The African Prince: How to Get Power, Hold on to It, and (Mis-) Use It in Africa

By Ayoade I. Oluwasanmi

When a small African island nation receives its independence from Britain in the middle of the first decade of the twenty-first century, Otileti Gbankogboju becomes head of the caretaker government. A teacher and the proprietor of the only indigenous school, the well-educated Oti hopes that, by as acting prime minister, he can stabilize his developmentally backward country. The residents of this little nation have pinned their future hopes on Oti.

To understand what qualities mold a great African leader, Oti and his wife, Phoebe, travel to Nigeria to learn from the president of the country. Oti thinks hes going to hear about selfless service because thats what he believes leading a country is all about. But he is shocked when the Nigerian president educates him on what really makes a great African leader.

Built on satire and humor, The African Prince provides a fictionalized look into the power and corruption of Nigerias leaders.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Dec 15, 2010
• ISBN: 9781426944031

Ayoade I. Oluwasanmi

Ayoade I. Oluwasanmi, a lifelong resident of Nigeria, is a lawyer and currently lives in Lagos.

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© Copyright 2010 Ayoade I. Oluwasanmi.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-4269-4401-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4269-4402-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4269-4403-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010914065

Trafford rev. 01/22/2013

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CONTENTS

Dedication

Author’s Note

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

DEDICATION

This novel is dedicated to the Almighty God from whom all inspiration comes. Thank you for the story and the words you’ve given me.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

As Nigeria celebrates her 50 years of independence and nationhood this year, like a great majority of Nigerians, I am frustrated at the great potential which the country has but which has largely remained untapped. This has in part been due to the lack of vision of a succession of leaders and the rampant corruption by these same leaders. It is painful to see countries that gained independence around the same time move forward while Nigeria shows the classic signs of being a basket case or a failed state. Choose your own adjective.

Nigerians are all tired of seeing their leaders spend money as if it’s going out of fashion while the majority of the people live in abject poverty. It is almost as if the leaders have all sworn and made a pact that the country must not make progress. This is the same for other African countries. This book is borne out of that thought. Different people: journalists, past leaders, the general populace all speak out every day about the lack of planning, vision and purpose. But all the talk seems to fall on deaf ears. They don’t just want to listen. And yet, it seems no one is ready to make or fight for the needed change. This novel is borne out of that frustration.

I would like to thank the people at Trafford Publishing for the great work they’ve done on the book all in a bid to make me look good. All the mistakes are mine.

CHAPTER 1

The dancers gyrated rhythmically under the hot African sun to the frenetic beats of the drums. There was no difference in the pace of the dancers whether male or female. The scorching African sun seemed to have no effect on them even though their black bodies glistened with sweat. The sweat rolled down the bare chests of the men and in between the women’s breasts which were packed tightly by their wrappers. It ran into their eyes in rivulets causing them to blink, but that in no way slowed them down. They danced as if their lives depended on it. After all it wasn’t every day you celebrated a legend.

The crowd packed inside the playground which also served as a stadium watched the display in admiration. The whole island had come out to watch the show which had been put up to celebrate the man who had transformed their backward island into a tropical paradise. He had also changed the islanders’ views about themselves. Before they had thought of themselves as slaves but now they felt they could rub shoulders with the best in the world. All those years of colonialism had affected the peoples’ psyche. They had never believed that anything good could come out of the island. When he had started out as prime minister, there had been great expectations about what could and should happen now that they were in charge of governing themselves. To say that all expectations had been met and surpassed was an understatement.

Like a lot of other African countries, they had been colonized by the British and for a long time the people had been content to live like other African countries under the white man’s rule. After all, colonialism was not a strange concept in Africa in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. In fact it was more the rule than the exception. It would have been strange to be an African country and not have been colonized. The view was that if you were not colonized, it did not really mean that you had been strong enough to resist colonization. Rather what it meant was that no country wanted you badly enough to fight for you, to have the right to be called your colonial ‘masters’. Like Ethiopia and Liberia.

