The Plot

THE PLOT

                   The country was lying still, the reason is not farfetched; ASUU strikers were still striking, the doctors too were not left behind for the award for best striker in 2050. Yes. The day is October 15, 2050 and ASUU is still on strike. So, I sat on my bug infested “sleep and die” mattress with my face buried deep in my palms. The morning was anything but good; I had a running stomach from the beans I ate a night before and I knew I was soon to pay a visit to the pit latrine. The room had a dank smell from the rain that had fallen the previous night and leaked through the roof. I sat there thinking about the unabated strike and the customary politicking it suffered.

                    Since I occupied the prestigious position of president of the Aggrieved Students Association of Nigeria (ASAN), I was determined to make a difference in the history of the country. After observing the traditional morning rituals, I took a stroll down the street. Our densely populated street look like old clothes, the buildings were all looking at me wearily; they have seen better days. Papers strewn about, used leathers lying around. I went to the local newspaper stand to catch a glimpse of the news. It was the most popular place to get news in Calabar. I was quickly drawn particularly to the coloured cover page of the Complete Sport with a headline that reads “Eminike brace sinks the Antelopes”, followed by another “return leg slated for 16 November as Nigeria continues winning streak. I am no football enthusiast, what on earth will make twenty-two people chase round leather endlessly for ninety minutes just to score a goal? Anyways, it is clearly obvious that we have a striker that put smiles on the faces of the Nigerian populace. ASUU, take a leaf!

                       I stood there, at the stand waiting, breathless as if waiting for my girl to say “yes”. The Images began to form in my mind like a jigsaw unraveling the big picture. The second leg world cup play off, Calabar, ASUU strike, how do they fit? I desperately wanted to go back to school, my rent had expired two weeks ago, and I also wanted to be popular, to make a statement. Alas! I smiled revealing my broken upper left centrals. I was amazed at the thought of my perfect plan; students will finally be heard, all as a result of this little puzzle. I was well aware of the consequences, the plot was perfect nonetheless.

                      The walk back home was short; I was completely oblivious to the occasional salutations dished out by passersby. I slipped into my jean trouser together with the Lacoste polo shirt, picked up my nokia 3110 classic and dialed Effiong the chapter general secretary. Effiong is a nerd; he is tipped to receive the award of best graduating student in the University of Calabar. He has thick lips and a well fitted incisors. “Hello”. He said over the phone with calmness. “Hello” I said.  I described the purpose of my call as apt as I could with urgency to save my airtime. “Ok, until we see,” Effiong stated as I hung up. I put on my moccasin and dashed out.

                    Our “complex” or at least that’s what we call it, was far from being in good shape. It is a lecture hall belonging to the department of biochemistry. The window panes were broken; the ceiling had dark gaps and has become a shelter for bats. It walls were losing its coloured covering. The executives of ASAN were already seated except for a few; most of them were licensees in the hostel. The meeting commenced with the customary opening prayer, who else will be the man other than Lucky the “Man of God”. The meeting was held under closed doors, yes; we didn’t want “eaves droppers”, zealots or media personnel to have a hint about where we were making port. There sure was strong disapproval, who wouldn’t? The plot was bizarre and understandably, my comrades knew a lot is at stake. The hall was quiet; the silence was deafening. Their hearts beating twice as fast plunging into deep thought about the plot. Most of us were cowards.

                 Musa; the heavily built fellow sitting close to the window finally broke the silence. “This is crazy, absolutely crazy. He added. “It is obvious that we all know what is at stake here. We’re talking about arrest, danger; this could change the history of our country”. Some nodded in agreement. Some members began walking out. I had expected this; most people are expert cowards, others are just indifferent not minding if the sun shines or not. The rest of us agreed to involve all those who are tired of the ASUU strikers; those strikers who make us rue their inclusion in our team, strikers unlike Eminike. I wasn’t sure if we would succeed, if the distant nations will hear the desperate song played with our instrument of suffering. I took a cab home, desperate to rest; my eyelids were shutting already.

               The day is 16^th November, 2050. This day was desperately anticipated, the return leg of the world cup playoffs was here; Super Eagles of Nigeria against the Walya Antelopes of Ethiopia. The nation was buzzing with the news; every street corner, crevices, village and town was swallowed in this fashion. Most people wore the traditional green and white shirt to sound their patriotism. The nation desperately wanted to see her eagles play in the prestigious world cup in Brazil. The newspapers didn’t miss the party; daily trust front page beautifully decorated, reads: “Battle of Calabar, make or mar”. the sun newspaper couldn’t have said it better” Eagles vow to demolish antelopes”. I smiled as I thought, this is a big day, and the newspaper will sell, fans will turnout in their numbers. But there was something else; I will make the headlines tomorrow though am not one of the players, maybe the politicians politicizing our future would have something to keep them awake; Just maybe.

