by Rudolf Okonkwo

During dinner, Bomboy, my son, said he liked Malala. My eyes shone as he said it. Now, that’s my boy. I don’t want him to make the same mistake I made. I want him to marry up.

Sunday, July 13, 2014:

When my Aso Rock job is done, historians will be falling over each other to figure out the reasons behind the great decisions I took that transformed Nigeria. One of the decisions that will baffle them is why I stopped writing my diary. To dispel rumors that will be presented as facts, I want to state here the reason why I suspended writing my diary. No, it was not because Patie found it under the mattress, read it, got furious, beat me up and gave me a red eye that I did not come out in public for two days. The truth is that I stopped writing my diary when my Spook told me that the Americans were reading it. That was how I figured out that if $49 billion dollars is missing in Nigeria, the Americans will know. People don’t know, but there is a valid reason behind every remarkable statement that I make.

At first, though, I did not believe that the Americans could possibly be reading my diary. Though I’m the first internet president of Nigeria who made Facebook popular, I wrote on paper not on one of those online diary sites set up discreetly by the American CIA. So, how did the Americans get hold of my diary? Other than Patie, the other person that comes into my room is the housekeeper. She can hardly read or write. Please don’t blame me. I didn’t hire her. If I did, I would have found someone in my own image.

I only believed what my Spook said when something happened in a discussion with the Americans. I got furious that they wanted me not to run for reelection ‘in the interest of peace.’ I then said something they did not like. The simple way to put it is that I did not use the best choice of words available to me. Forget you, would have conveyed my message well. But do I give a damn? No. In any case, the leader of their delegation was so furious that he said something to me that only someone who had read my diary would know.

I have since figured out how to keep a diary that the Americans cannot find. Spook said the best way to get the Americans is to exploit their failure of imagination. He said one can safely keep a diary on the comment page of the White House website and no CIA operative would read it.

Apama, Ajasco, Jegede and Apena all came around and we watched Germany beat Argentina at the World Cup in Brazil. Patie and I had hoped to go there if the Super Eagles had made it into the quarter finals. The person most disappointed that we won’t be going was Ajasco. He had some plans to reach the source of this Brazilian hair that is now in vogue. We gulped some bottles of red Burgundy from France and Chateau Catour Pauillac. My side won. In the middle of it all, Ajasco made me sign the letter to the National Assembly requesting $1bn loan to fight Boko Haram. My man, Mark, said he will take care of the rest. He knows how we do it.

Monday, July 14, 2014:

So, I met with the little girl from Pakistan, Malala, today as part of our charm offensive. I thought it all went well until I got debriefed. What were they expecting from me, especially Apama? To outshine a girl who had taken a bullet from the Taliban?  I haven’t even gone near Sambisa forest. I refuse to accept that I was fidgeting because of that small girl. It was just the cameras. There were so many of them, especially from those white TV people.  There is something about the way they look at me that I don’t like. They are as sassy as that CNN ‘ s Isha Sassy.

Malala Foundation is questioning our educational strategy. Who told them to stick their stinking fingers into our affairs? Even Pakistan! The goats are eating the palm fronds right on my head. It’s not their fault. It’s the fault of all those who pulled their hair and swallowed, all in a bid to stop my transformational agenda.

In rejuvenating my diary, I particularly want to say something about that small girl who insulted me on the pages of the Washington Post. Karen whatever. She thinks that we don’t know that she was a former Sahara reporter. We know. She didn’t like the article that I wrote in Washington Post but is that why she has to mock me? Who is she to tell the world what Goodluck Jonathan should have written? Ok, some news flash:  I didn’t write the Washington Post article.  Do I need to tell you that? Doesn’t that in and of itself make what she wrote foolish?

You see, sometimes my advisors think they know more than me. That I keep quiet does not mean they know better. When Spook suggested that we needed to finish those Saharareporters, I told him no. In one meeting we had, I told him that a chick does not forget who pruned its feathers during the rainy season. When the cabal around Yar’Adua was humiliating me, Saharareporters was one of the few media outfits on my side. And I did not know them. They just thought I was on the right side of history.

That was why I refused to sign off on their destruction. I was afraid that if we scatter them like oil bean seed, they will each reemerge on different platforms. Instead of fighting one Saharareporters, we will have ten of them to deal with. I felt that wasn’t a smart idea. Now see the small girl ex-saharareporter giving me headache at Washington Post.

I, however, signed off on plan-B – setting up our own online media outlets. I know how many quantum in dollars that I was asked to sign off for that project. Apama and Ajasco have shown me websites we are keeping afloat but are they making any impact? I don’t think so. One of those NIDO guys the other day told me there is a way to know how a website is doing. He said there is a website that ranks traffic at other websites. I have forgotten what he called the site. I will summon Apama and Ajasco and Jegede. Any of these our websites that has been operational for 6 months or more that does not crack the top 50 websites that Nigerians visit, I will order that we stop wasting money on them. These guys cannot be gulping money from us without adding value. I heard some of the website owners now have a wife at home and another one abroad and they travel up and down every two months. There is enough of that taking place at the National Assembly. This policy of evaluation of output should also include those internet warriors of ours that I was told are now in their high hundreds. Despite their number, I don’t think the conversation has shifted in our favor.

Tuesday, July 15, 2014:

My boys have delivered. The memo writing memoirist is now a mere memory. Let it be a warning to others. The Adamawa Big Mouth goes down. That’s one. We move on to Nassarawa. Then we will get to you, Madam Undue Process. If she thinks I’m going to dance to her tune, she needs to use her teeth to count her tongue. We will bring back the girls when we want, not when she wants. If she likes, let her count the seconds of every day.