And to tell the truth, it hadn’t been bad being colonized by the British. After all, no matter how bad the British had been, they hadn’t been as bad as the French or the Germans or the Portuguese. The islanders had heard some very strange and frightening stories coming out of other African countries colonized by the French and the Portuguese for example. The British had in their own way tried to make life as pleasant as possible. And life had been pleasant or as pleasant as a colonial occupation could be. Everyone had been happy. Well, not totally. There had been a few cases of one or two people trying to rouse the others to fight for their independence. They had not been successful because no one saw the need for it. Why did they need it? After all things were going well, the whites seemed to have everyone’s interest at heart and no one was really complaining.

They were able to go to their farms, marry, have hordes of children, feed their children, watch their children grow up and get married. What else did a man need? Then came the middle of the 20th century.

By the middle to the late part of the 20th century, a number of British colonies started to agitate for independence. The agitations grew louder and even the islanders in their little backwater got to hear of the agitations. No one paid much attention to these agitations. Most people felt they would die down sooner or later. After all, it wasn’t long after the end of World War II and the British Empire had never been so united. British soldiers and their African counterparts had side by side together faced down the enemy that was Germany and a greater bond had been forged between them. So they had felt these agitations would die down once those people realized that thanks to the war the British had become friends, even brothers and sisters and not just occupiers.

Then one after the other, each of those countries agitating for self rule was granted independence. Some had not even needed much agitation. And it wasn’t just the British controlled countries alone. It seemed the whole of Europe was leaving Africa. The French, the Italians and the Germans were all packing their bags and stuffing them with whatever they could steal and leaving. The British were also leaving. But it wasn’t as if they all just left at once. It was a gradual thing. So the islanders had known that it wouldn’t be long before their turn came and they would be granted independence.

The 60’s, 70’s and 80’s came and went and there was no talk of being granted independence. Meanwhile, oil was discovered in commercial quantities in the 70’s. There was great joy all over the island. They felt that now that they too had oil and had joined the group of oil exporting countries, things would definitely get better economically for the island. By the time the 90’s rolled by and were almost over, the people had begun to openly ask when they would get their own independence. It wasn’t a matter of whether they wanted it or not or whether they were ready for it or not. The fact was that in the spirit of fairness, since every other country had been released, they also deserved to be set free. And to top it all, the money that they thought would pour into their economy from the sale of oil got lost in transit, probably in Britain. The British economy was enjoying the proceeds of the natural resources of their island. When they tried to get the British authorities on the island to explain why this was happening and see what could be done rectify the situation, they were ignored.

By the time the 21st century rolled by and the islanders looked round, they were the only country being ruled by a foreign power in the whole of Africa. Western Sahara didn’t count as the Moroccans were ‘African’ after all. They were the only members of the old colonial club left. Everyone else had moved forward. African states were the ones ruling themselves. A lot of them were making a hash of it. Some were being ruled by military dictatorships. Others were being torn apart by civil war while others yet were on the brink of the precipice called anarchy. But that did not matter to the islanders neither did it discourage them from looking for their own independence. The truth was that this was the 21st century and the fact that you were colonized was totally not it. In fact it had become totally unfashionable. They had to right to be independent and make a hash of it if they wanted to. It should be their choice and no one else’s. However, the British did not quite see the point they were trying to make. In fact, they did not want to see it. Various representations were made to the British on the desirability of the island gaining independence. They tried to make the British understand that they were not trying to sever all ties or stop the British from drilling for oil. All they wanted was to make the day to day decisions that affected them as a people by themselves. But the British would have none of that. That was when the islanders decided to take matters into their own hands. Since the British refused to see the point, they would make them see it. By force, if necessary.

So began the ‘liberation struggle’. They refused to see it as a civil war since it was aimed at evicting a foreign occupier. The five years or so the struggle lasted was a terrible period for the island, especially for the parents. Hardly a day went by without the cry of a bereaved mother rending the air. Like everyone who has never experienced war, the idea of a liberation struggle was a romantic one for all the island youth and most of them wanted to be part of it. And whether they wanted to call it a civil war or not, the fact was that it was a war. And whatever advantage the islanders might have had in the fact that it was their island was severely diminished by the fact that the British had been around for a long time and knew the island quite as well as they did. Guerrilla tactics were not really effective. Also the island was small and everyone knew everyone else. So in a war, if your son or daughter didn’t end up dead, they ended up in prison.

