Dear Grandpa Tai, How do you do, sir? Or rather, how does it feel to not exist anywhere? Are you comfortable in your vacuum, floating with nothing but silence as your companion? Do you sometimes regret rejecting religion? Perhaps if you had embraced any creed, you might now be lounging on a golden sofa in the clouds, attended by Greek nymphs feeding you grapes or humming hymns beside Moses and Aaron. Instead, you are everywhere and nowhere, scattered stardust without the comfort of angels or demons. Personally, I envy you. Down here, demons wear agbada, angels collect bribes and the rest of us are marooned in Lagos traffic.
Some may accuse me of over familiarity, but I’ve adopted you as my intellectual grandfather for three reasons. One, you wrote columns and like you, I too spend my days firing arrows of ink at a society so soaked in absurdity it would make even Aristophanes weep. Two, you were a Leo, and we Leos never tire of believing the world should bend to our will. Three, ranting is in our DNA. I, however, must ask: did you rant out of sheer annoyance with Nigeria or out of some stubborn hope that the pen could shame the sword? Forgive my cynicism, Grandpa, but in this country, the sword sharpens itself on the pen.
Forgive my naivety, Grandpa. Every time I recall your People’s Bank experiment, my spirit laughs like a drunk hyena. How did you not smell the trap? That you expected Nigerians to act responsibly with public funds is beyond me. Grandpa, with respect, Na wa for you o! The same people who sold their kinfolk to white men for mirrors and schnapps. You should have known better. I say this not to antagonise you but to mark the line between your noble optimism and my bitter realism. I know better than to expect sincerity in a land where hypocrisy is our official lingua franca.
I must confess, these letters are not an act of humanism, patriotism, nor a crusade for any lofty ideology. They are, quite simply, my therapy. If I bottled these thoughts in my skull, my brain would resemble a hamster wheel powered by madness. Since I cannot beat the system, I rant epistolarily.
But let us address the matter of education. Grandpa, our educational system is coughing its last breaths. If you think our educational institutions stank in your day, wait till you hear what has become of learning in Nigeria. Once upon a time, scoring below 200 in JAMB meant you could kiss the university goodbye. Today, the cut-off marks are sinking faster than the naira. At this rate, admission will soon be offered to anyone who can spell “university” without fainting. And irony dances naked in the marketplace: the same students who score distinctions in WAEC stagger into university like malnourished pigeons, lost and gasping. Don’t ask me who I’ll hold responsible for this decline!
Meanwhile, young Nigerians are winning global competitions. Did you hear about Kenechukwu Uba, who topped the Speaking category at Cambridge’s IGCSE? Or Nafisa Aminu who won an English-language competition in Europe? These feats should have drawn national fanfare. But what did they receive? The latter received a presidential handshake and maybe N200,000 (the cost of one politician’s champagne bill?). Compare this to the Super Falcons: they win a trophy and there’s talk of mansions, cars and dollars raining down like biblical manna. And the best graduating student of Mechanical Engineering? He walked away with a handshake and the life-changing fortune of N5,000.
Do not mistake me for a misogynist. On the contrary, I carry the feminist badge with pride. My quarrel is not with honouring the Falcons but with our skewed value system. We honour those who run with balls, not those who run with books. Imagine: intellectuals starving while reality TV contestants feast on millions for gossiping in a mansion with constant light and shayo. In Nigeria, brains are broke but biceps are billionaires.
And the cherry on top? Our rich elites prefer to throw money at foundations named after themselves or donate at book launches where their friends clap for them, rather than create serious endowment funds or scholarships. They attend events in agbada worth more than a lecturer’s annual salary, yet cannot endow a library or fund a scholarship. Philanthropy, here, is theatre; education, the forgotten backstage prop.
So, Grandpa, I beg you: whisper to whoever controls the cosmos. Tell them to shake our agbada-wearing overlords into investing in knowledge. Let them endow libraries, reward brilliance and fund scholarships. If footballers can receive $100,000 and houses, then surely a student who brings global honour deserves more than a bicycle bell.
I dare not close without saluting your final rebellion: writing your own epitaph. That was the ultimate middle finger to societal hypocrisy about death. In that act, you displayed more courage than our living leaders muster in a lifetime. Perhaps I, too, will write mine. Though at this rate, my tombstone may simply read: Here lies a Nigerian who died ranting.
Yours in perpetual antagonism of the status quo,
Giwa wrote from the Department of English, University of Lagos.