So we brought home that Boko Haram criminal from Sudan. It was a big triumph.  Not even the Americans could repatriate Osama bin Laden from Sudan, but we did it. But did we get any credit in the media? No. Instead they were busy talking about Malaysian airline that was shut down and all those jazz. Who cares? Do you know how many people are killed by Boko Haram each day in this country?

I have come to accept that I will never do enough to satisfy these people. But the Holy Book says that stone that the builder refused shall be the head corner stone. In no time, historians will tell them what I already know. I’m just like Obama, underappreciated by the people of my time and age.

All the wahala about the Chibok parents not meeting with me did not bother me. They are the ones who missed an opportunity to get some bags of rice. I was the one calming Jegede down. The person that I’m sorry for is Madam Undue Process. That’s how people waste opportunities. If only she will believe in my government the way her sister, Ngo does, she will be licking her fingers now instead collecting tears in her palm.

During dinner, Bomboy, my son, said he liked Malala. My eyes shone as he said it. Now, that’s my boy. I don’t want him to make the same mistake I made. I want him to marry up.

Wednesday, July 16, 2014:

Apama reported this morning that the National Conference is deadlocked on derivation formula. I said, good for them, stupid people. They think that governance is easy. We really got all those who run their mouths together. What a good distraction it was while it lasted. I’m happy, though, that the likes of Yinka Odumakin and Tunde Bakare are coming around. They are beginning to understand all the powers and principalities that I’m up against.

Ajasco said that this thing Danjuma said to me at the inauguration of the Victims Support Fund was not funny. I thought he was trying to be funny. He wants me to lead them to Sambisa forest. I’m not falling for that trap. Who wan die? No be me. The generals no wan die, na me go die for them? Peter did not go to Jude’s wedding and nothing spoil. So, why me? At the end, they will all confess that I’m a better politician than they are. The senate just dismissed the allegation that some NNPC funds were not remitted to the federal account. Now I hope the busybodies in the media will leave my darling Sweet Brent alone. What the senate did today makes we wish we have someone like Mark at the helm in the House of Representatives. Maybe we should add that Tambu Tambu on the impeachment list. I will remember to ask Apama tomorrow. He understands these things better than me.

Thursday, July 17, 2014:

I spoke to my lord spiritual and tithe-tual, Can-Ayo-Can, about the situation in the Middle East. He has not stopped calling as the fight escalates. He was passionate that my government should support Israel. His passion made me offer to visit Gaza and Israel to help them resolve that crisis. With my experience containing the excesses of Boko Haram, I can show the two sides the way to a lasting peace.

I wanted to give Apama some secret information to write a book for me using a Pseudonym. I wanted the book to be called. “Jonathan: The President Nobody Knows.” But I have been told that the man is busy collecting materials to write his own book. But I really want to repaint my image out there.

Apama showed me on Saharareporters what this other small girl writer wrote about me- something about my miraculous deliverance. I could not finish reading it. It was too long and too boring. I know what her problem is. Since the censorship board delayed the release of her movie, she has been getting more and more irritated. Does she know that I’m the one who pressed the buttons to let them release the movie? I know what is eating her up. I have not organized a reception for her the way I did for Malala. I know it. She wants me to gather all Nigerians and raise her hand and proclaim her the one who will write the great Nigerian novel. When I thought she was a good person, I actually toyed with that idea of acknowledging what she has achieved by putting her on a postal stamp. But Apama told me it is too premature and that he, Apama, is on course to write the Great Nigerian novel. So she is just the forerunner.

Friday, July 18, 2014:

Ajasco came and suggested that I should be photographed reading a book. I was mad that he interrupted the Candy Crush game I was playing on my cell phone to tell me that nonsense. Then they all gathered – Ajasco, Apama and Jegede – to debate which book I should pretend I was reading for the picture. Patie walked in and overheard what we were talking about. She suggested that I hold “Eze Goes to School.” When she left the room, I could not hold myself anymore. I said to the gang, “Dia is a God ooo.” Ajasco said I should hold “Americanah” and see if that small girl butterfly who thinks herself a bird will get off my case. I decided to hold the History of West Africa.

I made a goodwill phone call to my friend, Jacob Zuma, as the world marks Mandela Day. One day, long after my enemies have all died off, Nigeria will pick a day to remember as mine.

I dreamt about Israel and Hamas. On the screen of the TV, I saw a news flash that said, “Israel Enters Gaza” and underneath that was a ticker that said, “Jonathan Enters Sambisa.” I woke up, sweating.

Saturday, July 19, 2014:

I was planting cocoyam in my Facebook Farmville when my lord spiritual and tithe-tual, Can-Ayo-Can, called. He said they have killed an Israeli. He wants me to do something- go to the United Nations, he said, send support troops to Tel Aviv, buy an Iron Dome for Israel. I don’t get it. Since we came back from Israel I have not seen all the changes he promised would follow me for the rest of my term as president. His accuracy level is just as bad as those of the imported babalawo from Benin Republic.

This evening, another big opposition politician came into Aso Rock to pledge that he will defect to our great party. I pay no mind to all the reasons he gave: how great I am and how much votes he would bring to me in 2015. Since we won in Ekiti, they have been coming in here and calling me Ranka Dede. Me, Jonathan? I thought I was clueless? I know the reason why the dog follows the man with a bloated stomach. It’s because one thing is sure to happen to him: he will either poop or vomit the contents of his stomach. That’s all this it is about. I cannot be deceived.

 

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This article was published with permission from Sahara Reporters

Op-ed pieces and contributions are the opinions of the writers only and do not represent the opinions of Y!/YNaija.