President in Diaspora -A Short Story

President in Diaspora
Fortunes Ken

You felt like slapping Dieke when he told you in his office that the biography you had written lacked concreteness. It was the fourth time he was to tell you this. You looked confused at him and mumbled, ‘sir, you told me the other time that it captured most of your life in Arizona.'

‘I wasn’t the one who told you that. I told you I had only met Alice Walker once. But in there you said twice. That’s imprecise.’

You gave him a killing look when he bent over to pick a silver-coloured Caribbean book in a carton beneath his table.

‘If my biography must be published in your blog,’ the professor was saying, ‘then it must capture all of my awards and essays and literary works both in Arizona and here at home.

For the first time you noticed that his knuckles were vigorously bleached with no much success. They were black and brown, in-between chocolate kind of colour.

It was you who told him that you would like to write about him. But your reason was to give your wobbly blog a facial lift. He had agreed because you were the first Nigerian student to make such move. But he had read different versions of it in the last two weeks without being satiated. If it’s not this today, it will be that tomorrow.

Today, you had felt more dejected than ever because he had told you it would be the ‘last’ reading before publication. It wasn’t. He had spotted another fault which must be fixed. And you are even angrier and more subdued because you had bragged to your friends that the almighty professor’s history would hit your blog the following day.

You walked out of his office. The air outside was peppered with coffee smell from the office opposite his.

You walked faster so you could get to the ICT centre early to secure whatever space left. But you were angriest when you discovered that the Lionet network fluctuated like electricity. It wasn’t even connecting at all. You sighed so aloud and everyone there saw through your desperation, anger.

You forced you laptop inside your bag and left for the hostel.

Jacob, one of your roommates had used your favourite pot to cook indomie and had failed to wash it. This was despite the fact that you had warned them against this trend. It was like adding to your fury. You seethed.

You didn’t shout at him when he came in an hour later because he was in the same level as you. That was not the only reason. You liked him. He was one of your readers. And he frequented your blog minutely to follow up posts.

Before you could ask him why he messed up your pot, he blurted, ‘Kene, the president has left for China to borrow some money so he could pay workers their salaries next week.'

It was Kanayo, the first year Microbiologist that stated laughing first.

Kadili followed.

Then Ifenna joined.

You had no option but to manage a chuckle.

‘That guy is the most confused and confounded president in history’ Kanayo concluded.

Itinerant President!! Ifenna chirped in between mouthful of laughter.

You had warned them not to speak about him like that. You told them it was for the good of the country.

‘The former administration had left nothing for him to start with. So he has to borrow to meet up’ you mused.

‘Inukwa! Imagine!'

'Biko ka anyi nu ife. Tell us something else.'

‘You talk as if you haven’t been in this country since he came to power.'

You stared at Jacobs as though he had complimented you. But with that known redness that appeared in his eyes whenever he’s angry or irritated, you could guess that it wasn’t.

'Take your laptop downstairs and login to your blog. Hear what Nigerians are saying about him. See through their hearts and tell us what they feel in there. Hear the frustration in their voice. After that come to us again and tell us how the past administration hadn’t left a thing for him.'

'Nonsense!'

Your room was quiet after Jacob left, dispirited. You had wanted to say sorry to him, no, to them. But he wasn’t going to listen. He was obviously hurt.

You’re going to Alvan’s quadrangle to use their Wi-Fi so you could see things for yourself.

The first post had made you laugh: 'the spirit of sokogo, the wandering bird had cleaved onto this guy that he can no longer stay in his country for one full week without running off to another man’s land.'

The second person was benign enough to call him ‘Rebranded president. Made in China Mallam.'

You were almost exhausted with ‘Witches come in different forms: some fly at night, while others visit over sixty countries in nine months.'

You had wanted to write back to this person to remind him or her that it was the president he spoke of. But you didn’t. You were unsure of what to say.

Another posted: ‘Waka waka president, you can’t even do anything for your people and country. See how we now suffer from fuel scarcity to many nights of darkness; exaggerated prices of food and sachet water. Your people are far from being happy with you. Keep roaming the continent till your plane crashes.'

You were surprised to notice that the post had had four hundred and eighty likes from other readers. How could they like insult on the president. You had wondered. You made attempt to go back to your room. But curiosity led you on.

Someone also had posted the silliest of all:
‘Isn’t he from the North? They clamour for power yet with no plans to deliver the nation. Now I know why the bible clearly says that children should fear NORTH.'

