In 2012, Heidi Holland, a Zimbabwean journalist, unveiled a penetrating psychobiography of Robert Mugabe in her book Dinner With Mugabe. It portrays Mugabe’s transformation from a freedom fighter and revolutionary lawyer into a grotesque dictator. Holland’s firsthand experience with Mugabe, whom she unexpectedly hosted for dinner in 1975, forms the foundation of this chilling account. That night, Mugabe, fresh from an eleven-year imprisonment, was on the brink of escaping into Mozambique to wage war against white rule. Holland would later observe Mugabe’s descent from a guerrilla leader into a ruthless tyrant.
Over the years, Holland meticulously pieced together Mugabe’s complex persona, revealing how his despotic rule stemmed from a tortured relationship with Britain. His fury, especially towards white farmers whom he branded “Britain’s children,” and his cold governance reflected the harshness of his upbringing in a Shona family. The book unveils two types of leaders: those whose flaws are evident from the start, and those who, like Mugabe, initially appear innocent but eventually reveal a brutal side.
Today, Nigeria finds itself in a similarly grim situation. The Yoruba have a saying that echoes this duality in leadership: “e-ti-m’oko-l’óko-ikún-kí-e-tó-gbin-èpà-si.” This phrase reflects the fate of planting seeds in a squirrel-infested field, where the farmer, knowing the inevitable outcome, foolishly laments the destruction of his crops. Nigeria’s plight is akin to this, as the country now grapples with the consequences of its leadership choices.
In Nigeria, 2024 feels like a sour fruit—Iyeye, as the Yoruba would say. This hog plum, known for its sour-sweet seeds, symbolizes the bitter taste of life under the current administration. The elders sing songs that extol the virtues of good character, but Nigeria’s leaders resemble the Àkàlàmàgbò, or the Abyssinian hornbill, a bird notorious for feeding on sacrifices meant for the gods and on carrion. Nigerians, in their desperate quest for a messiah, have repeatedly misread the true nature of their leaders.
Nigerians once longed for a leader who grew up without shoes, only to receive one who could barely distinguish right from wrong. They sought a Spartan figure and ended up with a leader whose intellect is as barren as a Venetian graveyard. Most recently, they mistook Àkàlàmàgbò for the Odíderé—the trustworthy parrot revered by the Iwo people.
On Thursday, as I watched fuel being funneled into my car at N1,000 per liter, I couldn’t help but recall a conversation from October 10, 1998, with today’s leader, who then described Nigeria’s state as “retrogression, rolling backwards, on reverse gear.” It is distressing to witness the reality of his words today. Despite the warnings and prophecies of doom that many, including myself, voiced back in January 2022, Nigerians chose to embrace a leader whose past clearly spelled disaster.
In their excitement, Nigerians once sang the praises of a future filled with abundance, echoing a historical song from the Oyo Empire during the reign of Alaafin Abiodun, a time of prosperity and peace. Yet, they failed to heed the warnings that this new leader was more akin to Alaafin Aole, who would plunder their future.
Now, Nigeria is reaping the bitter fruits of its choices. The land tastes like Iyeye, and the people suffer under a regime that flaunts its wealth while the masses wallow in poverty. The government’s lies and deceit only deepen the pain, creating a post-truth era where facts are sacrificed on the altar of political survival.
Peter Tosh, the Jamaican reggae legend, once asked, “Must Rastas bear this cross alone and all the heathens go free?” Nigerians, too, are burdened with the cross of a leadership that has failed them. Yet, the Yoruba remind us that nemesis is always near: “Ìtàdógún kù sí dèdè, ojó elésìín k’òla.”
