By Lasisi Olagunju

I found myself inventing the above verse as today’s headline. The verse came sounding like “The Lord is my shepherd/ I Shall not want…” The twenty-third Psalm. Yesterday was Easter Sunday; today is Easter Monday. All Judases are shamed.

Life here is bitter as brine. The green pastures are withered. The still waters are poisoned. More and more, victims fall in undeclared wars in Benue and Plateau. Terrorists rebrand and relaunch in Borno and Niger and Zamfara. The Commander-in-Chief is absent in flesh, in body and soul. But I must be quiet, because the president is my brother.

Some twenty-something years ago, one of us (I can’t remember who the person was) blurted out a question:

“The name of your governor, ‘Alamiyeseigha’, reads like a tongue-twisting clause. What does it mean?”

Our guest was the Bayelsa State Commissioner for Information.

The guest sat up, grinned and looked round the Tribune boardroom. She then smiled out the answer.

“It means God is never wrong. Just like my name, ‘Benamaisia’, means brother is never wrong.”

I thought that was deep. I quickly got it stored in the depth of my brain. True. God is never wrong. But brother? An argument would have ensued but that commissioner, Mrs Ruth Benamaisia Opia, went into an intelligent analysis of how and when a brother is deemed not wrong: She said a brother is never wrong in the presence of outsiders. She might be right. Among her audience were a people whose own culture instructs them to first deal with the fox before spanking the cock. They also say you don’t sell your brother cheap; if you do, you won’t be able to buy him back expensive.

“Kin-blood is not spoiled by water.” That is how 12th-century German poet, Heinrich der Glîchezære, couches it in his epic, Reinhart Fuchs (Reynard the Fox). I am supposed to love and be loyal to the king because he is my brother. Is my brother, the king, supposed to love and be loyal to me? Christian scholar, T. L. Westow, in his ‘Who is my Brother?’ published in May 1964, declares that “nobody can eat for somebody else.” That may be true in biology; it is not true in politics. What do you think my brother, the president, is doing on my behalf in Europe? He has been there for the past two weeks.

Because my brother is the president, he can do anything and get away with it. And he has been doing it. The president is the law. He keeps a very good company in the US President Donald Trump. Last week, Trump complained about his country’s Federal Reserves chair, Jerome Powell. “I’m not happy with him. I don’t think Powell is doing the job. He will leave if I ask him to.” An American reacted: “Why have anybody but Trump run anything? Just get rid of congress, senate, Supreme Court, etc. He’s so smart; he can run everything.” It is too late to recommend the same here. President Bola Tinubu is the smartest somebody ever created. He had been the law long before he became president. Presidential powers have only enlarged his coast, and we are happy and grateful for the answered prayers.

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I have no problem with Tinubu staying put abroad. The only issue I have with it is that in his absence, Muhammadu Buhari’s eunuch is having an erection again. I don’t like that. It is risky. While I agonise over the resurgent eunuchs, I will not stop stopping critics from hampering my president with the constitution and all its provisions. Scrap the law, scrap the courts, the legislature, everything; sack the governors, give the president their functions and budgets. Make him President and Governor General of the federation. Trash all the scrapped. Scrap Abuja and let the super man reign from wherever he finds comfort. Why not?

My brother, the president, is in Europe, running the country effectively unseen like an unseen poem. It is my duty as a brother to expose the ignorance of critics who say the president residing abroad is immoral and illegal. I should tell such critics that the people who created Nigeria started Nigeria with that arrangement. When the two Nigerias were brought together in 1914, the first ‘president’ (nicknamed Governor General) reigned six months in Nigeria; four and a half months in London; one and half months cruising on the high seas. Lord Lugard gave his employers that condition and he got it, he maintained and enjoyed it for several years. A befitting office with full complement of competent staff was even provided for him right inside the colonial office in London. That is our history.

Shakespeare says there is no darkness but ignorance. Ignorant critics say my brother does not delegate as the constitution dictates. They should read history. Our president’s ancestor, Lord Lugard had two deputies called Assistant Governors. From 1914 when he took charge till he left in 1919, he delegated neither power nor responsibility to any of them. There were complaints and grumblings, home and abroad; the Governor-General ignored them all. Nothing happened. Nothing will happen if President Tinubu keeps that foundational tradition alive. He has a duty to run his government undisturbed from the Moon, even from inside the Sun.

If my brother is not ready for home, it is my duty to beg him to stay back wherever he is. It is also my duty to attack his attackers here. He should not rush home after these Easter holidays simply because sibling rivalry is pushing some of our bad brothers to demand his immediate homecoming. The president should work harder in London – or cross the English Channel back to Paris, and continue where he stopped.

Last week, from wherever he was, the president set up an eight-man committee on his pet census project, five out of the eight members are from his sitting room. Because he is my brother, I am not supposed to mention this and say he was wrong to use his household to rule the whole world.

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For those who are not happy that five brothers out of eight make the list of Tinubu’s census committee, I recommend, in the spirit of this Easter season, ‘The Parable of the Workers in the Vineyard’. It is a Bible passage:

“Then the mother of Zebedee’s sons came to Him with her sons, kneeling down and asking something from Him.