You were not surprised to see Nigerians from the other side reacting and calling the person who made the comment names. Some called him a hopeless tribalist. While others from the neighbouring religion had said he was instigating a religious war with his malicious comments.

You had wanted to delete the post so it doesn’t cause further commotion on your blog. But you didn’t because another person from the North had said:
‘You Igbos should go back to your country Liberia and stop distracting us, FOOLS.'

You were offended .You looked at your laptop and then at the post with your lips pouted and eyelids narrowed. You did that because you were Igbo before a Nigerian. He had no right to call your race fools. It was unjust. And who told him that the Igbos were from Liberia. You didn’t know. But you felt vindicated because your racial mates had poured their venom on the poster.

But you felt there was something sinister, something true, yet untrue about a reply the post before now got. It read:
‘Mallam ‘Mumu’, come and see how your fellow Mallams are living like cows in Lagos.'

You didn’t know how true it was. You have only been to Lagos once and it wasn’t because of Mallams and how they lived. However, you noticed that your lips were parted in smile.

More people had liked the post that said children should fear north. Unknowingly you too had clicked the like button of the said post.

Just then, a poster with the username, Ronke, had typed:
‘Has the president turned to a butterfly with his incessant travels?

You were not sure if Ronke had asked a question or made a comment.

A minute had barely passed when she posted something that really touched you in a way. It was a glaring truth; an innocent question from an affected Nigerian. She had watched events unfold. There was a certain sense of desperation in her tone. She had written:
‘Baba, it’s not fair ooo, when will you visit Nigeria? Or will you spend the four years in office like Alice visiting Wonderlands ? Since when did you become minister of tourism? Please help us, things are increasingly getting harder for us. Nigerians are now rationing their meals. The change you promised us is fast becoming illusive. We need new change. Please find your missing budget and sign it so we may yet live.'

You read the post four times. You were reading it for the fifth time when Ifenna tapped you from behind and said ‘Kene, why are you crying?’

‘Crying? I’m not crying.'

‘Even a blind man can see the short tears in your two eyes.'

You ran your hand over your face and was startled to find salty water in your palm. You didn’t know that Ronke’s last post was that powerful. You didn’t know it had moved you to tears. It was humiliating, yet liberating.

‘It’s nothing’ was all you told him.

When he left, you read two more posts before going back to your room. But you were uneasy and reluctant about going back. You wondered if Jacob had returned. You wondered what your roommates thought of you. You decided to scroll down to see the last posts. The poster was a funny guy you had introduced to your blog. His fingers shook when he wrote. They said it was a serious medical condition. But he had not sought any relief yet. He had no money to do so.

‘You wan go pack guinea fowl come sell for Niger, ba? God dey soak your canes for kerosene. Idiot!

You couldn’t bring yourself to laugh. Most of the readers laughed and joked about his comment. Some even said that it wasn’t just guinea fowl he went for, that he also went to learn Jackie Chan fighting pattern so he could fight anybody upon his return.

The last post that inspired you to tell this tale was from Jacob. He had posted it earlier while he browsed at the ICT before he met you in the room. He had wanted to tell you that he posted something but your comment left him hysterical. They were a few sentences which you read close to a million times. It was:
‘Everyday, all we hear is president in China, president in India, president in America, president in Equatorial Guinea, president in Chad, president in Saudi,… president in diaspora. Keep it up. We can all see the effect of your CHANGE. Agafu –fool!’

His message was direct and matter-of-fact. His post already had seven hundred and twelve likes and one thousand, six hundred and sixty six comments within six hours. There was a rush of pride in you. Why? Because he was someone you knew, your roommate sometimes your bedmate. You didn’t kill any further time in clicking the like button. Although his post had generated many other posts.

You are feeling happier now. We know you are because your steps have changed. Your moodiness is gone. With Jacobs comment, new visitors and readers flock your blog. It’s a fantasy that has become real.

The professor can go to hell with his biography.

As you enter your room, Kanayo tells you in the hearing of others that he hates all politicians. ‘They are all liars and hypocrites’ he maintains.

You are jumping into the bed now to tell Kanayo, Ifenna, and Kadili that all is not lost. You are telling them to be part of the struggle to liberate Nigerians from the shackles of political infidelity.

‘You too like big English’ Ifenna says in an offhand manner.

You tighten your lips and close your eyes as you always do when you want to do something silly. ‘koi’ the knock lands on his head. You try to run out of the room for him to come after you. But as you get to the door, Jacob was quick enough to block your way.

‘Onye aruru ala’ he teases you.

‘Jay’ you call him.

‘Kene’ he responds.