The islanders fought with all their heart. But heart in conjunction with homemade bombs and guns did not win wars. That might have been possible in the Dark and Middle Ages, not in the 21st century. In the 21st century, what won wars were the sophistication, force, size and amount of your weapon. Not heart. Especially when you had collaborators in your midst. But at least heart kept you in the fight when all the odds were stacked against you. There was no way heart was going to defeat AK-47’s and armoured tanks and RPG’s. Soon after the struggle started, the islanders realized that there was no way in hell (or on earth for that matter) that they were going to win the war. It was either going to be that all the islanders would end up dead or in prison or the British would leave voluntarily. The latter seemed unlikely so they were braced for the former.

In the end, it turned out to be the latter. But not voluntarily. Unfortunately for the British, it seemed strange to the whole world (except maybe Russia and some other Asian countries) that a country like the Great Britain that prided itself on its democratic principles and human rights record could go so far as to deny the people of the island the legitimate right to govern themselves. Especially when they had invaded Iraq because they said they felt that Iraq needed to imbibe democracy. Also the facts seemed similar to what had happened in Iraq. Oil was involved and the British seemed to be totally jettisoning human rights. There was a huge outcry from all over the world, especially from the British public. Their soldiers were dying in a far away and strange land and for what purpose?

Suddenly the island was in the news and news crews from all over the world that were able to find the island on a big enough map of the world came calling. Those unlucky enough not to find the island on their map made do with footage from those that were there. There were stories on how this was the new Iraq and how the international community should not allow the island go the same way just because of the British greed for oil. People were outraged that a country that prided itself on its democratic principles could still be forcing such an outdated and unpopular concept as colonialism down people’s throats. There were demonstrations the world over, especially in Britain. It was a media disaster for the British government and one they could ill afford. Especially over an island the British people and government didn’t even know they were in control of.

The islanders were bemused. They hadn’t seen so many foreigners before (the British didn’t count). They had never thought to achieve popularity or fame through their struggle, all they had wanted was independence. However, they were quick to realize the advantage of being in the spotlight and having a story to tell. So they told their story and they told it well. If they told their story with quite large amounts of embellishments, they would be forgiven (if they were asking for forgiveness that is). After all, it wasn’t in doubt that they had suffered, it was just the part about the magnitude of the suffering that needed touching up.

So, caught in the media glare, (or was it cross hairs?) the British had no choice but to surrender, albeit ungraciously. They dragged their feet for as long as they could but in the end they had no choice. They announced that they were leaving. There would be no elections since there were no democratic institutions on the island (whose fault?) and therefore the best they could do would be to install a caretaker government that would handle the affairs of the island until such a time as it would be possible to conduct elections, whenever that would be.

The whole island had watched, wondering who they would choose. They hoped it wasn’t going to be one of the collaborators from the island because they knew the British would want to choose people sympathetic to them. People who wouldn’t rock the boat when it came to talking about the rape of the island and the oppression of the people. Simply put, people in their own image. The islanders braced themselves for protests against the selections.

However, people were pleasantly surprised when Otileti Gbankogboju was chosen as the prime minister of the caretaker government. He was a part of the islands royal family that had been dethroned at the time of the British invasion but still widely respected on the island. In fact his cousin was the present ‘king’. He was educated, a teacher and the proprietor of the only indigenous owned school for the islanders.

Oti (as he was known) had also been actively involved in the struggle and had been to prison a few times. Unlike his cousin the king whom everyone suspected of collaborating with the British so as to remain king, he was known to have actively campaigned against the British. People were happy that the king hadn’t been chosen as a part or the head of the government. The crazy British could have put him there and said they were returning power to the rightful owners. Oti had accepted the responsibility placed on him and the rest as they say was history.

