Kemi Badenoch’s Hate for Nigeria – Femi Fani-Kayode

“I find it interesting that everyone defines me as a Nigerian. I identify less with the country than with my specific ethnic group. I have nothing in common with the people from the north of the country, the Boko Haram, where Islamism is. Being Yoruba is my true identity and I refuse to be lumped with the northern people of Nigeria who were our ethnic enemies, all in the name of being called a Nigerian”- @KemiBadenoch.

The cockroach called Dele Farotimi (1)

Tunde Odesola

(Published in The PUNCH, on Friday, December 13, 2024)

The official name for cage fight is Mixed Martial Arts. Street fight, known as ‘ìjà ìgboro’ in Yoruba, is the bane of Ibadan people, says the panegyric of Oluyole, the city of brown roofs scattered among seven hills. MMA, I think, is organised street fighting.

But, long before MMA became a global combat sport in 2000, little devils of St Paul Anglican (Primary) School, Idi-Oro, Lagos, and Archbishop Aggey Memorial Secondary School, Mushin, Lagos, engaged in ‘ìjà ìgboro’, the progenitor of Mixed Martial Arts. Retrospectively, I’m guilty of being part of the little devils of both schools.

Because, instead of heeding the ‘blessed are the peacemakers’ injunction in the Holy Scriptures, to ‘inherit the kingdom of God’, what we did as little demons that we were was to add fuel to the embers of hostility smouldering among fellow students.

As soon as you noticed two students in a heated argument, instead of you to sue for peace, the naughty reaction was for you to grab some soil in clenched fists and spread your fists towards the two disputants, daring both pupils to slap one of the outstretched fists: ‘Ení bá lè jà, kó gbon!’

‘Ení bá lè jà, kó gbon!’ was a call to arms. To prove you’re a lionheart ready to fight, you slap the clenched fist open and watch its content pour out to the ground.

So, in a jiffy, you would see friends who were laughing a while ago, engage in a free-for-all instanter. Regrettably, I initiated some of such fights and participated in not a few. You probably can’t grow up in Mushin and be fainthearted.

Taliatu Mudashiru was my friend and classmate in Forms 1 and 2. Occasionally, when I didn’t get dropped off at school by my father, and I had to make it to school on my own, I first trek from our Awoyokun Street residence to Taliatu’s house on Adegboyega Street before both of us would head up to Akinade Ayodeji’s house two blocks away en route to school.

I thought I was stronger than Tali, as we fondly called him, or Pali Tutu (Wet Cardboard) – if the caller was a mischievous classmate – until one day when we disagreed during a break-time chatter involving other classmates.

A peacemaker stepped forward with clenched fists, chanting, ‘K’éyin lè jà, k’émi lé wò’ran, Èsù ta’po si,’ evoking Baba Devil himself. I slapped one of the fists; Tali slapped the other! ‘Ha, Tali ke? I go kill sombodi!’

Toe-to-toe, Tunde rained blows. Tit-for-tat, Tali responded. We upturned desks and seats as the brawl spiralled to the delight of cheering classmates. But it was short-lived as the break-time bell saved the day. We swore at each other but classmates begged us, like peacemakers, to save our punches and wait till after-school hours to throw them.

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After school, excited classmates such as Taliatu Olokodana, Akinade Ayodeji alias Kuruki, Hakeem Adigun alias Slate, Jide Oladimeji alias Agama; Kunle Adeyoju alias Iron Bender, Sunday Pedro Oshokai, Sanmi Okuwobi, Sule Mustapha alias Maito; Olalekan Egungbohun, Kazeem Osuolale alias Oju etc led Tali and me to ‘Ojú Olómo ò to’, an arena so named because no parent or guardian’s eyes ever got to see what happened there.

Only Lukmon Yusuff aka OC, Jide Ajose and Segun Majekodunmi would have separated us if they were around. For his good-naturedness, Jide got the nickname Unreasonable while Segun was called Brother because he belonged to the Deeper Life Church and Yusuff got nicknamed O.C. because of his effectiveness as a football defender.

The ‘Ojú Olómo ò to’ was the playground of a primary school that had closed for the day. Impish classmates sat around the edge of the big field, leaving Tali and I at the centre to unleash the devilry in us.

Tali, bigger and an inch taller, was hoping to use his weight to an advantage, grabbing at me but I knew if he slammed me he would feed me with sand, so I used my fists to keep him off.

We wrestled and boxed and kicked and clawed for God knows how long. There was no referee. There was no timeout. There were only ringside viewers who laughed and cheered every kick and blow and the sight of blood. Tali and I bled all over, spent and gasped for breath.

Then I threw a punch, it caught Tali right in the face, and he first went down in a squat, before flattening out on his back. I should have jumped on him and finished him off, but I was barely breathing. I just left him and I turned away to look for my bag and shoes.

The following day, Tali was looking for me on the assembly ground. He appeared proud of us. He shook hands with me vigorously and we hugged for a long period – like warriors after a pyrrhic victory. He earned my respect, I earned his. Tali probably thought I was a sportsman for not finishing him off when he blanked out, but little did he know that all that was on my mind when he fell was me getting home. I probably would’ve fallen too if the fight had lasted longer.

