The President wakes up. He slept very late last
night. It is in the nature of the calling – a
series of late-night meetings that stretch well
into the next day. Last night, there was the one
with the two friendly state governors, who
brought a list of allegedly disloyal ministers.
After that, the party executives, who wanted to
discuss the forthcoming governorship election
in one of those troubled states.
What state, by the way, isn’t a troubled one in
this country, when you think of Ebola and
Boko Haram and the marauding herdsmen?
Not to talk of politicians themselves and their
endless “wahala”.
Speaking of Ebola, it was the issue on the table
for the President’s third late-night meeting.
But it was a boring meeting; full of confusing
numbers and epidemiological jargon. It
reminded the President of the time when he
had to make a living teaching. Teaching
students who had no desire to learn, in a
university that had no desire to stay open. The
humdrum-ness of it all still sometimes
produces a sinking feeling in his stomach.
Years of waking up, praying the Datsun
Bluebird would start without fuss. It now
seems like that life was lived on another
planet.
The President sits up in bed, yawns and
stretches. He is alone, the Madam is
somewhere in Europe inaugurating a warship,
or was it a new wardrobe. He tries to
remember what day of the week it is. That’s
the problem with this office – time is no
longer your own. You are surrounded by an
infinite number of persons whose job it is to
snatch time out of your hands. People think
the President is powerful. But he is not as
powerful as those people; who make him do
stuffs he has not the slightest clue about.
The President steps out of bed, with no idea
what his day might look like. He reaches for
the bell, to summon help. Just before he
presses the button, there is a knock on the
door. He makes his way to the door. The image
that flashes through his mind is a strange one:
what if the Villa has been overrun by hostile
forces, and he is about to be captured like
Laurent Gbagbo or Samuel Doe. But this is
Nigeria, not Ivory Coast or Liberia, and Nigeria
is not at war.
Nigeria is not at war. Nigeria is not at war.
Technically, that might not be true. Boko
Haram is no longer a terrorist group in that
sense, it is now an army, if what you read is to
be believed. That is another problem with
being President. How do you know what to
believe? You can’t just jump into your car and
drive off to Maiduguri to seek the truth. Every
movement has to be choreographed; every step
pre-planned. Those security people are tyrants.
You can’t go here or there, can’t do this or
that. They relish the hold they have over the
C-in-C. What’s the point of being the most
powerful person in the country if other people
have to make decisions for you?
The President can’t even keep money in his
own name – other people have to do it for
you. Any one of those small boys who loiter
around his office probably has more money
underneath his bed than the President has ever
seen in his life. Without these people, the
President is a snot-nosed little boy crying and
wondering where mummy is. Half of the things
done in the President’s name, he has no idea.
Half of the statements credited to “the
Presidency” have nothing to do with him. Most
of the money taken in his name will never
come near him.
The President opens the door. It is the Private
Secretary, the Aide de Camp, and the
spokesman. They all look tired; they went to
bed at the same time but have to wake up well
before the President. Because they are not the
president. That is the edge he has. People have
to at least pretend to respect him.
The men instantly proceed to do what they’re
paid to do: snatch time out of his hands. He
can hear Time crying like a baby, as these
marauders drive the rusty dagger of
officialdom into its beating heart.
The spokesman hands him a sheet of paper on
which the day’s news has been summarised.
The President has a feeling that his people
sometimes strive to protect him from too
much bad news, but the news these days is so
full of badness you can’t conceal much from
anyone. Ah, here’s some good news: the
military has retaken the town they lost to Boko
Haram. Good news, if true. But how is a
President to know for sure that these military
people and the journalists are not lying? The
President knows he needs people who can tell
him the truth.
Preferably, those who can do it without
abusing him every time. Not every time abuse
President. Sometimes, take it easy. The weight
of their name-calling has convinced even
search-engines to believe the worst about him.
Do they know how painful it is? Do they ever
think that his children might also be on the
Internet reading these things?
The President’s consolation lies in what some
of his “enemies” have said about him. The Emir
said he is a good man surrounded by bad
people. The Pastor who recently wanted to
become Vice-President said he is trying his
best but that that best is not good enough. But
he also admitted that Nigeria is a complicated
country. That’s comforting, somewhat.
Nigeria is a complicated country. Everybody
wants something, and everybody assumes that
their chances of getting what they want are
tied to their ability to prevent everyone else
from getting what they want. Does that make
sense? Trapped in the madness is the
President, listening to millions of opinions,
trying to satisfy as many people as possible.
The President is thinking of a scheme that will
allow government critics to experience the
office of President for a day, or a week.
Something like what they do in Lagos, where
schoolkids get the chance to be Governor for a
day. Let them feel the pressure a little. On
such a day, when the reins of government are
left in the hands of one of those many
noisemakers, the President imagines himself
disappearing to his village in the creeks, where
he will smuggle himself onto a canoe and just
float gently down the river, pretending he is
just a poor fisherman with nary a care in the
world.
But he can immediately list at least 15
powerful people who will instantly overrule the
idea. And they can get the security people to
write a thousand-page report on why it would
be a bad idea. And they will leak the idea to
the papers and everyone will pounce on it and
find their own sinister explanation.
The President realises that managing his own
camp – analysing people’s motivations, keeping
them loyal, pretending to be in control – is
perhaps even more difficult than running the
goddamn country.
Someone coughs, to jolt the President out of
his reverie. It is the ADC. Ah, right, where
were we? What am I doing today? The answers
tumble out.
A National Summit on Education and Security,
to be declared open at 10. (He is going to be
late, he knows, but they will have to wait for
him). Then, it’s back to the office, for eight
courtesy visits and two presentations of
ambassadorial letters of credence; to eat up
the time until lunch. The entire afternoon will
be expended on visits from party chieftains
and godfathers, all of who insist they have
important matters to discuss; none of whom a
sitting President can afford to disdain. (Even
the almighty Baba had to do plenty of begging
to get a second term). At 6pm, he has to take
a call from the White House. What is he going
to tell Obama? At 7pm, there will be a
Presidential Media chat; to provide fresh
material for all who delight in abusing him. At
8pm, he has to host the “Transformation
Ambassadors” to dinner. (He should remember
to ask who’s funding them). At 10pm, the
kitchen cabinet will assemble, to drink and
gossip and strategise, until the early hours.
And then, the President will go to bed, to
dream that Abu Shekau, chewing-stick-in-
mouth, is chasing him around Eagle Square,
while Nigerians point and laugh.

www.punchng.com/opinion/a-day-in-the-presidents-life/

Please lets cut him a break, he is human now!

he who wear d shoe knows where it pinches

a statement credited to queen of enland:
d crown is glamourous viewed from afar, however there is nothing glamourous when u r d one wearing it