PROJECT SHORT STORIES

"MASK OF BU AND THE PARABLE OF CHANGE"

A Short fiction adaptation by Igwe Ogbukah, J.K.

@JeansKings

Fash appeared from behind the long, silvery curtains amidst the illumination of bright lights, smiling in subconscious imitation as his new president always did, walking out to take the applause of the audience. A real live audience, this one, not like the fake footage and soundtrack they used to have on the lion of Bourdillon's political faux pars. After all, this was genuine farce, and that was something

the new powers-that-be considered safe enough to perform before a live

audience of the now so-called "Happy Lagos, Happy Nigeria" public

using what used to only be a once-monthly Lagos governor's live

broadcast but today elevated because of unusual circumstance in the

much larger scheme of things. That always played well. An audience was

something Fash always played to well, besides, just like his

predecessor in Lagos. And even his puffed successor, I'm Bode, had to

make way tonight.

"Thank you, thank you and good evening, ladies and gentlemen, fellow

Lagosians," Fash began, again as always as when he used to meet, greet

and interact with his people as their governor. The next lines,

though, were a little different, different from all his previous

episodes of this event, different from I'm Bode his successor's own

episodes, different from his predecessor's own too, different because

of the still recent victory because it was just months since the claim

on national power was effected, with huge scheme to replicate what was

happening in Lagos - the good, the bad and the ugly - across the

Nigerian federation.

"Good evening fellow Nigerians! We've got a really special event

tonight. You won't believe it. I'm not sure I do. Would you please

give a very warm welcome to our very own new president ... General

Buari, rtd!"

The audience gasped.

Fash loved that they did, that they could only gasp despite this huge

surprise. Before the Change revolution, no Nigerian would have thought

twice before making any kind of sound or commentary. But now, after

their Change revolution had been effected upon the democracy, and

which let the Military and their cohorts back into power through the

back door using a democratic disguise, everyone had become exceedingly

careful about what word(s) or sound(s) they uttered. Nigerians were

afraid again, and Nigeria, like Lagos, had become a place for the

select few haves, those who had been the patrons of this Change

revolution at the risk of their personal wealth and business, and

political currency, including that Farmer at the Rock Town. Fash just

had to laugh as he took a sip of his champagne, and almost spilling it

through his nose because of this. This is more like it. Silence every

voice! Silence every voice, dissenting or not! The Masses only need to

be seen, not heard! Silence the bastards! Fash thought to himself the

very words he had voiced frequently at their cabalistic inner caucus

of the present national government. Victory had become theirs and

Nigeria, all of Nigeria now, had become their predatorial capitalist

playground, just like Lagos was. Leadership was for the rich, just as

he had decreed that Lagos was for the rich and those who couldn't irk

out a living here should up and return to their villages, at the

government's own expense though, a forced evacuation at the expense of

the individual's freedom. The individual's freedom would gradually

disappear one by one, until no one was free again in Nigeria, the

longer this new order went on.

With maddening photo camera flashes from the assembled crop of

favoured newsmen, Fash turned to look as a tall, lanky Buari with a

heavily-lined and aged face stepped out from behind the 'iron' curtain

of the special stage, just as Fash had done a few moments earlier,

nodding like Hitler in appreciation of the large audience response as

the crowd went wild on cue. Fash's eyes panned away from the new

president, out across the cheering live audience, before lingering on

several heavily armed and, for the most part, heavily overweight and

decidedly scruffy-looking soldiers who were aiming their guns at the

happy-clapping mob, trigger-fingers poised, while standing beneath a

large lit-up APPLAUSE sign, daring anyone not to applaud and see what

would happen.

"It's only going to get worse for you guys!" Fash thought to himself.

And so it would!

On one corner of the stage, two beautiful long-legged but ridiculously

short skirted girls led a decorated green-suited stick-like Buari, who

seemed unable to stop himself from saluting and goose-stepping in time

to the military tune and march struck up by the stage orchestra,

toward a typical chat-show arrangement of comfortable chairs where

Fash was waiting for him. They shook hands as the music died, Fash

giving a slightly mocking, overly deferential bow, and then they

hugged childishly in a full embrace and sat down. And when they'd made

themselves comfortable, Fash as the host began.