There are similarities between my fight with Tali and the ongoing fight between one of Nigeria’s heavyweight lawyers, Aare Afe Babalola and human rights activist and lawyer, Mr Dele Farotimi.

I know Nigeria is broken and needs fixing urgently. I know that to fix it, something has to give. I know Nigeria’s coconuts of corruption must be cracked on skulls and the water thereof used as atonement for the nation’s corruption.

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I see many coconuts. I also see the head of Babalola and that of Farotimi. I see other heads, too. But whose skull(s) would crack open the coconuts?

I see a poisonous cockroach encircled by a brood of chickens. Among the chickens is the breed called Supreme. There’s also a breed called Appeal and another breed called High. There’s yet another breed called SANyeri, a name symbolising the breed’s big gowns. The chickens thrust their heads forward, sharply looking right and left, watching intently, communicating in esoteric language. What shall we do to this irritant?

Yet, the cockroach is adamant in the valley of jeopardy, six legs gangling, two antennas roving; person wey wan don die jam person wey wan kill am.

Tali Vs. Tunde. Today, I can’t even remember what caused the disagreement that snowballed into our fight, but I can never forget the pain of the fight. I had thought I would make light work of Tali but I didn’t see his gallantry coming.

Although I’ve never met Baba Babalola, he comes across as a man of commendable philanthropy and frankness. It’s only frankness that could make him stand by the Labour Party and its presidential candidate, Mr Peter Obi, in the 2023 presidential election when the elite of his tribe was queuing behind Asiwaju Bola Tinubu as ‘Shon of the Shoil’.

In the 2023 presidential election, I was neither BATified nor Atikulated just as I wasn’t Obidient. In some articles during the countdown to the election, I called for an overhaul of the 1999 Constitution before the conduct of the general elections, saying none of the presidential candidates would succeed as president if the Constitution wasn’t amended.

I also said there was no ideological difference among the All Progressives Congress, Peoples Democratic Party and Labour Party. If they were different, Nigeria wouldn’t witness six House of Representatives members of the Labour Party defecting to the APC recently, despite LP’s promise of a new Nigeria. While I predict more defections in the coming days, those already defected include Tochukwu Okere (Imo), Daulyop Fom (Plateau), Donatus Matthew (Kaduna), Bassey Akiba (Cross River), Iyawe Esosa (Edo) and Fom Daniel Chollon (Plateau).

In my recommendations, I called for devolution of powers to the states, resource control, independent candidacy and patriotism by the generality of Nigerians for a new order.

And I’ve not repented from my belief that elected Nigerian politicians loot the treasury according to the amount of money available in it, not because one was more decent than the other or one party was better than the other.

This is why I find the anti-corruption campaign of 56-year-old lawyer and human rights activist, Dele Farotimi, assuring though I’m not going to touch the libel stuff just yet.

Although Farotimi is an LP member, his rhetoric resonates with equity, fairness and justice – cornerstones of democracy.

However, there are concave and convex perspectives on the Babalola-Farotimi issue. In secondary school, Physics was intriguing to me, though I found its abstraction intimidating and perplexing. It was in Physics that I learnt about convex and concave lenses. I was taught in secondary school that both lenses are used for correcting short-sightedness and long-sightedness.

Tali died a long time ago. May his soul rest in peace. Baba Afe Babalola is 11 years older than my father who died last March at 84. May the Lord grant Baba Babalola more years in good health, and may he see the end of this war.

To be continued.

Email: [email protected]

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The cockroach called Dele Farotimi (1)

Farooq Kperogi: Petrol is cheaper in Atlanta than in Nigeria

This week, as I refueled my car, I couldn’t help but be struck by the sharp contrast between petrol prices here in Metro Atlanta and in Nigeria.

In Metro Atlanta, fuel prices hover at $2.70 per gallon, which is equivalent to around 67 cents per liter. (Four liters make up a gallon.) Translating this into naira reveals a stark discrepancy.

At the current exchange rate of 1,647 naira to the dollar, a gallon of petrol in Atlanta equates to approximately 5,200 naira or 1,102 naira per liter. That’s astonishingly cheaper than Nigeria’s prevailing rate of around 1,300 naira per liter.

This disparity grows even more troubling in light of the wildly differential minimum wage standards between Nigeria and the United States. In the United States, the federal minimum wage is $7.25 per hour, which amounts to roughly $1,200 a month. Converted into naira, this comes to nearly 1,974,000 (one million, nine hundred and seventy four thousand) naira.

Note that almost no one earns the minimum wage. Even the lowest remunerated workers here earn above the minimum wage. For example, my 16-year-old daughter who works at an entertainment restaurant chain on weekends earns $13 an hour.

Meanwhile, the federal minimum wage in Nigeria is a piddling 70,000 naira, or around $42.55. In other words, Nigerians with a minimum wage of 70,000 per month pay a higher rate at the pump than Atlantans with a minimum wage of 1.9 million naira per month.

