Romance is Over, By Funke Egbemode

There is time for everything. The time for romancing bandits and criminals who call themselves all kinds of designer names is over. We have tried counsel. We cajoled. We begged. We paid ransom. Nothing worked. We only lost more children, more pregnant women, more schools, and more local government areas. The criminals just grew bolder while our national dignity shrank like Okobo’s sick third leg. None of the sacrifices we placed at the road junction was accepted.

But this is a new day. We have done the same thing the same way for years and harvested nothing.

What could possibly go wrong with gun-a-blazing or bomb-a-blazing when beg-a-blazing did not work?

Imagine waking up on Christmas Day to news of Uncle Donald sending his unmanned equipment of war into the huts and cabanas of terrorists—and in Sokoto too. I expected that whenever American flying weapons would land, they would scatter ground in Borno, Zamfara, and the North-Central forests where we had lost count of dead bodies. But like a thief in the night, American missiles went to the state that hosts the Seat of the Caliphate. I grabbed the biggest mug, made my tea, and sat to enjoy the sparse details.

That was when I saw the report claiming that my darling Sheikh Gumi said Nigeria must stop cooperating with America to carry out airstrikes. The report said what Trump did had the potential to polarise Nigeria and was detrimental to national sovereignty. Imagine.

The old man is worried about our pain and sovereignty—as if pain has not become part of our daily existence: pain of abduction; of parents going to bed as fathers and mothers and waking up to news that their children have been hurled into parts unknown by gunmen; pains of children who suddenly became orphans; landlords who became refugees in IDP camps. Our lives have been full of pain.

Northern able-bodied men who should be in schools and universities are doing menial jobs in the cities. Tomorrow’s leaders of the North are in Lagos, Ibadan, and Port Harcourt as maiguard, maisuya, and mai shayi.

Didn’t Sheikh Gumi hear and see these things? What sovereignty is left for a nation where a few hooded men have turned citizens into commodities of trade by barter—“Give us N150 million and we will return your daughters”? What sovereignty is left for a nation that allows funny flags to be hoisted by strange doctrine peddlers on its territory? These guys had us by the balls and were squeezing mercilessly, openly, in the open.

And the Sheikh counseled that we look for another partner if we must work with others to combat these terrorists who are stripping us naked. Hm. Baba has a point. But a woman in the throes of labour does not ask whether the midwife has tribal marks or whether the doctor wears dreadlocks or tattoos. All she wants is for the pain to end and for her healthy baby to be placed in her arms. The water yam is not allowed to grow beards in the presence of fire. Loju ina, ewura kii hu irun.

Help—and helpers—can come from strange quarters. For years, we lifted our eyes to the hills for divine assistance; why should we turn Uncle Trump down? As I wrote some weeks ago, the bandits must be routed—one way or the other. If we had let Tinubu do it without accusing him of ethnic cleansing and other such crimes, perhaps America would not have had to bomb hideouts of ISIS, ISWAP, and Lakurawa adherents. But Nigerians, the way we are, think that if we do the same things repeatedly, we can achieve different results. It did not work. The bombs were ripe for bombing, and President Donald Trump and his Ministry of War worked with President Bola Tinubu and Nigeria’s armed forces. The rest is the beginning of another phase of our history.

Me, I did not know Mr Trump would do it the way he promised—fast and furious. If he had waited for us to wake up, I would have offered him freshly brewed burukutu with smoked thigh of porcupine (oore).

But seriously, this is the beginning of a new day in the fight against terror, terrorism, and those who profit from sorrow, blood, and bereavement. Trump will come again—and as many times as he deems adequate—to put an end to the regime of nonsense going on in our forests. He is not a man given to nicely worded press statements. He does not watch body language or care if “Uche’s eyes are bloodshot.” Until he is no longer President of the United States of America and class captain of the rest of the world, those terrorists in Sambisa Forest and their founders would do well to relocate from Nigeria.

The captain is also closely watching—and listening—to those who think this is a season like any other. We should all be worried that it came to this. We could have worked it out ourselves, but we politicised every move against terrorism, as if terrorists were Soponna, the Yoruba god of smallpox. We poured palm oil on their heads and built shrines for them. But Soponna, no matter how many drums of oil you pour on his head, is not a kind god. When he strikes, he asks for more palm oil and palm wine. He still kills. Those who survive his strike bear pockmarks—his “I-was-here” signature.

That December 25 night strike was a huge step in a different direction, and its full import will unfold slowly. There will be far-reaching consequences, but we will cross that bridge if we get there. For now, the job we want done is getting done. Gb’omu f’omo, gbo’mo f’omu, ki omo sa ti yo—that is how the Yoruba captured our Christmas military intervention. Give the baby breast or give breast to the baby; as long as the baby is fed, all will be well.

The routing has started.

. egbemode3@gmail.com.

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