"Welcome Mr. New President. I understand, Your Excellency ..." Fash

smiled unctuously. "... that you've been under tremendous stress since

this regime began, and so we thought we might send you to your rest,

em ... em ... help you try to rest...emm, to relax."

A glance round then, a beckoning hand raised toward the background.

"Girls?" Fash called out.

A gaggle of giggling carnival-dressed showgirls materialized at Fash's

command, all feathers, smiles, frilly pink tops quite plainly several

sizes too small but which they'd forced themselves into anyway, paired

with ridiculously skimpy skirts, and high heels, gushing excitement as

they tottered toward the new President. One of them carried a small

tray on which was placed a single tall glass of milk.

"Oh, warm milk!" exclaimed the new president fogyishly, displaying a

sort of second-childhood delight, longingly licking his lips while

leering at and through the flowery chest of the busty girl who was

bending to hand it to him. "There's nothing better."

"I'm sorry, Your Excellency. But there was some confusion at the

organizing agency, and they have sent a different set."

"Oh dear." An enquiring look from His Excellency, annoyance in his

eyes but still with marvellous control in his croaking voice. "Ah,

well," he sighed, casting a glance heavenward. "If the Prophet could

bear his trials in the desert, I suppose I must bear mine."

"You enjoy a tall one every other night, don't you, Mr. President?"

Fash said knowingly, everything about his tone and body language

suggesting he was humoring a senile old fool.

"Since I was a boy," his foil replied with smug delight, taking a sip

and smacking his lips before relaxing theatrically as a couple of the

more voluptuous showgirls began massaging his shoulders

enthusiastically, leaning forward to display their considerable assets

to best advantage. And the new president rolled his eyes exaggeratedly

to enjoy the view. "My last little joy ... " he licked his lips. "...

But you're wrong, Mr. Fash," he said eventually, apparently making a

strenuous effort to get his mind back on the subject at hand. "I've

only really enjoyed myself since we, sorry, since I won the election

and became president of this great Black nation."

At this point, a trapdoor surreptitiously opened in the stage floor

next to Buari's chair. A short, black imitation of Papa Awolowo's cap

began to appear, then a mask ... And up popped a masked man wearing a

wig and a robe, and raising two fingers in the air.

Then crawling between the legs of the showgirls, who looked down at

him with expressions of pop-eyed surprise and lips puckered into

silent, comical "Ooohs," the rather shortish masked man - compared to

the new president - sneaked over and, apparently unnoticed by either

Fash or his victim, began to secretly tie Buari's shoelaces together.

All across the land, the same audiences who had followed the

reality-tv-like programming of the presidential (s)election were now

viewing these satirical antics that, in many ways, were just as

damaging to the citizenry as that unnecessary waste of resources

election process when the winner could as well just have been

announced by the bumbling, conniving electoral commission without any

electioneering discomfort to the citizenry whatsoever.

"So are the Boko Haram terrorists still alive and active?" Fash

continued blithely, glancing round toward his showgirls, cuing one of

them to produce a large cigar. She prepared to light it, only to have

it taken away from her by the masked man, who substituted another in

its place.

"The Boko Haram terrorists have been neutralized," said Buari with a

smile of absolute confidence, taking the ready-lit cigar and starting

to puff. What was going to happen next was exactly one of those Bugs

Bunny cartoon moments, and of course it was. The cigar exploded with a

large bang and a thick puff of smoke, and then, while everyone broke

into screaming peals of laughter, steam shot out of the raging new

president's ears.

As the gale of laughter and applause finally subsided, Fash looked

round towards the showgirls and seemed to notice for the first time a

scattering of different, skinnier and much less voluptious, stern-eyed

black-hooded girls and the masked man hiding among them.

"Egba mi o! Oh my God, Mr. President!" he exclaimed syllable by

syllable, in mock surprise, pointing with a finger that shot out just

past the new president's nose. "Look!" he screamed exactly as Delilah

must have screamed, "Samson, the Philistines are upon you!" after

having him set up.