When one presents these figures, defenders of past and present Nigerian regimes— and clueless, stonyhearted neoliberal evangelists— often argue that it’s fruitless to compare Nigeria with the United States, the world’s largest economy.

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Yet, it’s worth noting that the U.S. does not indulge in the luxuries afforded to Nigeria’s ruling political elites. For instance, while American presidents pay for their own meals, including the meals of their guests, Nigeria allocates billions for the upkeep of its first families.

Such contrasts illustrate not merely economic differences but also the broader question of public accountability and fiscal priorities.

In much of the developed world, government subsidies for fuel are deemed vital, particularly where public transport systems are not robust. In the U.S., for example, state governments sometimes provide targeted subsidies to cushion residents from high fuel prices.

The lower fuel prices in America are facilitated by state subsidies aimed at counterbalancing a lack of comprehensive public transit options, as is the case in Western Europe.

For instance, the governor of Georgia, Governor Brian Kemp, recently decided to suspend fuel taxes in Georgia following Hurricane Helene, which temporarily reduced petrol prices to around $2.50 per gallon. This is typical all over the United States.

The Center for Investigative Reporting found that the true cost of petrol in the United States is $15 per gallon, that is, $3.75 per liter. Converted into naira, that would amount to 24,648.90 naira per gallon or 6,162.23 naira per liter. But the average pump price of petrol in the United States is $3.16 per gallon.

(Gas prices can vary greatly within each state, with Texas having the lowest price of $2.669 per gallon and California the highest price at $4.68 per gallon. Note that California’s minimum wage is more than twice the federal minimum wage at $16.00 an hour.)

Americans don’t pay the actual cost of petrol because their state governments spend billions to subsidize their petrol consumption. According to the IMF, which has demonized fuel subsidies in the developing world, compelled governments to remove subsidies, and recruited scorn-worthy traitors to brainwash poor people into accepting that subsidies are bad for them, the United States spent $757 billion in fossil fuel subsidies in 2022 alone.

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Globally, the IMF said, “subsidies surged to a record $7 trillion [in 2022] as governments supported consumers and businesses during the global spike in energy prices caused by Russia’s invasion of Ukraine and the economic recovery from the pandemic.” That represents 7 percent of global GDP.

U.S. state governments spent a significant sum on fuel subsidies, largely as part of measures to alleviate the impact of elevated energy costs. These measures included gas tax holidays, direct consumer grants, and discounts, aiming to shield residents from the global surge in fuel prices following supply disruptions caused by international events like the Ukraine crisis.

These interventions illustrate the fiscal lengths governments are willing to go to stabilize fuel costs for their citizens amid economic challenges.

Countries as diverse as Egypt and Indonesia have similarly leveraged fuel subsidies to maintain price stability, alleviate poverty, and stimulate their economies. These examples illuminate a fundamental principle that subsidies, when properly managed, can serve as powerful tools to bridge income disparities and invigorate economic growth.

But not in Nigeria. Nigerians face relentless economic strain despite residing in an oil-producing nation. It’s a country where, somehow, people have been persuaded by a sophisticated mob of well-compensated spin doctors that exorbitant fuel prices are an unavoidable reality to which they must resign themselves.

For a resource-rich nation, which is also among the poorest globally, this is a bitter, disconcerting irony.

Those who denounce subsidies as inefficacious or detrimental often betray a limited understanding of their societal role, or worse, they may advocate for policies that consolidate wealth at the top.

In societies grappling with inequality, subsidies can mean the difference between bare survival and a modest but dignified life for millions.

To disparage such measures, particularly in a nation with profound economic inequalities, is to endorse a vision of society that is untenably divided—and to invite criticism that should rightly be directed not only toward them but, if you’ll pardon the expression, toward the legacy of those who espouse such values.

It is a grave irony, and a deeply unjust one, that the people of Nigeria — a nation abundantly blessed with oil wealth — must endure petrol prices that surpass those of Atlanta, a city in one of the world’s richest nations. This, while the average Nigerian subsists on a minimum wage of approximately $43 a month, a pittance that could scarcely fill a tank, let alone sustain a family.

The removal of petrol subsidies is not merely an economic policy; it is a sentence handed down to the already struggling, forcing countless Nigerians to choose between transportation, sustenance, and survival. The ripple effects are evident in unchecked inflation spirals, faltering businesses, and tragic loss of lives in the wake of avoidable hardship.

To govern is to protect, to prioritize the well-being of the many over the convenience of the few. To abandon subsidies under the guise of fiscal responsibility while the vulnerable teeter on the edge of despair is neither responsible nor just. It is, instead, an abdication of moral duty.

President Tinubu should restore the subsidies minus the corruption, not as a concession, but as an obligation to the people he is obligated to serve. To do so is not to admit defeat but to affirm humanity, to wield governance as a tool of compassion rather than austerity.

After all, what use is a nation’s wealth if it is not deployed in the service of its citizens? Let Nigeria’s oil be a blessing once more, not a bitter reminder of inequalities entrenched and lives disregarded.

Farooq Kperogi : Petrol is cheaper in Atlanta than in Nigeria

Farooq Kperogi is a renowned columnist and United States-based Professor of Journalism.