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We are all wailers


Noel Ihebuzor

We are all wailers.

Some wail because their ticket lost. Some wail because a man was chased out of power by a conspiracy drawn up by strange bedfellows each fellow pursuing agendas that had nothing to do with national interests.

Some others wail, largely in silence and within, because they were deceived. They were deceived by smoke peddling spinners who sold them a three sound-byte election campaign of security, employment and fighting corruption, sound-bytes which their principal would forget at inconvenient moments during the campaigns, but like folks bewitched, folks under a spell, they failed to or refused to notice. And now they wail, deceived hunters who voluntarily gave away their semi functional Dane guns for non-functional blunted and rusted knives without handles.

We wail because the man we want to hail, the man we set up to hail, the man we set out to hail is failing so dramatically, has failed so dramatically and continues to do so in acts of omission and acts of commission, in appointments that disappoint all save a narrow cabal, in selective acts that are deficient in nobility, poor in conception, but rich in meanness and mostly driven by revenge and spite.

And our pride will not let us own up to these facts.

So we mourn internally, and frustrated as we are, we manifest our frustration as misdirected aggression on any one bold enough to speak the truth we hide from.

Misplaced loyalty traps us and shields us from the truth. It prevents us from owning up that we were wrong, yes, wrong in the choices we made, that we were foolish and deliberately dishonest in the lies we told and sold,

Foolish pride stands between us and genuine contrition, and instead of contrition, we spend our energies rationalizing incompetence, finding lame excuses for lame and limited competence. Our intellect is turned towards a perfection of a puerile blame game, a game that is now lacking in conviction and which is becoming very unproductive with each passing day. The groves of the blame game disc have now worn thin, its content is now shallow, our lies hollow before our eyes, sorrow eats us up, both from within and without.