                 The match was billed for 4pm at the Calabar national stadium. It was good time, perfect time to put everything in place. Everyone knew what they had to do; the cheerleader, the cardboards, the mega phone, our green and white jerseys. We are patriots, we will lift our team today, we will win and our politicians and ASUU strikers will know that we have a team.

               The stadium stood tall; the architects, builders sure did a heck of a job. It had a vast parking lot, an access road that stretches a thousand and five hundred meters. An aerial view gives it a “grain of corn in the field” appearance. Work had begun; the publicity secretary had agreed with Ettang motors and co to send five commuter buses, this including the SUG bus, NANS Calabar chapter bus and ASAN bus were to be used for the game. Those with personal vehicles like Mundy, Nosa, Ekaete and Abdul will join the parade. Patriots were to be conveyed from the five campuses spread across town; two campuses located in the eastern part of Calabar, one in the central area while the other two sit in the northern and southern zone respectively.

             We got to the stadium a little later than 1 pm. We set to work with every ounce of strength and direction. The transport arm did a good job gathering the students; I have been working on this for a while. Students were away from school and the crux of the work rested on them. We had agreed to send bulk SMS through the office of the SUG and of course used the most populous social media tool. We have a big plan on this day; a plan worth risking our necks for. Not the conventional marching aimlessly across the street chanting old aluta songs, nor the round table “swan water” dialogue. We had leverage this time around; there was something at stake.

           The work was progressing. We had successfully blocked the access road with all available vehicles. Oil drums, used tires, refuse; heavy logs and sand bags came in handy. We had about two hundred students and fifty non students ranging from riffraff, mechanics, and vagrants; those who will jump at any opportunity to do anything. Joseph did an excellent job with the cardboards, beautifully crafted innuendos: “Eminike is the best striker”, “ASUU and missed chances”, “the future lies today”; others include “no game today”, “save education now!” The job was almost done; we crowded the access road like soldier ants. We lit the tires that were kept at a distance and the plot had begun. We wanted the attention of the world and we sure going to get it.

          We sang every song, sounded every note, we clapped at the thought of victory. It was 2 o clock pm in Calabar, tickets will soon be sold. Stream of endless people; some in clusters, some all by themselves approached the stadium. Others were being driven in exotic cars. Today, they didn’t understand what the heck was going and we did not intend to give an explanation. They looked with utter amazement. They thought we were mad, lost and hopeless; we didn’t give a damn for second what they think. The atmosphere was electrifying; reporters showed up and they were doing their job. They sure will get a handful of stories tomorrow. Our message was clear; the match will be delayed or worst still postponed.

          Security zealots announced their presence with blaring sirens and shots in the air. The protesters went hale wire.  The pain caused by the tear gas was excruciating; I felt a sharp pain my left hand, I whined. I imagined the experiences of countless people who had been victims of police brutality. The mega phone was still active; Oti held it like an activist driving his message home; he sure was an activist. The chaos continued, so also the tormenting smell of tear gas. I am sure many were a “tearing”.  We were reliving World War II experience.

            Most of the protesters ran away, I couldn’t blame them. They were courageous enough to come; they had nothing to prove anymore. I attempted to make a quick dash, but my venture was brought to an abrupt end. A fierce looking soldier man held me, I couldn’t move an inch. He was armed to the “hand” only. Oti’s voice had ceased by now. We were rounded up. Our little plot had survived for only an hour. I looked around scanning the faces of good men who had come out here today to stake their claims. Sad faces, wounded bodies but strong spirit. We were taken away for a while. Well, they had gotten rid of us but they were left with the clearing out of debris, blockades, and vehicles.

                As I sat in my cell, I heard over the radio that the matched had been postponed until 5:30 pm. This was a precautionary step to be sure that there were no reprisals and the match was fit to go on without any further threat. We have succeeded; the world had heard our voice, the strikers too. The president was absolutely livid but now under pressure to salvage the lingering crises. The situation is dying and the students have clearly made their point.

  

It’s not the best work pals, just enjoy. Check tomorrow’s newspaper, my name will be all over the place as the guy who orchestrated the plot. Thanks! Comments are highly encouraged.