Skido for Governor

Skido had done well for himself. He was the biggest importer of electric cables, Solar panels and electric generators. He gained national notoriety last year when he offered the Federal Government of Nigeria £3 Billion to buy the Kainji Dam. The back lash was immense.  Some said his ‘few coins’ had gotten into his head, while others asked why he didn’t kuku buy the River Niger and all the fish and mammi waters resident in it?

Skido had always run away from elective office, but the death of his beloved niece changed him. She had travelled a few miles away to a basketball match and developed an Asthma attack while playing. He had visited the local clinic she was rushed to after she took ill and was moved to donate medical equipment to them after her funeral. Six months later he found out that the equipment was not being used because the elections were due in eighteen months and some ‘powers’ felt the donation was an indictment against the ruling party of the State. Skido was livid and took the Governor, the Chief of the Health Board and the Commissioner for health to Court. It was a case that dragged on like a fathom pregnancy. By the time the Judge instructed the health establishment to use the equipment, it had been vandalised by ‘unknown elements’.

Skido went into a depression, for he had hoped that by donating equipment to the hospital some lives could be saved that would help him cope better with the loss of his niece. She was the one who always cried whenever he was about to leave after his visits to his younger brother’s residence. It started when she was six months old and everyone joked she was his daughter. By the time she was four years of age she was asking to move to Uncle Skido’s house.

All the evil from hades was unleashed when a laboratory technician visited Skido unannounced to show him the results of a paternity test his younger brother Jim had come in for. Jim had been drinking on the day and told the staff that he suspected his brother was the father of the child. It took the intervention of some elders to quell the rift in the family and Skido stopped visiting his brother. By the time his niece was eight and had developed Asthma, Skido changed his mind and took responsibility for her care and she moved to his mansion. He even had a clinic built for her in one of the rooms as she had really bad chest infections and Asthma attacks during the Harmattan season.

Skido had a War Room where the strategic meetings were held. His Chief campaign officer was an experienced Mr Fix it and had given his personal guarantee that the State will fall into Skido’s hands. The budget was N9 Billion, an astronomical amount but this was a mandate for hire exercise and the politics was essentially a bidding war against the opposition. There was a problem in the camp however. The party chairman had agreed for a British journalist to do a documentary about a gubernatorial candidate. All the incumbents and contestants in other states refused (and paid to be exempted) and it fell to Skido. The word on the streets was that the National Party Chairman was partly committed to Nigeria and partly committed to Britain but fully committed to his pocket.

Mono-mono, (Yoruba word for lightning, was the name they all called the Chief Campaign Officer on account of his devastatingly speedy response to problems) had the journalist was in his pocket after six hours in town. Hospitality was organised to which the visitor availed himself. The next morning, lightning struck.

 ‘It seems you had a good night’ said Mono mono. He slid his I pad across the polished table and said ‘press play’.

‘You filmed me?!’ said the journalist with his head in his hands.  His wedding band reflected a ray of light that came in through a gap in the window.

Mono-mono had many principles and one of them was if you can’t bribe them, have something on them.

The whole team wondered why this journalist subsequently had all his questioned answered but nobody spoke up. They trusted their chief.

The party gubernatorial nomination conference was coming up soon and the meetings were getting longer and more heated. The journalist couldn’t keep up and had so many questions.

‘The incumbent Governor is incompetent and has failed woefully. Why do you need to campaign at all?’ he asked. He got made in Nigeria stares from all the faces which asked without uttering a word, ‘Is that a question?’

 The sitting governor belonged to the main opposition party in the state and Skido knew his work was cut out. It is never easy uprooting an iroko tree that had sent out roots to every palace, shrine, church, mosque and local government chairman in the State.

They all laughed at the Britico journalist.

‘Skido has so many policies, and I have told him to forget them. The people don’t want words. They want cash. They all turn a blind eye to the amount of money you spend on the campaign trail. They expect you to recoup your investment when you get into State House’

‘They expect you to be corrupt?’ asked the journalist.