"Haba! Sege! Terrorists! Suicide bombers!" cried Buari, leaping to his

feet and immediately stumbling and falling flat on his face as the

knotted laces between his feet pulled tight. "Get them! Get their

ringleader!" the new president commanded next, rolling to a sitting

position and starting to untie his shoes. And the soldiers who'd been

seen earlier dashed forward and began chasing the masked man and his

darker females round the stage, accompanied by the tittering tottering

showgirls; then the whole crew scampered out of sight for a while and

back again, while the orchestra played an outrageously speeded-up

military accompaniment and everyone watching seemed to be going wild

with laughter. And all through the madcap chase, with the nation in a

state reminiscent of that era or the closing scenes of a now

seemingly-ancient change of guard of military dictatorships, or

putschs, Fash sat benignly in his chair, obviously enjoying his finest

public moment ever in power, impeccable and impervious to the chaos

all around him.

At last the soldiers, some of whom had managed to capture voluptious

showgirls "by mistake" instead of the terrorists, finally caught the

masked man and wrestled him to the ground. And now Buari, on his feet

and all his freedom of national movement fully restored, stepped

forward and reached toward the man's mask.

"At last!" he cried. "And now to expose the nation's real terrorist

for all the world to see---"

But as the mask was ripped away, another surprise was revealed,

stunning both soldiers and civilians alike. For the masked man turned

out to be none other than TinBu, tin god and lion of Bourdillon,

wearing round glasses as usual. But as the hood does not a monk make,

and as the soldiers looked on with their mouths hanging open

comically, TinBu leapt to his feet, tossed aside the pa Awolowo's cap,

the cloak and the wig and revealed himself wearing exactly the same

decorated green suit as the new president. Only, he looked a shorter,

bulkier military man.

"Hei! Party Chairman! My indefatigable benefactor and godfather!"

Buari exclaimed.

"Party Chairman my foot! For three straight days now, my private

residence has been under surveillance by battle-ready and

helmet-wearing soldiers," TinBu fumed angrily. "They number close to

thirty and are riding in three patrol vans and army trucks stationed

close to the entrance of the gate to my Ikoyi house along Bourdillon

Road and have become a permanent feature of the landscape," he

continued.

"It's for your own protection, dear godfather."

"Unhand me!" TinBu cried, ordered the soldiers. "Protection my foot!

I'll not be intimidated by this show of strength, intimidation and

possible harrassment. I'm your president!"

"What?" Buari exploded. "How dare you? I'm the president!"

"Impostor!" came TinBu's pantomime response, "Even your own wife knows

this truth."

And then they lunged at each other, going down in a tumbling ball of

flailing fists and thrashing legs until, wound together like a Mobius

strip, it became quite impossible to tell one from the other. All it

really needed to complete the humiliating farce was for their pants to

fall down and revealing green-and-white polka-dot boxer shorts.

Finally they broke apart and leapt to their feet, pointing furiously

at each other.

"Soldiers! That man is one of the chief sponsors of the terrorists!

It's treason!" one cried.

The soldiers, with their guns raised, aimed at the given target.

"I order you to shoot that traitor! He gives your secrets to Boko

Haram! It's treasonable felony!" the other screamed.

The soldiers, following this new directive, turned, acquired and aimed

their guns at the new target.

"That liar!"

The soldiers turned that way.

"That fake!"

The soldiers turned this way.

"That traitor!"

By now one half of the gun-wielding, helmet wearing soldiers had faced

one Old Soldier while the other half pointed at the other.

"That saboteur!"

"Greedy bastard!"

"Mercenary!"

"Soul-seller!"

"Hypocrite!"

"Ready!"

"Aim!"

"Fire!"

A staccato rattle of automatic weaponry followed as the soldiers

opened fire, and then the two former cohorts, with blood oozing from

their chests, spun to the ground, their blood already beginning to

flow just after they hit the deck.

And the entire nation went wild in a way that no one could quite have

anticipated.