You're now dead. Poor Nigerian. You died last night. The hospital has killed you. No, the government has killed you. You died in a government hospital, your life lost to fever. The doctors at the government hospital were on strike over unpaid allowances.

On the afternoon of your death, poor Nigerian, your idle son, who now keep keys for neighbours because ASUU had embarked on an indefinite strike, had hired a keke to bring you to the government hospital where you harvested your death.

The rickety gates of the hospital were crowded, crowded with other unfortunate Nigerians who had come there to receive treatments. Your son stretched you out like a log of wood at the gates of the hospital. He didn't mind the crowd, didn't even mind whether a stampede could erupt.

Your son was optimistic. He wished the government would answer the prayers of the doctors and the lingering strike would immediately come to a halt. But your son's optimism was quenched at sunset when the melting candle of your life burned out. You died.

Your son was furious, furious that you died for nothing, that you would have survived if you had lived in a country where the lives of the masses mattered. As your son cried over your lifeless body, the stories of politicians and children of politicians who flew abroad for medical treatment crept into his mind.

He thought about the son of the president, how the two-headed lad bought a power bike worth twenty million naira and was flown abroad when the bike revolted. And your son became more furious. I will put an end to this nonsense if I had the chance to rule Nigeria, he vowed to himself.

Poor Nigerian, your body is now being carried to the mortuary and your family members have several things to worry about before your burial. They have to worry about the epileptic power supply in the government mortuaries, whether there will be enough power to preserve your body before burial. Also, they have to worry about ritualists who scavenge the mortuaries, looking for body parts to harvest. They hoped you would be intact at burial.

Well, whatever happens to your poor body in Nigeria is no longer your business. All that matters now, poor Nigerian, is the destination of your soul. You have been told that only the righteous will inherit the kingdom of heaven. There, they will walk on the streets of gold, play with lions, eat fresh fruits, and shout hallelujah forever and ever.

Not only that, you have been told that heaven is a place of bliss, a place where there will be uninterrupted power supply. There will be plenty water and food. There will be plenty clothes and shoes to wear, good roads to ride the ecclesiastical horses and the chariots of fire. No Agberos and Jagaban, except the Almighty, to dictate the affairs of things.

It was these heavenly promises, poor Nigerian, that didn't make you to fight for your rights and hold your government officials accountable. You refused to protest. You sold your votes. You celebrated and condoned corruption. You collected bribes to attend political rallies, to validate the politicians who have destroyed Nigeria.

Now you're dead, poor Nigerian, and the stark realities of heaven have confronted you. To your greatest surprise, you found that there were different wings of heaven. There was the American Wing. The Russian Wing. The Canadian Wing. The German Wing. The Nigerian Wing. And so on.

The Nigerian Wing of heaven, you were told, has two large villas - The Fela Villa and the Abacha Villa. The glowing winged angels who ushered you through the Nigerian Wing led you to the Abacha Villa, the place where Nigerians who refused to hold their government accountable are everlastingly lodged.

You were led through a long passage that stretched into an eternity of rooms. After a long walk, the angels who led you stopped at a door and showed you the room you have been allotted.

"You're welcome to the Abacha Villa of the Nigerian Wing of Heaven." One of the angels smiled at you. "Please make yourself comfortable. You may call us on 777 if you have any emergency."

You smiled and walked into the room, ready to catch the thrills of heaven, the place you had dreamt to be all your life. The white walls of the room glittered as the rays of the bright bulbs in the room fell upon it.

As you marvelled at the beauty of the room, you remembered that the battery of your cellphone was running out. So, you decided to charge it. Afterwards, you would iron your white garment for the next day's service before the white throne of the Almighty.

As you pressed towards the electric socket in the room, nevertheless, the light bulbs suddenly went off. There was total blackout.

"What?" You shouted, terrified. "What's happening here? No constant light in heaven?"

You quickly put on your phone's torchlight to scare the thick cloud of darkness in the room, hoping that the quenched bulbs will resurrect again. In the meantime, you decided to explore the kitchen.

There you found a tap. You twisted the neck of the tap but it refused to vomit water. It was as dry as harmattan. No water in heaven? This cannot be the heaven my Sunday School teachers taught me, you thought to yourself.

Still battling with your disillusionment, your eyes fell on a refrigerator resting at the corner of the kitchen. You opened it, hoping to find some water or even a glass of juice. But there was nothing, nothing except some wandering cockroaches.

"What kind of heaven is this?" You screamed on top of your voice. You would call 777 immediately. You couldn't bear the chaos of this new place called heaven.

You grabbed your phone and dialled 777. The network didn't connect on time. You considered sending a mail but there was no network. You tried 777 again. And this time your luck came alive.

"Hello there," you cried. "Is that the reception, the reception of heaven?"

"Yes. Who am I speaking with please?"

"It's me. Me the Nigerian man that came in a few moments ago."

"Thousands of Nigerians die every hour. Sir, can you please tell me your name."

"Oh sorry. I am the new man in room F2019."

"The one that died in a government hospital a while ago?"

"Yes. It's me. There is an emergency here. No light in my room. No water. No food. Cockroaches everywhere. Please tell me this is not heaven. Tell me it is hell."

"Sir," the angel coughed. "We are deeply sorry for the inconveniences. But may I ask you a question, is there uninterrupted light in Nigeria?"

"No, madam" you answered.

"Is there enough food in Nigeria and does everybody in your country have access to good water?

"No, madam"

"Are your internet services reliable?"
"No, madam."

"Did you protest against your government?"
"No, madam."

"So why are you disturbing our peace because you don't have light and water in your room at the moment?"

"But I expect heaven to be a perfect place," You stammered. "There should be basic amenities."

"Shouldn't there be basic amenities in Nigeria too? Can't your government and people make the kind of heaven you seek out of Nigeria?"

"Eh,"

"You heard me. Go and demand your rights from those to whom you pay your taxes, not us." The angel hanged up.

"Wake up daddy. It's half past seven." Jeered your son who now keep keys for neighbours due to the ongoing ASUU strike.

You jumped to your feet, terrified. "What a horrible dream!" Your voice shook as you spoke.

Afterwards, your eyes fell on the bags of rice you have received from the Broom and the Umbrella parties. You charged towards the bags of rice, ready to burn them to ashes. You didn't want to go to the Nigerian Wing of Heaven, if there was any such place, when you die.

David Ademule is a student of human society and crime. He lives and writes from Lagos where he goes about carrying his magical pen in his pockets.

Source: http://facebook.com/enigmaticgandhi