Who Killed Cicero? (article)
The eminent Roman, Marcus Tullius Cicero, was a statesman,
philosopher and orator, who lived his full life from 106-43
B.C. He was an inspiration to his time. In like manner, though
not perfect, was Bola Ige: a classicist, speechifier, Governor,
Statesman, Federal Attorney General of the most populous nation
in Africa, awaiting another opportunity to represent Africa
(via Nigeria) on an august United Nations assignment.
He was - as his enemies must admit, whatever was his apparently
odious and intransigent position that may have led to his
brutal liquidation - a prominent Nigerian, indeed, African.
How much more could one have been, as a government functionary
and public figure in one's own country? How much higher could
one have climbed to be so perfunctorily mowed down by assassins?
Whoever killed our "Cicero," for whatever reason, also decimated
the soul and spirit of the nation. One of the trusted foundation
stones of our emerging nationhood has been wrenched from our
company forever. 0, Cicero!
Now, for Nigeria, at home and abroad, the psychological impact,
disharmony and uncertainties visited by this dastardly act
on the citizenry are immeasurable. So, incrementally, our
society titters, again, towards the brink. When you strip
the forest of its trees, you lay it bare and victim to all
the vicissitudes of man and nature.
Was Oshun the theatre of this plot, or do we look farther
afield for our Cassius? Is this a practice run for darker
events waiting to beset our nation? So many worrying questions
that reinforce our anguish and uncertainties...
Some will say that Hubert Ogunde, a renowned Yoruba
traditional dramatist, had cautioned his ethnic brethren
long ago, in a challenging rendition of his Yoruba
Ronu, against being the crooked wood that destabilizes
the Nigerian hearth. Some will say that the Yorubas
must pause and reflect on the pains they inflict on
their people, and the whole country at large, by their
notorious fractiousness. Mayhem within their ranks has
oft lit the match of national conflagrations. But, can
we only blame the Yorubas? Have political assassinations
not become a national malady? As they say, when one
finger is sick, the whole hand feels the pain. To so
rudely maim and melt any Nigerian of Bola Ige's stature
will always have the same effects of disarray and bewilderment
on the national psyche. From Benin to Jos, from Lagos
to Kano; one burst of anger and destruction after another,
with various reasons adduced for these several insurrections
and public vents of anarchy. Let it be known: they are
tearing Nigeria asunder! The perpetrators of this sinister
crime must be isolated and minoritized in our society,
if we are to have any hope of national harmony and decency.
While other nations labour to climb the ladder of progress
and civilizational decency, we aspire to sever a brethren's
head in the name of a dubious and nebulous religious
sanction. In our hapless desperation understand our
essence, we sway and stumble dangerously, like a man
filled with palm wine, like a sail buffeted by violent
winds. As we succeed in destroying our tomorrow, we
bellow and complain that the world, in its silent disdain
of our raucous backwardness, spares us little respect.
Let it be known: we are our worst enemies! Why deny
how expertly we sculpted our muddied and distrusted
national image? Why pretend that our now-distant age
of national innocence and naivety vanished from the
day the man in khaki sowed his seeds of brutality and
tutored violence? These totalitarian mammons, whose
only dialect is physical force and violence.
So, today, lurking in the darkest crevices of a petrol station,
the roaches at the ready, to execute your vengeful wish for
a paltry surn; serfs of our khalifs and popes of ritual deaths.
They flood our banks with the innocent blood and carcasses
of our patriot-warriors and prophets of conscience, as the
world listens, sorry and bemused, to our mournful dirge. Never
had these home-bred godzillas so menaced our landscape of
peace. Never had we looked less potent and askance, confronted
by the darkest recesses of our national persona.
I did not know Cicero as a friend, but I feel I have lost
a friend; a friend of my nation. Our galaxy has lost one of
its brightest stars. 0, Cicero!
So, as we flock, like obedient sheep, to our temples of self-innocenting
ablution, powerless and confused to face the demons we harbour,
let us search our souls for the answer. Let us grapple with
the elementals, and defeat their evil machinations. Let us
bring an end to this national cycle of violence. Let us learn
to talk (and disagree), rather than to slay (when disagreed
with).
