June 12: Democracy, Why Are You Hurting Us?

It was around 2000 or 2001. We sat in a circle. The place was the Presidential Villa in Aso Rock, Abuja. We were waiting for President Olusegun Obasanjo to arrive. This event was the monthly Presidential Media Chat. It was a time for the president to answer questions from selected editors. That evening, the Nigerian Television Authority (NTA) was set to broadcast it live.

Cameras were ready to roll. Their operators carefully checked everything to ensure nothing went wrong. As a first-timer there, I couldn't help but think about the history of Aso Rock. This was where a now weakened Ibrahim Babangida claimed he was still in power. This was also where Sani Abacha died, and the details of his death are still unclear, much like bullets from his soldiers.

I remembered Francisco Goya. He was a Spanish artist who painted Saturn Devouring His Son between 1820 and 1823. The painting shows Saturn, worried about a prophecy that one of his children would take his power, eating his own child. I thought about how this painting suited Babangida. Fearing what would happen to him after leaving office, he tried to swallow Nigeria's democracy right in this powerful home. Aso Rock, my mind echoed: Soldiers caused the crisis that nearly destroyed Nigeria during the June 12 saga.

Sitting in that bright and beautiful part of Aso Rock were John Momoh from the then-new Channels Television, Nkechi Nwankwo from Champion newspaper, a man named Muhammed from New Nigerian newspaper, and me from Nigerian Tribune. Across from us were media aides, ministers, and the presidential spokesman, Mr. Tunji Oseni. When the chat finally began, they applauded like loyal followers. Obasanjo made several mistakes during the chat that he needed to address. But that did not matter. He was the leader. Earlier, Oseni had allowed us to use his office in the Villa. We divided the questions into social, political, and economic topics, while no one, including Obasanjo, knew what we planned to ask.

A few months earlier, the long-awaited democratic rule had been welcomed into Nigeria. On May 29, 1999, Nigerians sang a song usually performed in Yoruba palaces when a new chief or king succeeds his ancestors. People joyfully sang, “Ìwonpápá, ìwonnà/A ti m’óyè yìí je/Ìwonnà…”

People's hopes were high. It felt like they could reach for the sky and grab their dreams. The media played a big part in creating this sense of expectation about a democratic Nigeria that would solve all problems. May 29 was seen as a goodbye to the bad days of military rule. By 1998, when General Sani Abacha unexpectedly passed away, the military had lost the people's support. Their uniforms represented oppression, and their boots brought suffering.

For just a brief four years, civil rule had a chance to shine. This was like the Eégun Aláré masquerades of Yoruba tradition, known for their theatrical performances. Their entertainment was short-lived, just like the civil rule at that time. For 28 years, the military had ruled Nigeria. So, May 29, 1999, marked a new beginning for Nigerians, a move from the oppressive land of Egypt to the promised land of Israel.

Nigerians expected a lot from democracy, similar to George Orwell’s Animal Farm. In this story, animals overthrow their cruel farmer, Mr. Jones. They believed that their rebellion would create a fair and free society. They sang, Beasts of England, beasts of Ireland/Beasts of every land and clime/Hearken to my joyful tidings/Of the golden future time... They thought that by getting rid of Mr. Jones, they would live in a perfect world.

Like Old Major in the story, Nigeria had its own heroes like Gani Fawehinmi, Alao Aka-Bashorun, Femi Falana, Frank Kokori, and Ndubuisi Kanu who championed democracy. They promised that traditional attire would replace military uniforms and bring joy. They believed that once we reached civil rule, the pains of military rule would disappear.

But soon after the rebellion, the pigs became even more tyrannical than Mr. Jones. They turned into corrupt dictators and created a regime worse than the one they overthrew.

On that day in Aso Rock, John Momoh signaled for me to ask my question to our new leader. I carefully framed my question: “Mr. President, because I’m closer to the common man, I feel his pulse better than you. The common man says life under military rule was better than life under you in this democracy. Are you not concerned, Mr. President?”

