Threads of Dissent

I dabbed my face thoroughly with my handkerchief which has already been drenched with sweat. I walked through the rather busy street of Lagos, the stench oozing out of the market drainage filled my nostrils leaving me nauseous.

As If that wasn't enough, the honking horns mixed with the shouting voices of vendors, making the entire place a chaotic mess. As i pushed my way among the many moving pedestrians, i felt a tight grip on my cloth.

"Aunty please come and buy what i am selling." A girl of about five years of age begged.

Her top and short were tattered making her look unkept. She had a tray on her head with about thirty groundnuts in it.

Looking down at her made the auster reality hit me - the desperation in the eyes of the people, the failed government, the crumbling infracstructure and the poverty - striken faces . The greed of a few is constantly pushing the nation down the drain.

"How much is it?" I asked the girl.

She beemed, "Fifty naira for one."

" Give me two."

I handed her a two hundred naira note and smiled at the grin that found its way to her face when i told her to keep the change.

As i made my way through the crowded street, i couldn't help but think of the children whose parents have no choice but have them hawk goods before they can feed.

These children who should be in the four walls of a classroom. In this same country, there are the kids of the greedy who have personal drivers that drive them everywhere because the scorching sun would affect their treated skin.

Would we ever break from the chains of misrule and corruption?

Or would we continue to topple, eternalize the cycle of inequality and poverty?

•••

I continued down the bustling market and I stumbled upon a vendor selling fabrics with inspirational quotes printed on them. Because, you know, what's more empowering than wearing a quote on your sleeve?

I would probably be late for the conference I'm heading but I headed to the store anyway.

As I browsed through her wares, she approached me with a smile that screamed "I'm about to sell you something." "Sister, welcome! I have just the thing for a strong woman like you."

I rolled my eyes good-naturedly, thinking, "Oh boy, here we go." But I played along, asking her about her "favorite" fabric.

She launched into a speech about how she overcame adversity, discovered her inner strength, and became a successful businesswoman. Yadda yadda yadda. It was like she memorized a script from a bad motivational book.

I just couldn't laugh.

I nodded along, pretending to be inspired, while thinking, "Aunty, please. You're selling fabrics with clichés printed on them. You're not exactly the next Oprah."

But then she dropped the bombshell: "And that's why I wrote a poem about the difficulties!!" Oh boy, I thought, this is gonna be good. Seems like everybody as automatically become writers.

She handed me a pamphlet with her poem, which read like a Hallmark card on steroids. I scanned it, trying not to laugh at the cringe-worthy rhymes and over-the-top sentimentality.

As I prepared to leave, she said, "Remember, sister, the future is bright... and also very cliché." I smiled sweetly and thought, "Yeah, sure, and the future is also very cheesy."

I walked away with her pamphlet, wondering how someone could be so sincere and yet so oblivious to the absurdity of it all. But hey, at least the fabric was pretty.

Stopping a taxi not far from the fabric shop and after a minute of price negotiation with the driver, I got in and kept gazing at the pamphlet in my hand.

I walked into the "Nigerian Leadership Conference" feeling like a masquerade in a midnight carnival. The event was being held at a luxurious hotel, complete with a "Hall of Corruption", a "Chamber of Inefficiency", and a "Room of Empty Promises". Because, you know, nothing says "leadership" like a bunch of recycled politicians and their cronies.

The keynote speaker, a "distinguished" leader with a questionable track record and a penchant for rhetoric, took the stage, proclaiming, "We're not just leaders, we're visionaries! We need to diversify our economy, tackle corruption, and provide electricity for all!" The audience nodded along, sipping their champagne and trying to ignore the irony.

I looked around at the sea of familiar faces and thought, "This is what Nigerian leadership has been reduced to: a bunch of empty promises, recycled manifestos, and a complete disconnect from reality." The speaker continued, "We need to embrace technology, invest in infrastructure, and create jobs for our youth!" I rolled my eyes, thinking, "Embrace technology? You mean like the president's Twitter account?"

But then he dropped the bombshell: "And for just ₦50 million, you can join our exclusive 'Presidential Club' and get access to exclusive contracts, personalized assistance, and a free generator to power your mansion!" Oh boy, I thought, this is gonna be good.

The audience cheered, whipping out their briefcases and signing up for the "transformation". I shook my head, thinking, . Welcome to Nigeria, where leadership is a joke, and the joke is on us.

As I walked out of the conference hall, I saw a group of "leaders" gathered around a table, scheming and plotting. One of them turned to me and said, "You know, we need to fix this country. We need to... um... build more stadiums!"

I raised an eyebrow. "Build more stadiums? Really? That's your solution to Nigeria's problems?"

He nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, yes! And we need to... uh... import more luxury cars for our leaders. That'll create jobs, you know?"

I shook my head, thinking, "This is what happens when you put the wolf in charge of the henhouse."

As I walked away, I saw a sign that read, "Nigeria: Where the future is bright... for those who have generators."

I chuckled to myself, thinking, "We might be doomed."

I stopped a taxi at the gate and my jaw almost hit the ground when I heard the price. "500 naira for what? Just a ten-minute drive from here, haha."

The driver gave me a sarcastic smile. "Make you trek am. Be like you no sabi wetin the price of fuel dey talk."

I reasoned with him for a bit, knowing that the price of fuel had indeed skyrocketed. But that didn't mean things should be as extreme as this.

"Guy, you dey craze, na why you no get passengers," I said, shaking my head. "I'll give you 200, and that's my final offer."

The driver snorted. "You think say I be charity organization? Abeg, enter another taxi."

I threw up my hands and walked away, muttering under my breath about how corruption had ruined everything, even a simple taxi ride.

As I walked away, I heard the driver yelling after me, "Na you dey find trouble! You no fit afford my price, go trek!"

I shook my head and continued walking, feeling the weight of the country's economic woes on my shoulders. It was a constant struggle, and it seemed like everyone was fighting for survival.

I eventually flagged down another taxi, and after some negotiations, we agreed on a price that didn't break the bank. As we drove through the crowded streets, I couldn't help but think about the state of our nation.

The driver, noticing my frustration, chimed in, "Sister, na so Nigeria dey. Everything dey cost, even breathing dey cost. But we go manage small small."

I smiled wryly, knowing he was right. We Nigerians were a resilient bunch, always finding ways to make do despite the challenges. But how long could we keep going like this? Only time would tell.