The carrot or the stick? Nigerians only understand the stick. If you choose to use the carrot, it better be one that is big enough for you to hit them over the head with. Unfortunately, my constituents are no better. That is why the policemen of my security detail are having to exercise a little force.
Tunde— my assistant— is trying to read the speech he has written for me aloud, but I can no longer make out his words. I am completely engaged in the spectacle before me. Most intriguing is a certain officer. A stout, dark-skinned man with a belly that keeps his shirt buttons honest. As he exerts himself beating on a protester who had ventured too close to our convoy for his liking, I truly fear his shirt will pop open at any moment. So far, I have counted nineteen. Nineteen times he has brought his baton down on the young man he is beating. Personally, I would like him to deliver about five more blows before stopping.
“Tunde, pick a number,” I say, deciding to make a game of it. “From one to ten “
“Sir?” I keep my eye on the policeman but I can feel Tunde staring at me questioningly.
“Just pick,” I order him. “I pick number five.”
“I pick five, sir.” He says.
“I already picked five. Pick a different number, you fool.”
“Four, sir.”
I nod. The policeman is already at four. One more hit and I win. He raises his baton but wavers perhaps deciding his prey has had enough. He tosses the young man aside and struts away.
“Looks like you win, Tunde.” I say, disappointed.
“What do I win, sir?”
I wave his question away with a gesture of my hand. With another, I urge him to continue reading. The convoy inches forward at a snail’s pace. For every inch we travel, my security detail has to push back the protesting crowd. It is getting tiresome. I wish we could just run them over. What right do they have to harass me like this? They are demanding explanations for the money spent. They make claims of “inflated budgets” and “ghost ventilators” that were never bought like we are the first to do such things.
The virus has come and gone and it is not like we kept all the money. We used it to provide necessary aid. So, what if a little extra went into some private accounts? They are just being dramatic. It is all this their social media. They start talking about politics that they do not understand and rile themselves up into a frenzy about corruption. Next thing you know, they run into the street to make noise in the name of protest. But it never lasts. They will soon retreat to the safety of their homes and protest from behind their keyboards where policemen cannot beat them with batons. At the end of the day, I will be late for my luncheon, but nothing really changes.
Written by Franklyn Usouwa