Obasanjo cleared his throat, ready to attack my question. He listed what he had achieved in his few months in office and concluded by saying, “Don’t let us put words in the mouth of the common man!” His reply was rather simplistic.

The background to my question was that Nigeria was under great stress. Labour was threatening a strike. Food prices had skyrocketed. Obasanjo hadn’t completely shed his military ways. He had ordered brutal attacks on residents in Odi and Zaki-Biam. Politicians began to act like the new oppressors. They twisted the idea that all animals are equal into a new rule: Politicians are more equal than others.

From Obasanjo to Umaru Yar’Adua, Goodluck Jonathan, Muhammadu Buhari, and now Bola Tinubu, Nigeria has only seen a change of one punisher for another. We have moved from one tyrant to a worse one. In Animal Farm, Snowball, who was mild, was eventually exiled, allowing Napoleon to take total control. Our current leaders seem to lack any compassion.

Now, 27 years after civil rule, Nigerians ask a painful question: “Broken bottle on our forehead, bludgeon on the back; Is this how they play comradeship at the Ede market?” This saying comes from, “Òpáláńbá ń’wájú, kùmò l’éyìn orùn, sé b’òjú ti rí nìyí, t’áa fi ńje obì l’ójà Ede?”

The truth is, democracy has greatly disappointed Nigerians after 27 years. Those who lead us have twisted the idea of democracy so much that it now seems worse than military rule. A recent NOIPolls shows that 72% of Nigerians are unhappy with democracy, and 46% say they are not satisfied at all. Dissatisfaction is highest in the South-East (58 percent) and South-South (56 percent), compared to the North-East at 33 percent.

Yes, democracy offers freedom, but we still feel shackled. Life in 1999 was better than today. More Nigerians have died in the past 27 years from insurgency, banditry, and kidnappings than during military rule or the civil war. Just as I finished writing this, news broke that retired General Rabe Abubakar was found dead after being kidnapped by bandits. Yet, all we hear are government promises that things will get better. Many are still in captivity.

The quality of our leaders has also dropped significantly. Ethnic tensions are higher now than in 1999. Nigerians are more divided by ethnic hatred and are closer to conflict than ever before. In terms of food security, if democracy was meant to bring plenty, people now feel like they are in a famine.

Some argue that the problem is not with democracy itself but with the Nigerian politicians. Others believe we must adapt democracy to fit our local situation. Party politics, which is supposed to be the backbone of democracy, has become a tool for personal gain. No one who truly wants to serve the people can emerge from this process. Politicians resemble the Babylon of Rastafarian culture, which symbolizes corrupt systems that keep ordinary people struggling.

In Nigeria, democracy has turned into a vampire that, as Bob Marley said, is “suckin’ the children day by day.” In another of his lines, he states, “Dem belly full but we hungry.” Institutions meant to uphold democracy, like the electoral commission, have become tools for the executive. Corruption today is worse than in the past 39 years. While politicians of the First Republic were known to embezzle 10 percent, today's politicians steal everything.

Things are made worse because the ballot box, which should liberate Nigerians from this democratic bondage, has become a source of suffering. In 1973, a bank robbery in Stockholm, Sweden, turned into a six-day standoff with hostages. Surprisingly, the captives began to bond with their captors. After their release, they refused to testify against them. This became known as Stockholm syndrome, where victims develop emotional ties with their oppressors. In Nigeria, voters seem to have a Stockholm syndrome with politicians who continually hurt them. They praise these politicians online while hunger grips them. By 2027, despite their struggles, Nigerians might still vote for the same oppressors.

But what do we do? We must keep hoping against hope! Yet, we will not stop asking democracy, which we thought was our ally and savior: “Òpáláńbá ń’wájú, kùmò l’éyìn orùn, sé b’òjú ti rí nìyí, t’áa fi ńje obì l’ójà Ede?” Why, democracy, did you hit us with a broken bottle on the forehead and bludgeon us on the back? Is this how comradeship is played at the Ede market?