and determined that Lukman would get his comeuppance before we departed that day. But, somehow, we didn’t get to fight again that day as Èsù Òdàrà had left Ojowere for another assignment. I can’t remember if we ever fought again in primary school, though we fought once in secondary school, when I thought he was caressing my sword with his bare palm. Honestly, I didn’t know how I came to think so highly of myself. Could it be the Mushin spirit at work?

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After secondary school, we lost touch. Decades passed before I saw him again on October 1, 2016, during the reunion of the Old Students Association of Archbishop Aggey Memorial Secondary School, Mushin. I recounted his victory in primary school and the rematch in secondary school; he had forgotten both, but he laughed like a drunken sweepstake winner. Lukman travelled out to France in search of greener pastures in 2008 and came back to Nigeria for the first time in 2016, attending the reunion during the visit.

A few days after returning to France, Lukman died in a hospital. Shhhhhh! It’s not the wicked people of Aye Akamara that killed Luku. It was mosquitoes. My dear Elukumede died of malaria fever, which he took from Nigeria to France. Malaria is strange to France.

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Faction is a literary style that combines fact and fiction. The Lukman story you just read is a fact. What you’re about to read next is an invented myth, a fiction.

Here it goes. Once upon a time, there lived in Eripa, Osun State, a farmer named Arije, whose compound was next to that of Abanikanda, a fisherman. One night, Abanikanda fell asleep while cooking his fish for the next day’s market. Soon, the cooking fire became a ball of billowy red throat of fury.

It was Abanikanda’s daughter who saw the inferno. She screamed, “Fire, fire, neighbours, fire, help!” Arije heard the shout and turned in his bed, curling up behind his wife, saying, “It’s their fire, let them quench it. I’m unavailable. Dem no dey see me.”

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The fire raged and crackled. Arije snuggled. “Abanikanda cooks too much fish every day; he brought fire upon himself,” he said.

Leaping in tongues, the fire consumed the grass and roots used in making Abanikanda’s thatched roof, releasing into the air flares, which jumped on Arije’s roof, burning ferociously. Farmer Arije woke up to sorrow and tears, learning an eternal lesson.

The Lukman and Arije stories illustrate, on the surface, the shameful clash between the Minister of the Federal Capital Territory, Abuja, Nyesom Wike, and one misoriented lieutenant in the Nigerian Navy, A. M. Yerima, a Kaduna indigene, who led a group of misguided, gun-clutching soldiers to secure a parcel of land for a retired Chief of Naval Staff, Vice Admiral Awwal Zubairu Gambo, who left service at the age of 57, and plunged into a life of luxury, which afforded him a multi-billion naira block of several buildings in Abuja.

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On a deeper level, the clash highlights the crushing power game in the shithole we call Nigeria, our own dear native land, where though tribes and tongues may differ, in gangsterism we stand. It exposes to the ridicule of the international community, an inefficient, ill-equipped, ragtag and oppressive military which always places self-interest and clan above the Constitution and national interest. It shows a country of power-drunk, corrupt and immoral leadership being hailed by an ignorant public, who, having eaten the Stockholm Syndrome apple, grew to love their oppressors both in the ruling party and the opposition.

For his antecedents, if you called Wike talkative, belligerent, a spoiler, mischievous and arrogant, you are 100% right. But in his clash against the colluding military leadership, Wike was dead right, 200%. The backlash against Wike, however, arose from the poetic justice that saw him steaming in the stew of the victimisation and impunity, which the government he represents serves to the citizenry daily. Wike thus represents the spider caught in its own web. I do not pity him.

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At all levels, Nigeria’s problem is systemic failure, a medical term for heart failure, needing urgent surgery, and as such, there’s a need to analyse the Wike-Military saga in proper perspective. We must shear the meat of this matter from the bones, abattoir-fashion.

Before this saga, I had never written a word, sentence or paragraph in favour of Wike. However, beyond the God-don-catch-Wike cacophony renting the press, airwaves and social media, I urge reasonable Nigerians to run a fine-tooth comb through the issue and dismount from the APC-Opposition fence.

To aid deconstruction and discernment, I hereby present two sequences to the story, illustrating reportage from traditional media and online posts.

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Sequence 1
From a land-selling outfit, Gambo bought a sprawling swath of land in Abuja. He embarked on erecting many buildings on the land. Officials of the Federal Capital Territory Administration visited the site and alleged that there was no government approval for the land. The visiting officials told the builders to provide proof of ownership, government approval for the land and building approval plan. Thus, they told the owner to stop building.