The man they had all come to celebrate watched the display by the dancers with his eyes slightly misted by tears. To say that he was overwhelmed was an understatement. When he had taken over as the head of the caretaker government at the middle of the first decade of the 21st century, he had never imagined that come a decade or so later he would not only still be the leader of his country (or island, take your pick) but that the whole island would be celebrating him. All he had hoped for was to help stabilize his country and help in organizing elections to elect a permanent government. It had never occurred to him at the time that people would want him to run for the post of substantive prime minister or that he would win.

When he had started out as the head of the caretaker government, his country had been backward developmentally (and saying that was an understatement and trying to be kind). In the little time he had spent in charge he had made sincere efforts to change this and the people had noticed. Since there was no one experienced in governance (apart from the collaborators whom they didn’t want) they decided to reward him with the job on a permanent basis. Since then, they had seen or had no cause to regret. They had since then rewarded him with a second term. And who knew, maybe there might be more than a second term.

Oti felt a slight pressure on his hand. He looked down at his right hand and the white one that was exerting pressure on it. He looked up at the owner of the hand who was sitting beside him. He smiled into the white face and green eyes and red hair of his wife, Phoebe. He didn’t know what he would have done without her. She had been his most ardent fan and supporter, giving him encouragement when he needed it and a good dose of reality when his feet started to leave the ground. He was surprised and overwhelmed that the islanders had accepted her and had even grown to love her, considering the fact that she was British. It said a lot that they did not judge her by what they considered the misdeeds of her fellow countrymen.

‘Hope you’re enjoying all this Mr. Prime Minister?’ she whispered.

‘Well, the truth is I’m still wondering what the whole fuss is all about. All I was doing was the job I was elected to do.’

She smiled. ‘That’s why I love you but modesty will get you nowhere. If only you would admit it, you’ve done a tremendous job turning this country around. The people realize that too and this is their way of saying thank you.’

‘Have I ever told you told you that you have a habit of saying the truth? And incidentally that’s one of the reasons I love you.’

Her eyes misted. ‘And I love you too.’

Oti stared at her face for a few more seconds, squeezed her hand back, and then he turned back to the dancers. It was great to feel appreciated by the people you were serving. If someone had told him when he was young that he would one day be Prime Minister and be celebrated by the people he would have thought they were mad. He could remember how it had all started

‘Good evening ma. Welcome ma.’

‘Good evening.’

‘Let me take your load ma.’

‘Thank you.’

Oti had woken up from his sleep at his mother’s arrival from her visit to one of her friends. He rubbed his eyes trying to clear the sleep. He opened his mouth wide and yawned. He would soon have to get up and go and greet his mother. His stomach rumbled reminding him that he hadn’t eaten his supper.

‘Good evening, Alala.’

So his father was already sitting outside. He was engaging in his favourite pastime of staring at all the young, unmarried (and not so young and married) village girls and women and thinking about what he was missing. The whole village knew that Ojonla Gbakangboju wanted a second wife or at least a concubine. But they also knew that his wife Alala had made up her mind to be the only woman in his life, especially after the death of his mother. And what Alala wanted, she usually got.

‘Good evening Ojo.’

‘How was Gbeborun? I hope she and her husband are well?’

‘They’re both fine. They send their greetings.’

Oti got up. It was time to go and see his mother. She wouldn’t be happy if he didn’t come quickly to see her.

‘Ojo, I want to discuss something with you.’

Oti stopped in his tracks. Oh, oh. When his parents had ‘something to discuss’, they didn’t like being disturbed. And the discussion usually entailed his mother telling his father what she wanted and his father agreeing.

‘And what could that be?’

Yes mother, what do you want to discuss.

‘I want Oti to go to school.’

Oti stood rooted in shock. What had his mother just said? Had she gone mad? Him? Go to school? If it wasn’t so terrible, he would have laughed but he was too scared at what his mother might do to him if she heard him laugh.

