“— keeping a nation of two hundred and fifty million people in the dark. Deliberately allowing the insecurity and killings in the north to continue. He thrives off destabilisation. He has always ruled by division. I do not see God anywhere near this man. I see darkness. I see shadow. I see a man who sold his soul for power. And when that happens, the devil always collects”
A Warning Written in the Language of Experience
I once employed a Ghanaian servant to clean my apartment on Victoria Island. I hid his passport somewhere safe, as one did in those days. But every morning I noticed strange things — red feathers here, curious arrangements there — all the signs that something was deeply wrong in my home.
I was single back then, out on the town most evenings, eating at the Atlantic Restaurant at the Federal Palace Hotel. It was managed by Constantine — a Greek-British gentleman, charming, educated, the finest kind of company. Blowing my money in his establishment every evening was no problem for me whatsoever. Poor Constantine was later murdered by the Mafia and chopped into tiny pieces. But I digress.
One day I returned from a trip to Port Harcourt, where I was running a radiators factory — the operation that built all the radiators for Peugeot Nigeria. My father owned the business. It was doing well. Until Babangida came along and destroyed the naira, making the importation of raw materials catastrophically expensive, leading to the shutdown of thousands of Made-in-Nigeria businesses. I will never forgive that man for what he did to the naira and to Nigerian industry. Anyone praising him is a traitor. Full stop.
I opened the door of my apartment. I went to where I kept my cash hidden from prying eyes. All the money was gone. I looked for the Ghanaian’s passport — gone. Jewellery. Diamonds. You name it. He cleaned me out.
He had been playing me all along. Watching. Waiting. Studying me with a patient and patient smile, biding his time for the perfect moment to rob me blind and return to Ghana a rich man.
Now — the red feathers. He was clearly into juju. Feathers under my pillow, objects placed in strange corners. I don’t get into those things personally. What I do trust — completely and without apology — is my sixth sense. And my sixth sense had been screaming at me every single day: sack this man. Get him out of your home. He is bad news. I heard that voice. I ignored it. I paid the price.
He took close to fifty thousand dollars in cash, and everything else of value. Looking for him was a waste of time. He was gone from Nigeria — or had simply moved on to his next victim.
I do not like people playing with my intelligence.
And Bola Tinubu is playing with it — deliberately, methodically, and with the full weight of state power behind him — keeping a nation of two hundred and fifty million people in the dark. Deliberately allowing the insecurity and killings in the north to continue. He thrives off destabilisation. He has always ruled by division.
The family’s love of chieftaincy titles tells you everything. They will travel to the most obscure corners of the country to collect another title, accompanied by long motorcades and wailing sirens — a desperate performance of legitimacy for people who have never earned it. And Seyi Tinubu — unelected, uninvited, unwanted — is everywhere, attempting to install his presence on the Nigerian people in preparation for a dynasty that no one has voted for, asked for, or accepted.
I do not know what they give Bola Tinubu before he goes in front of cameras. But it is obvious to anyone watching that this man is seriously unwell. He slurs his words badly. He can barely stand without assistance. Watching King Charles — himself a cancer patient — guiding him around Windsor Castle like a frail child was embarrassing beyond measure. Watching the President of Turkey reach out to catch him when he stumbled was worse. We are too great a nation, too large and too powerful, to be governed by a man in this condition. We are too proud a people to be managed by Seyi and his stepmother and their army of sycophants.
This path leads to bloodshed. Let no one be confused about that. If any attempt is made to install Seyi Tinubu as a successor — as King of Nigeria in all but name — blood will flow. And none of it should be on our hands.
No one should die for Bola Tinubu. He is not a freedom fighter. He did not go to jail to liberate Nigeria. He is a drug dealer. A common, nasty criminal with a record a mile long, dressed in agbada and state power.
Whether it is red feathers or whatever else he and his circle believe in — I cannot say. What I can say is this: I do not see God anywhere near this man. I see darkness. I see shadow. I see a man who sold his soul for power. And when that happens, the devil always collects.
I was fooled once by a servant who smiled at me every morning while planning to rob me blind.
I will not be fooled again.
Neither should you.
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