Monday
July 27, 2009 |
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A few years ago, a cousin of mine
told me about a night visit to a fellow townsman’s home, a longtime
friend who never managed to make it past secondary school. Both men had
met infrequently since their paths diverged after secondary school – the
one man going on to the university and then a corporate job in Lagos
whilst the other remained home-bound, scratching at life.
My cousin was in town to spend part of his annual vacation in the
country. Recalling his friend’s flair for telling jokes, my cousin grew
nostalgic. He decided to surprise the man.
The man was outside, his body hunched over a small fire that burned from
tiny sticks. A faint scent of roasting meat wafted in the air. My
cousin, still concealed by the darkness, was about to joke that he
wanted a piece of that meal, but something forced him to hold back. As
soon as he heard somebody’s footsteps, the hunched figure seemed to
tense up. Then he snatched something from the fire and tossed it under a
low stool.
The two men exchanged pleasantries, then bantered and reminisced about
their long-ago adventures.
But as the visitor lingered, my cousin got the distinct impression that
the man was uncomfortable. A certain tinge of irksomeness had crept into
his host’s demeanor. More and more, the man’s laughter seemed forced,
not hearty and carefree. The dying fire hissed intermittently and shot
fleeting sparks into the night air. With the air sounding less and less
convivial, my cousin knew that it was best to bid farewell and leave.
Yet, he didn’t do so.
Soon, the man reached underneath the stool and hidden what he’d hidden
as my cousin arrived. It was a half-roasted rat, pitifully small.
With something of a groan, the man said, “My brother, we’ve known each
other for a long time. Things are hard.”
His tone haunted my cousin – it was between anguish and shame.
My cousin remembered being so startled that he momentarily lost all
speech. Whatever sentiment he felt to express seemed strained or odd. He
watched, dumbstruck, as the man stoked the fire and resumed the roasting
of his quarry.
Somehow I recalled this harrowing narrative of the kind of wretched
dinners eaten by millions of Nigerians as I read reports in last week’s
papers about just-retired Inspector General of Police Mike Okiro and the
stupendous sums he owes a bank.
The Daily Independent went to the heart of the matter. It reported that
“The Nigeria Deposit Insurance Corporation (NDIC) has accused the
Inspector General of Police, Mr. Mike Okiro, of being a culprit in the
failed banks saga. Mr. Okiro was alleged to have failed to repay the
N166 million loan he sourced from the liquidated Lead Bank Ltd.”
If the reports hold up, then Okiro, a serving police officer, was able
to run a business on the side. And he somehow talked a (now failed) bank
into lending him more than one million dollars to enable him to “finance
a pipeline laying contract…he won from Nigeria Agip Oil Company (NAOC).”
The ex-police boss reportedly obtained the loans between 2000 and 2001
through Hekiro Nigeria Ltd, a family business.
This story has ramifications that ought to trouble all citizens,
including even those who choose aloofness about Nigeria’s stupefying
ways.
First, what are we to make of the nation’s topmost police officer who
ignores the rule barring civil servants from engaging in private
practice? When a man charged with running the police busies himself with
chasing after million dollar loans for his family business, should we be
surprised at the ghastly state of law enforcement in the country?
It gets worse. On what basis did Okiro secure the loans? Were the
applications subjected to proper scrutiny and vetting? If the newspaper
accounts are accurate – and, so far, one is yet to read a rebuttal –
then we must concur that Okiro’s questionable business practices
contributed to the demise of a major bank. Imagine all the thousands of
employees this man has herded into the jobless sector. Does he realize
that the rising crime wave in Nigeria is fueled, in large measure, by
upsurge in unemployment?
More than seventy percent of the Nigerian populace, it’s reported, feeds
on about a dollar per day. Think about that for a moment: these men,
women and children are reduced to hunting mice. At that rate, the mice
in city sewers feed better than the vast majority of citizens in
Africa’s most populous nation. Yet, the Okiros in our midst relish
playing rich games with other people’s money.
