By Al-Amin Isa
I have always known that Nigerian politics is a spiritual sport, half democracy, half jazz, and half nonsense. But I never expected that one day, I, a humble citizen minding my business, would be dragged into the theatre of political gladiatorship… inside my sleep.
Let me start from the beginning.
For reasons best known to destiny and maybe village people, I found myself standing before a man who, in the political hierarchy of Nigeria, sits just slightly below Nobody and slightly above Everybody. A man so powerful that even Presidents rehearse their speeches three times before greeting him; Governors bow before him like fresh recruits; and Senators scramble for his approval as if it is WAEC result.
To be honest, the man was rich, influential, connected, feared, admired, worshipped, the full package. In fact, he is the type of political godfather that if he sneezes in Lagos, Commissioners catch cold in Kano.
So there I was, face-to-face with The Kingmaker Himself.
He smiled at me, the type of smile politicians use when they want to destroy your life slowly.
“Join my camp,” he said.
“Never,” I replied, with the confidence of someone who has never seen trouble before.
He raised one eyebrow. The room temperature dropped. The bulb dimmed. Even the AC entered silence mode. His bodyguards looked at each other like, “This boy no value his future.”
I stood my ground. Because how can I follow a man whose politics is like Nigerian road contracts, long, dangerous, and full of potholes? I refused to be recruited into anything that looked like a cult meeting mixed with budget padding.
Apparently, my refusal offended his political ancestors.
Before I knew it, he snapped his fingers, and his bodyguards descended on me like Task Force on an unpainted Keke Napep. They grabbed me, carried me like expired bag of rice, and dumped me in his living room, the kind of living room that looks like National Assembly chamber but with more demonic confidence.
Then things became… tense.
The man stood above me, shadow covering half my destiny, voice vibrating like fuel price announcement. The way he addressed me, the threats, the tone, the anger, my brother, even my shadow disappeared from behind me. I felt sweat gather on my forehead like councilors gathering at Government House gate.
Then it happened.
The disgrace.
The downfall.
The national embarrassment.
I wet my trouser.
Not small sprinkle o, full backsplash like pump-and-spray. In my mind I was saying, “So this is how my village history will record me? A freedom fighter that fell under pressure and leaked?”
As shame was swallowing me whole, suddenly, from a distance, I heard it:
“Allahu Akbar… Allahu Akbar…”
Subh prayer call.
My eyes opened.
My brother…
My sister…
It was a dream.
A dream o!
A nightmare with high-budget cinematography.
Relief washed over me — but that relief didn’t last long because as I sat up, I discovered something more shocking:
I was covered in sweat.
Like someone that ran from Abuja to Katsina inside the desert sun.
Even NEPA cannot drip like how I was dripping.
I sat there wondering:
“Why am I sweating like I was chased by EFCC inside the dream?”
“What kind of political nightmare is this?”
“Is this a warning from above or a threat from village WhatsApp group?”
And now, after narrating this my near-death, near-arrest, near-embarrassing political encounter inside dreamland, I want to ask all of you reading this:
If somebody can wet his trouser and soak his whole body in sweat over an imaginary godfather inside a dream… what do you think will happen if I actually meet the real man in real life?
Let me know, because me myself I don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or call for deliverance!