Sequence 2
Gambo continued to build and refused to present any proof to FCTA. Instead, gun-wielding soldiers were drafted to the site. Officials of the FCTA who visited the site again were turned back, and they went to their office to report their findings. On the 11th day of the 11th month of 2025, at probably the 11th hour, Wike called the Chief of Defence Staff, General Christopher Musa, and the Chief of Naval Staff, Vice Admiral Idi Abass, before embarking on a visit to the site, telling them the situation at hand.

Before we get to what happened on the site when Wike visited, I’ll ask some questions. What stopped Gambo from presenting the papers of the land and building approval plan to FCTA when asked to do so? Is Gambo not answerable to the constituted authorities’ inquiry because he was a soldier? Is he above the law because he retired as a CNS? Who ordered the drafting of soldiers to the site, because as a retired officer, who no longer has even a troop under his command, Gambo cannot legally order armed soldiers to guard his private estate when Nigeria is suffering from a manpower shortage in the ongoing battle with terrorists and bandits. Why did Musa and Abass not order the Yerima-led soldiers on maiguard duty to allow Wike and FCTA officials to do their inspection job and leave in peace? Why has the band of retired generals come after Wike while they are silent on the infractions of Gambo? Did Gambo get the money to buy such an expanse of land from his meagre military earnings? The answers to most of the questions are impunity and official corruption.

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I daresay that aside from the ceaseless arrogance and oppression of the Nigerian military against the masses, I saw in the Abuja saga the fangs of the oppressive Fulani hegemony in the military and politics of Nigeria unbare. I dare to say that no Yoruba or Igbo officer would dare do what Kano-born Gambo and his gambolling soldiers did in Abuja.

As they say, you can’t build something on nothing. Singling Wike’s action out for condemnation without seeing through the tribal guile of a cabal in the Nigerian military, whose mantra had long been ‘born to rule’, is to fall cheaply to their ancient deception of divide and rule.

As for Wike’s multitude of antagonists sitting on the opposition fence, I’ll urge caution and wish they ponder on the lessons behind the action of Farmer Arije from Eripa. I hope this multitude know that in countries with serious military, like the US, China, Germany, France Britain, etc, where soldiers know their responsibilities, officers and men are under the laws of the land, not above it – unlike Nigerian soldiers – burning down Fela’s house, throwing his mother through an upstairs window, killing hundreds of innocent civilians in Odi, harassing MKO Abiola and his wife in the 80s, killing Dele Giwa, Ken Saro-Wiwa, the list is endless. Our monstrous military must be tamed and made to bow to the Constitution.

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A ‘repentant’ Boko Haram or secondary school dropout who joins the military today as a recruit believes only his military superiors are those he can obey, not any constituted authority. This was why one low-ranking idiot in army uniform, some years ago, while driving against traffic in Lagos, dared to confront Governor Sanwo-Olu, saying he was a soldier. In 2012, Governor Babatunde Fashola arrested a colonel and a staff sergeant for driving on the restricted BRT Lane in separate vehicles. If not a governor, in some cases, or the President, no law-enforcement official in Nigeria can stop an erring soldier, not the police, not the DSS. Nigerian soldiers fear no law; they only fear the military, Boko Haram, terrorists, IPOB and Trump. Nigeria must stop their impunity for us to have a country.

I think everyone is talking tongue-in-cheek on this matter, as it now appears, because of the fear of a military coup. In that case, it is not wrong to draw a conclusion that President Bola Tinubu truly needs the prayers of Nigerians.

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Each time soldiers’ ‘asemáse’ impunity rears its head in Nigeria, I always remember former police spokesperson, Alozie Ogugbuaja, who, while in service, described the Nigerian military as a bunch of ‘peppersouping’ and ‘beering’ generals who only excel at coup planning and execution. God bless Ogugbuaja.

The excesses of the Nigerian military predate Ogugbuaja’s outburst. It goes even beyond independence and the post-Civil War era when Nigerians, showing courtesy, allowed soldiers to board public transport for free. Soon, soldiers began to deboard passengers from the front seats of public transportation buses, even as they wouldn’t pay a dime to vehicle conductors.

The Lukman Oluwuyi metaphor speaks to the Goliath which the Nigerian military represents, while insurgency, banditry, etc, have become David defeating Goliath. Yerima’s disrespect came before Wike’s because, by arrogantly being in the place he was not supposed to be, he disrespected the Constitution and the Oath he had sworn. Yerima condescendingly expressed shock that a policeman was talking to him, saying, “Look at a policeman talking to me”, as if he, Yerima, gave God the clay with which Adam and Eve were created.