His father laughed. ‘I can see that you had a good time with your friend. So what did you people talk about that made you think of something that funny?’

‘Can you see me laughing?’

Oti’s heart stopped. His mother sounded quite serious. What did she mean by him going to school? He didn’t want to go to school. Of what use was an education on the island?

‘Oti is not going to school,’ his father said.

At least his father was putting his foot down. There was hope in his heart that things might still work out in his favour.

‘And I say that he’s going.’

Oti knew that tone of voice. His mother had made up her mind and there was no getting her to change it. He sighed. His father had no choice but to give in since his mother wouldn’t.

‘I see no need for Oti to go to school. The only person who goes to school in our family is the person who’ll be the next king and that happens to be my brother’s son. I see no reason why Oti should go to school and then waste the education staying on the island.’

Alala sneered. ‘All that education will be wasted on your brother’s son. I see no reason why Oti shouldn’t go to school. After all he’s quite brilliant and would make better use of the education. And I don’t see where it’s written that it’s only your brother’s son who can go to school.’

Now Oti was no longer sure on whose side he was. The thought of school scared him but the thought of doing something reserved for his cousin alone filled him with glee.

‘I don’t know why you’ve suddenly gotten this idea that Oti has to go to primary school but if it’s to spite my brother...?’

‘Who said anything about primary school alone?’

‘What are you saying? Do you mean.?’

‘Yes.’

The silence seemed to choke Oti. What did his mother mean? What did the silence mean? If she wasn’t talking about primary school alone, that meant secondary school and university too. What had he done to his mother he wondered. She either wanted to punish him or kill him. Why was she thinking of sending him away? What had he done to offend her? Even though there were no other schools on the island, he knew enough from talk he’d heard that after primary school you went from there to a place called secondary school and then on to a place called university. If that was what his mother wanted, he’d probably be dead from old age before he got that far.

‘Why? For goodness sake, why?’

Oti waited for his mother’s answer. He wondered what she would say. Would she say something about an offence he had committed and he didn’t even know he had? Or was it something he had done and he thought his mother had forgiven him for?

‘I want him to be like the white man.’

That wasn’t the answer he was expecting. His mother wanted him to be like the white man? Whatever for?

To Oti’s seven year old mind there was nothing as baffling. Or as repugnant. His mother wanted him to be like someone who had bleached leather-like skin? Someone who was always sweating under the beautiful tropical sun? Who was forever taking his bath as if he were a fish who couldn’t live without water? And who (although his parents must never know he had heard them speak of it) would entice a poor island girl with money and promises of marriage and then dump her when she was in the family way. No, he did not want to be like that.

It would be a considerable number of years later when he would think about it and it would occur to him that what his mother had meant was for him to have an education like the white man, speak like him, and know things that he did. And if possible oppress the white man like he was oppressing her and her people. And it was probably the oppression part that his mother must have been mainly concerned about.

The answer however seemed to satisfy his father. ‘Alright.’

‘Alright, what?’ Alala asked.

‘Alright, Oti will go to school to become like the white man.’

Oti was yanked from the past at this point by the sound of someone tapping on the microphone and asking for silence. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs. He looked toward his left where the podium was. Elenunla Pataki, his information secretary and a man of immense proportion (at least breadth wise), was speaking in the local language.

‘My fellow countrymen. And women of course. Lend me your ears. We all know why we are here. We have come here to celebrate a great leader of men and women and our country. A visionary. A father to us all. A Moses of our time. A saviour. A messiah.’ At each new description, he paused for effect while the crowd cheered and clapped. Those who didn’t understand what he meant simply followed the cue of others.

‘A man who believes nothing is impossible. A teacher. The builder of our present. The architect of our future.’

He waited for the clapping, whistling and catcalls to subside. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, he has been our Prime Minister for the past ten years and I know like I do, you wish him many more years.’ There were shouts of ‘Yes’ from the crowd. Elenunla smiled. ‘For the past few hours, we have been singing, dancing and talking. I believe it is now time for us to hear from the man we have all come here to honour.’ Another round of ‘Yes’ rent the air.

