AN OPEN LETTER TO GOV SIM FUBARA By Dr. Ugo Egbujo 

William Shakespeare said, “Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown.” Had Shakespeare encountered your political godfather, he might have advised you not to take a crown from him. Not because your head is too small for the crown but Shakespeare had warned in The Tempest, “What is past is prologue.” In other words, history will always come to haunt the present. Edmund Burke said it differently, “Those who don’t know history are destined to repeat it.”

The man crowned Ali Sherrif. Once Sheriff became tired of being his zombie, he went for Sheriff’s jugular. Then he crowned Chief Secondus and put him in his pocket. Once Secondus crept out of his pocket to get fresh air, he discovered that Secondus was a chameleon. After discarding Secondus, he crowned Professor Ayu. When Ayu refused to be used like an aju — a head cushion for carrying loads, he discovered that Ayu was corrupt. Had Shakespeare encountered that your godfather, he might have said to you, “Beware of a borrowed crown from the green-eyed political merchant of Obio Akpor.”

Governor Fubara, many believe your chickens have come home to roost. Shakespeare would have said, “ You have set your life upon a cast, so you must stand the hazard of the die.” But don’t despair. The priority now is to dismantle the megalomania. I listened to you at the House of Assembly, and I heard the voice of a tormented man. That day, after the police baptized you with water and fire, you broke your shackles and made a promise to the people.

The youths gathered but not to worship you. They gathered because when you shouted wolf! wolf! wolf! They came to dare the wolf. In daring the wolf they reasserted their proprietary rights over state power. Yes, power belongs to the people. But if you now say you belong to the wolf family, then you are on your own. Remember, Shakespeare said, “Cowards die many times before their death.”

In May 2023, the Wagner boss had Putin in a chokehold. His men had besieged Moscow. Putin was his godfather. But he thought Putin’s iron-fisted rule and recklessness in Ukraine had left too much anguish and misery in Russian homes. Then the President of Belarus intervened and preached peace. The Wagner boss, who had drawn his sword, sheathed it. He listened to peacemakers and went to Belarus. Now, he is in the grave.

Some say he who fights and runs away lives to fight another day. But if a Man marries a woman for his friend and buys him a mat, is the groom supposed to share his bride and bedroom with the benefactor in the name of loyalty? The godfather has said that you want to steal his structure. And he is singing “Agreement is agreement.” You know the agreement you reached with him. But how can he marry for you and seek to help you consummate the marriage?

Shouldn’t he go to his house to receive the accolades from there? Your critics say that a man who has collected a wasp with his head must endure the stings. Because you can’t like the anus in that Igbo proverb claim ignorance. The anus said that had it been informed of the waywardness of its neighbour it would have chosen to live elsewhere. I will resist the urge to join them in being judgmental until you make up your mind.

Now, the peacemakers are circling and peddling platitudes. Some are regurgitating liturgies written for them by your megalomanic godfather. They have called you a rascal ingrate. They are insinuating that you have bitten the fingers that fed you. They have told the world that you have set fire to the bridge that ferried you from obscurity to the limelight. But you know the truth. Some of these clowns are labouring under the same bondage. Mahatma Gandhi said, “When a slave starts to take pride in his fetters and hugs them like precious ornaments, the triumph of the slaveowner is complete.”

You gave the man your all. The EFCC declared you wanted. You stayed loyal and took the shame. You didn’t ask to be chosen. You were promised a free hand to run the state. You didn’t lobby to be his heir. He promised not to make you his puppet and let the people mock you. This feud didn’t start today. You have been humiliated. You have been treated worse than a houseboy. You have swallowed indignity without salt. For five months, you were a mere decoration in the government house. Permit me to say that you were a dummy governor. The man sat on your scrotum and you took it smiling. Now he has poked his fingers in your eyes. If the gods wanted you to remain as government furniture, they wouldn’t have allowed him to start an impeachment process against an innocent man whom he had used like a rag. But the choice is yours. If you go with the peacemakers like a simpleton, it would mean a quiet return to your Egypt.

But, “Golden lads and girls, all must, as chimney sweepers, come to dust.” That was what Shakespeare said about life. You echoed it at the House of Assembly, “If I die, I die.” The boys in the street in Port Harcourt who came to fight for you would say, “All die na die.” You might not have come to equity with washed hands. But the man dies in the fellow who stays silent like a sheep in the face of naked tyranny and oppression. If You go with the peacemakers, they will return you to your beautiful cage. You might get more milk for some time. But before long, you will be sold for peanuts in the market.

Life is a tale told by an idiot full of sound and fury signifying nothing. That was what Shakespeare said. And Shakespeare didn’t even come across you and your political father. The House of Assembly has been razed. Some of the youths that showed up for you have been arrested. Your godfather called it a small internal wrangling. You said it was a father-son misunderstanding. Those who stood by you have now become meddlesome interlopers in a family feud. Idle busybodies. Our ancestors in Igbo land warned us not to discard even worn baskets because we would need them to offer sacrifices to the gods. I know how you feel. You are now running with the hare and hunting with the hounds. But don’t listen to reprobates when they talk about betrayal. The government is not the Sicilian mafia. Whatever you owe him can be paid to the people through selfless service.

In conclusion, Mr governor, you must fight or resign. The vultures are circling. Only your fall will appease the jilted god with a blinding ego. Now, you have drawn your sword. You will sheathe at your peril. You must charge through and dismantle the contraption. Otherwise, you must tuck in your tail and run away. You can’t leave your carcass for the wild dogs. To sit and fiddle with the idea of reconciliation is to submit your scrotum to a jilted lover to cure your elephantiasis. 

If you do that, neither kinsmen nor in-laws can save you from castration. The fight has come to you. The people are with you. They are hungry and deprived. You can’t serve them from that gilded cage. Don’t let them down. But once you chicken out, you must flee. Every creature must meet death. But a grasshopper that dies in the hands of an Okpoko dies prematurely, and dies because of deafness. A good name is better than riches and power. I have emptied my mouth

My greetings to your godfather.

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