“And He said to her, ‘What do you wish?’”

“She said to Him, ‘Grant that these two sons of mine may sit, one on Your right hand and the other on the left, in Your kingdom.’” (Mathew 20:20,21).

What you just read is a brother to the right; his blood brother to the left. The Master was number one. The brothers would be numbers two and three. And there were twelve disciples. The two brothers were John and James. Whose cousins or nephews were they? Find out whose sister their mother, Salome, was.

Some neighbours are already saying that without them in 2027 my brother will be sent back home empty-handed. They should shut up, and go and listen to Juju music Commander Ebenezer Obey. He warns that no one should vow that without them their friend won’t find food to eat. They should not say that again. Sustenance is God’s. He is the only provider. If they want war in 2027, my brother will give them. I will watch the bull fight; my popcorn is ordered.

So, those who are not happy with my brother’s nepotism should go drink iced water. They should wait for their own time. Nigeria is a tripod. Every good and every bad must get entered in the country’s balance sheet. Muhammadu Buhari had his own fill. We shouted, but Bayajidda II pointed us to his kurmo (deaf) ears. Goodluck Jonathan had aides who helped him do his own so well that he became Azikiwe.

I read Keith Ferrazzi’s ‘Never Eat Alone: And Other Secrets to Success.’ But I will not join outsiders to quote that book and warn the solo man that he “can’t get there alone” and “in fact, can’t get very far at all.” I will also refrain from reading ‘What do you think of eating alone?’, a recent piece written by The Korea Times’ senior advisor, Park Moo-jong. There is a spice in that piece. It is from Desmond Morris, English zoologist, ethologist and author of ‘The Naked Ape’: “One may eat alone in the privacy of one’s own home, but to eat alone in a public place is to invite suspicion of personal failure at best and deviancy at worst.” If the president were not my brother, I would have expanded that verdict to accommodate what critics say of him here. I would have said that Nigeria is a public, multi-regional, multi ethnic entity and that no group, no matter how smart, or wise or vicious can kidnap Nigeria and hold it hostage for long. But the president is Yoruba and Muslim like me, so I won’t undermine my brother. I won’t join those who say that even the British who created the country did not succeed in putting it in purdah for as long as they wished.

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President Bola Tinubu is a brother to some because he is a Muslim. To some others he is a brother because of the language he speaks – his mother tongue – Yoruba. Still, to some others, he is a brother because of the fraternity of politics he leads. Common to these concentric circle of brotherhoods is the charge that his wrong must not be said from any mouth there. Scores killed in Plateau, 56 murdered in Benue, the Commander-in-Chief is rocking the cities of Paris and London. He must not be accused of playing Nero while his Rome burns. Our brother must never be said to be wrong.

This president campaigned and pledged to renew our hopes in a better Nigeria. Where are the promised “sparkling springs” and the “babbling brooks”? A brother has no right to question his brother, the president. If he is your brother, tell him not that he lives in an illusory world where failure is praiseworthy success and poverty is wealth. The people’s suffering notwithstanding, rejoice with your brother.

A brother is never wrong. Like the anonymous American army major said in the Vietnam war, there is nothing bad to have my brother destroy the town in order to save it. The king can invent his own reality and call us to project it for the world to admire and applaud. We will obey him; he is our brother.

Poverty unravels homes; policies upend businesses. But what is real is unreal because the president is my brother. We hear politicians of various ailments hail the president for making Nigeria great again. Even some opposition governors are rushing into his Noah’s Ark. Reality has different versions. When it is bad as we have it, regime washers create a positive one and command me to praise it. They say we must celebrate their reality because it is done everywhere, even in America where we borrowed this system that sells the freeborn into slavery. If that sounds interesting to you, read ‘Bad for Democracy: How the Presidency Undermines the Power of the People’ by Dana D. Nelson. It was published in 2008 long before Donald Trump came with his ideology of alternative truth.

You see them on TV boasting of unprecedented achievements and daring you to contradict them. They did and do it where we copied our constitution. Towards the 2004 presidential election in the US, a Bush administration official with the swag of a conquistador told a New York Times reporter, Ron Suskind: “We’re an empire now, and when we act, we create our own reality. And while you’re studying that reality judiciously, as you will, we’ll act again, creating other new realities, which you can study too, and that’s how things will sort out. We’re history’s actors . . . and you, all of you, will be left to just study what we do.” This sounds like what my brother’s government can say in Nigeria. The government is a pack of confidence men. We – you and I – exist to only study, write and talk about what they do.

My brother is dining alone somewhere across the Mediterranean Sea. Some people say he is in Paris, France; some say he is in London, United Kingdom. I am supposed to thank him for eating on my behalf abroad while I yawn at home. As I do that, I should also ask what will end anyone’s ‘eat alone’ regime if they do not change? An Arabian proverb speaks on the consequences of fencing off others from a communal feast. They say he who eats alone vomits alone. They also say he who eats alone chokes alone. The Tigrigna of Eritrea and northern Ethiopia say: He who eats alone dies alone. The NURTW has a more radical version. Its members shout: “Eat alone, Go away!”