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LDRSHIP is the acronym for the seven core values of the U.S. Army. L means Loyalty to the Constitution. D stands for Duty of Fulfilling obligations by completing tasks and accomplishing assigned missions as part of a team. R means treating people with dignity and respect, recognising the value of every individual. S means Put the welfare of the nation, the Army, and your subordinates before your own personal interests. H means Live up to and embody all the Army values in every action. I means Integrity: Do what is right, both legally and morally, ensuring honesty and trustworthiness. P stands for Personal Courage: Face fear, danger, and adversity, whether physical or moral. How many Nigerian soldiers can tick all the boxes of the acronym? I don’t know. But I know how many who are good at peppersouping and beering.

In the US, civilians can walk into stores to buy military camouflage, which they proudly wear in support and solidarity with their soldiers. In Nigeria, soldiers will beat you to a pulp and lock you up if you wear any dress they consider ‘army green’ in colour. They will seize your car if its colour is too green. What an upside-down country!

I’ll leave you with the words of some three wise men. I’ll start with Dwight D. Eisenhower, the 34th President of the United States. He says, “Force can protect in emergency, but only justice, fairness, consideration, and cooperation can finally lead men to peace.” Are Nigerian big-for-number soldiers listening?

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Albert Einstein is my second wise man. He says, “Force always attracts men of low morality.” I’ll expatiate by adding ‘unnecessary’ to Einstein’s force.

My third and final wise man is Rumi, a 13th-century Persian poet and Islamic scholar. He bequeaths these eternal words to humanity: “Raise your words, not your voice. It is rain that grows flowers, not thunder.” This advice is for Wike, who needs to improve his public attitude. He should have been gracious at the scene. But the attitude of Yerima was so nauseating, to say the least. I am a commissioned officer, my foot!

Email: tundeodes2003@yahoo.com

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Edo-Delta Oil Well Dispute: Tinubu Urged To Halt Drilling In Disputed Oil Rigs

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Edo State Government has called on President Bola Tinubu to halt further drilling of crude in the disputed oil wells between Edo and Delta states until resolution of the matter.

Deputy Governor of the state, Hon. Dennis Idahosa, made the call in Benin on Friday when he received members of the National Boundary Commission (NBC) led by its Director General, Adamu Adaji.

Idahosa, who also called for the freezing of the accounts of the Delta state based oil firms, noted that this step will ensure fairness and justice in the disputed oil rigs.

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“I want to use this opportunity to appeal to the President to stop or instruct the regulatory agencies to also stop all the benefits accruing to Delta State pending when this matter is resolved.

READ ALSO: Okpebholo Warns Companies Against Fuelling Edo–Delta Boundary Dispute

“It is clear that Delta State is playing games with us and also the National Boundary Commission.

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“It is clear that they don’t want this matter to be resolved, knowing fully well that those assets belong to Edo State,” he stated.

Idahosa also urged the NBC to also critically examine all the documents relating to the disputed oil wells that are before them to ensure true ownership of the oil wells.

He, however, emphasised that in spite of the seemingly provocation from its neighboring state, the communities where these rigs are located have remained peaceful and law abiding.

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He pointed out, “A lot of communities are affected – the Orogho and Urhonigbe Communities.”

READ ALSO:Edo Taxes Paid To Delta Treasury, Stakeholders Allege

“We told the NBC Director General that we will no longer wait, as the documents required have since been provided to them as far back as July. We also understand that Delta state is yet to submit the same to the commission.

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“Our people are suffering from things they are supposed to be benefitting from.

“God has given them all these opportunities for them to use to develop their community and their state, instead, the NBC is allowing these opportunities to go to Delta State.

“This issue has to be resolved and within a specific timeline. That is my plea,” Idahosa declared.

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READ ALSO:Paternity Dispute: Cubana Chief Priest Sues Alleged Baby Mama, Hellen Ati In Kenya

He said there was a need to urgently resolve the issue in an effort to reduce the tension between the two neighboring states.

While noting that this issue could escalate to potential hostilities between the two states if not urgently resolved.

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According to him, “There is so much tension and pressure in the affected communities, and, if the state government cannot give them something substantive, to work with, it might lead to internal or communal crises.

“We don’t want that, that is why we want this issue resolved as soon as possible.”

Responding, the NBC boss, Adamu Adaji reaffirmed the commission’s position that urgently resolves the matter.

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READ ALSO: Ghana Land Dispute Clashes Kill 31, Displace 48,000

He noted that it was the need to resolve the issue that necessitated the commission’s visit.

He stated, “We cannot allow a party to delay the process. There must be an end to it.

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“We have come to an extent, perhaps, where we will personally interface with the two sides, on individual bases, where we need clarity and identification to make sure this issue is resolved once and for all.

“This will be done in accordance with available delineation documents and other ground rule methods to identify and make recommendations to the federal government for adoption.”

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