By Mogaji Wole Arisekola
Have you ever seen a grown man — a father of children, a supposed strong pillar of society — suddenly break down in public? Have you ever seen a well-respected “big man” standing by the roadside, chewing roasted corn as if he has been there all his life? If you haven’t, relax. Your time has come. The season is here. The era of politicians suddenly rediscovering the masses has returned with full force. The season of televised tears has begun.
Watch them cry on national television as if poverty was just invented yesterday. Watch them stop by the roadside to share roasted corn with “the people,” cameras flashing like it’s a red-carpet premiere. It is the year of emergency humility. You will see them bend down to help a vulcaniser remove a tyre — white agbada flowing, polished shoes buried in dust. You will see them hovering around market women, adjusting wrappers and smiling awkwardly as cameras zoom in for effect. Every radio interview will suddenly drip with respect — “Yes, Sir… Yes, Ma…” — as if good manners were just discovered last week. Any call from “the masses” will now be answered with honeyed voices.
The same phone numbers that were switched off for three solid years will suddenly begin to ring like church bells on Sunday morning. Nigerian politicians are always at their humblest exactly one year before elections. It never fails. It is not coincidence. It is tradition. It is ritual. The poor masses should prepare for unusual dance steps this year — waist movements you have never witnessed before. Politicians will dance at weddings, at burials, at naming ceremonies, even at housewarmings of people they have never met in their lives.
Cameramen must stay on red alert. Every handshake, every tear, every forced laughter must be captured. Nothing must waste. This is also the season when certain pastors and imams will suddenly begin to “see visions.” Tongues will roll. Prophecies will fly like harmattan dust. Envelopes will exchange hands quietly after the so-called divine revelation. God will speak — and, as usual, His timing will align perfectly with election season. Whether it is a burial or a naming ceremony, our leaders will appear uninvited but fully prepared for photographs.
They will carry babies whose names they cannot pronounce. They will eat food they cannot identify. They will promise roads that have been promised since 1999. My people, this is our season. This is the time when big men will greet you first. When convoys will slow down on your street. When sirens will reduce their shouting. When they will call you “my brother” and “my sister” like long-lost relatives from the village. Street thugs will suddenly become “youth leaders.” Data boys, unemployed youths, jobless housewives — this is your year to showcase your “talent.” Dance well.
Sing loudly. Shout their slogans with hunger-engineered energy. Collect what you can collect. Make we enjoy am while e last. Because once the ballot boxes close, humility will evaporate like morning dew under harmattan sun. The roadside roasted corn will disappear. The vulcaniser will return to struggling alone. And the phone lines will revert to that familiar anthem: “The number you are trying to reach is not reachable.” Nigeria never disappoints when it comes to election drama. The show has started. Grab your popcorn — and find yourself a befitting chair.
Mogaji Wole Arisekola, Publisher of The Street Journal Newspaper, writes from Ibadan.