‘Well, you tell me. If they see us spending Billions and they don’t complain about it, then their silence speaks volumes. We delivered twelve new cars to various traditional rulers in the State yesterday. These are in communities where the schools need refurbishing. We pay, we get in. It is a bit like flying first class. You pay, and you eat well during the flight’.

‘This doesn’t sound right. I mean you are all meant to be public servants’.

Mono mono’s legendary temper stormed into the room.

‘Look, don’t go there! Do you know the public servants from England in my village behaved like royalty? My grandfather told me before his death how your people came in as colonial officers to work for Queen and Country but soon decided that reigning was what they preferred to do. The natives carried them when they didn’t feel like walking. The colonial masters served no one. A Master can only be looked after by servants. For years my people looked up to the Masters with the hungry eyes of aspiration. Guess what happened in 1960. There have been no public servants since independence. The people serve the leaders who think of themselves as either deities or royalty. Well Skido is different but my job is to win him the election. When he gets in he is on his own’.

The War room meetings went on. Publicity committee wanted more radio jingles in the late evenings because the afternoon ones were making no impact. The finance committee (otherwise called the Kolanut brigade for they spread sweet Kola nuts to the electorate) had been told that certain ‘stakeholders’ were asking for more money because the incumbent governor had just embarked on a new spending spree.

Skido sailed through his party nomination as favourable winds blew into his sails. The winds came at a price. He had to pay (compensate) all the delegates from the different wards in the state for taking out time to come in to vote for him. The voting progress was universally known to be tedious and the distance from the delegate’s seat to the ballot box needed some form of sweetening; Dollars were the enhancing sugars.

The next meeting was in the War Room exciting. Now that Skido had secured the party nomination, the real gubernatorial race was now on. This was the great State with the world’s highest paid political appointees and the world’s poorest paid workers. There was irony on every turn and in every meeting room.

‘How do people make up their minds who they support? I have been here for two months filming and still don’t know’ asked the British Journalist.

The war room erupted in laughter. ‘Do you support a football team in the UK?’ asked Mono mono

‘Yes; Exeter City’ answered the journalist tentatively. He knew there was a catch in there somewhere.

‘Would they win the Champion’s League?’

‘No, they are in the League Two. They would probably never gain promotion to the Premiership, so the Champion’s League is not even possible’

‘So why do you support a team that cannot be described as ‘Winners?’

‘My father supported them, it is a family tradition’

‘Ha! Idealism. Principles and family values. You see, our people just want a winner. They only support one who is likely to win. No principles, no values, just winning. It is all one big reality TV contest. That is why I tell Skido to change clothes and cars frequently and keep his policies and ideologies to himself’.

There is no hope, and the people want a distraction. That is why Tony my distant relative in the village supports Barcelona FC. They look like winners and he is desperate to be associated with victory’ said Mono -mono and he returned to his pile of papers signalling with his left hand for the meeting to re commence.

Talk soon drifted to one of the young hot heads in the New Democratic Party who had been causing quite a stir. Everyone knew he would never win but his speeches were compelling. He heaped scorn on ‘the old guard’ at any given opportunity.

‘Donate N50 Million to his campaign this evening’ instructed Mono-mono.

‘But why fund your opposition?’ asked the British Journalist.

‘That is politics my dear man. He attracts the young ones, many of whom don’t have voter’s cards. My main concern is that he may unleash that tongue of his on Skido.’

Skido never spoke in most meetings. He sat there like one who had been dragged in at gun point. He hated meetings.

Mono mono continued, ‘this radical from the NDP is the only one raising funds from the public. The general perception is that he is honest and broke. He will get a few votes and who knows, Skido might make him a commissioner or a special assistant. He would be an asset’.

Soon the signal was made for all to vacate the room except the chosen few. The retired Army General was on his way to give ‘security advice’. Skido felt they had too much ammunition as it is, but Mono mono and the General were pushing for the procurement of more guns. This election was not just a cash for mandate exercise; it was war.