‘Without further ado, please help me make welcome your prime minister and mine, Otileteti Gbankangboju.’

The clapping was thunderous and deafening. Oti stood up. He turned to his clapping wife, hugged and kissed her. He shook hands with his ministers who gathered round him. He started walking toward the podium. His progress was slow. Everyone wanted to congratulate him. He shook hands with the men and hugged the women. He said a word or two to those he knew personally and there were quite a few of them.

Finally he got to the podium. He looked round at the sea of people gathered. He still couldn’t believe it. He had started out just wanting to do the best he could and see where it had got him. If someone had told him during his first week in office that something like this would happen, he would have considered the person a candidate for an asylum. He wondered what he would say, could say. There were no words to express what he felt. Words were inadequate. He hoped he would be able to say something that made sense. He wished the lump in his throat would go away.

After a couple of minutes the clapping stopped. It was time to give a speech. He opened his

mouth and Nothing came out. He wondered what was wrong. He tried again to say something,

anything. He couldn’t get the words out. He looked round at everybody but it seemed no one noticed the fact that he wasn’t talking. Or maybe they didn’t care. They just kept staring at him in adoration.

Panic welled up inside him. Maybe what he needed was to physically drag the words out. He needed to say something. Now.

Just when he was starting to think that maybe he was going mad, he heard a voice from the crowd call his name.

‘Oti.’

He looked round, trying to find out who it was that had called his name but couldn’t see anyone.

‘Oti!’

The call came again, louder and more insistent. Could it be God? Maybe God wasn’t happy with all the praises everyone had heaped on him. May be God was about to strike him dead. He looked up expecting to see an angry face in the clouds and a hand from which lightening would shoot out from and strike him dead. No face. No hand.

‘Oti, wake up,’ the voice said in their language.

‘What? What?’ Startled out of his sleep and pleasant dream, Oti opened his eyes and looked up into the frowning face of his mother.

‘Oti, you’re sleeping in your office.’

Oti looked round. He was in his office as his mother said. No playground. No dancers. No crowd. And he wouldn’t be prime minister till a few weeks time. He could believe it. So he had been dreaming. The dream had seemed so real.

‘Oti, at your age you should know by now that if you’re feeling sleepy, you should go home and sleep on your bed. Not on a chair. And definitely not in an office where anyone can walk in and catch you sleeping. ‘

Oti sighed. Not another lecture.

‘I wasn’t sleeping mother. I was thinking,’ he said, trying a little lie.

She snorted. ‘If you were not sleeping, then I’m not sitting here talking you. I’m dead.’

It was time to change the subject. ‘So, what brings you here mother. You didn’t tell me you were coming.’

Alala’s brown eyes narrowed. ‘Are you now saying I need an appointment to see my own son just because he’s going to become a prime minister?’

Patience. That was what he needed. ‘I didn’t say or mean that and you know it. All I meant was that you normally tell me before you come to see me at home. I see no reason why it should be different at the office. Besides you should have allowed someone to tell me you were around.’

‘And miss seeing you sleep on duty? No way. And I don’t think I need any reason to see my favourite son, do I?’

Oti did a double take. Well, that was a new one.

‘Considering the fact that I’m your only son, I don’t think you have much choice in the matter of who your favourite son is,’ he said dryly. ‘Or did you mean to say child?’ he asked teasingly. Again, he was the only child.

‘Favourite child or favourite son, it doesn’t matter.’

Oti took a closer look at his mother. Suddenly, it occurred to him that his mother looked nervous. He leaned forward in surprise, trying to make sure he was seeing right. The anxiety in her eyes seemed to increase a fraction as she noticed that he was staring at her. Her pupils widened, her breathing quickened, she licked her lips.

It was amazing. His mother was never nervous. In fact, she made people nervous. In fact, her nervousness was making him nervous. It was time to find out what was up.

‘So, what’s wrong mother?’

She continued to stare at him in silence for some seconds. Then she cleared her throat. ‘I need a favour.’

A favour! His mother never asked for