Well deserved. Though lengthy but its very well articulated. READ BELOW:
no matter what your
remaining rabid supporters,
either blinded still by anger
at Dr. Jonathan, blinded by
the comfort of denial or
blinded by proximity to
power, say, this is the truth:
we are disappointed in you.
This is not the change we voted for.
Two years ago to this day, you brought me to
tears. You were in our nation’s capital, being
inaugurated as the first Nigerian in our
nation’s history to win the presidency from
an opposition party. I was far away, in
Lagos; but I had a cherished privilege: to be
the one to publish the very first tweet on your
account as president of the Federal Republic
of Nigeria.
And as my colleague, Oluwatobi Soyombo
watched, I threw my head back on the chair,
and I began to weep.
I couldn’t help myself. This moment was too big, was too strong; was too much.
They were tears of joy. But they were also
tears of relief, personal and collective.
Personal relief from the fear of the
consequences of my decision – after having
readied myself for four years of repercussion
for supporting so publicly a man who was
hardly likely to win; collective relief that we
would not be facing four more years of the
triumphal leadership of the corrupt and the
reprobate; relief that we had just dodged a
bullet.
Barely six months before, I had never met
you, never stayed in the same space with you,
didn’t even believe in you. The one thing I
knew was that, for this young man, it was
anybody but Goodluck Jonathan. But then
you filled me with such hope, because you
appeared to finally carry on your shoulders
the burdens of an exhausted, furious
generation.
I was as furious as anyone. Actually, I was
more furious than most. Furious enough to
burn bridges, risk backlash, annoy friends
and family; to cross the divide to vote and
work passionately for a man I had voted for
reluctantly, even bitterly, only four years
before.
It was like a miracle. I never believed this
was going to happen. I never believed an
opposition leader could win an election in
our country; I never believed that citizens
could make this change happen in my
lifetime.
It was so hard to believe that I continued to
argue with my team, right up to time that the
incumbent president conceded. Our data
already projected your win, but I refused to
be seduced, memories of Karl Rove making a
fool of himself on Fox News over a quixotic
Mitt Romney win in 2012 haunting me. “Push
all the votes from the South-East and the
South-South to Jonathan’s column,” I said to
my colleague Joachim MacEbong. “Assume Buhari gets zero votes there. What we have now is too deceptive. An opposition
candidate can’t win with such a margin.”
I couldn’t believe it, until it happened. Some days, even now, I wake up and I almost still can’t believe it.
From 2010, when I became active in civic spaces, this had been the dream: to have a citizen-led movement that could put the fear of God into the political establishment.
I had spent days on the streets, in protest, at risk to life and business. I had sat in countless meetings and strategy sessions. I had spent millions of my own money invested in this vision. I had spent time in private and group prayer, shouting in pain, sobbing in frustration, crying out for all of this to not be for nothing, to be for some intervention, for some sign from God that our country would be better, even in our lifetimes. I didn’t believe it could be that dramatic, I didn’t believe it could come to pass.
But it did. And when it did, it was enough to
overturn my theology of God’s agenda for
politics. Because it certainly felt like an
answer to our prayers. It certainly felt like
divine intervention. It absolutely felt like the
heavens had heard Nigeria’s heart cry. It had
to be. This was a miracle. You were a
miracle. You were a change, desperately
sought. A change, desperately won.
But it wasn’t really about you, Mr. President.
This was never about you.
You were a symbol of our aspiration, you
were an expression of a democratic ideal:
that the citizen is the most powerful force in
any democracy. You were a symbol that we
mattered, that our voices mattered. That if we
organised, we could defeat powerful forces.
That if we came together, nothing was truly
beyond our grasp, no possibility beyond the
reach of a determined population. That we,
truly, are the ones that we have been waiting
for.
For me, after 10 years of nation building
aspirations and five years of activist
engagement, you presented the unique
opportunity for all to come together. For the
networks, and the platforms and the
reputation and the skills and the creativity
that I had to come to a head, to join the effort
to make change happen. And there were
many Nigerians who took that risk also,
because we saw a ray of sunlight.
We thought this was worth the risk. This had
to be worth the risk.
The many people who worked incredibly
hard to get you into office, but then stayed
aside and asked for no benefit in return,
thought it was worth that risk. It was the
reason I said no to an offer to join this
administration in its first two years; same as
many people that I know. We couldn’t dare
corrupt this one sacrifice – this gift – with the
appearance of self-interest.
But it’s not just about those who can afford to
keep their distance. It’s more about the many
whom your inchoate policies hurt the most –
the people you told us you were running for.
Remember that woman who wrapped up her
entire savings and donated to your
campaign? Do you remember her, sir?
What would you say to her, if you saw her
today?
I write this today because I don’t know what
happens next.
I don’t know if you are well, or how well you
are. You haven’t treated us, your citizens,
your voters, with the respect of telling us
what ails you, how it ails you and how it
affects your ability to do your job. Instead
you treat us with the scorn and contempt that
Aso Rock seems to breed – the contempt of
silence.
Look at the nation you left behind, as you
duck for cover in the United Kingdom:
Healthcare so shabby even you can’t rely on
it for your own well being. Schools still
exactly in the state in which you met them 24
months ago. An economy in shambles. An
anti-corruption fight running around in
circles. A nation fragmented, with the one
time since the 1960s in which Biafra has
become a dominant narrative – courtesy of
tone-deaf ethnic-coloured politics. Businesses
attacked by a combination of violent tax
authorities and ham-fisted fiscal policies,
which seem to punish citizens for the failings
of past governments and inadequacies of this
one. Indeed, the anecdotal stories of
businesses folded up, investments dried up,
jobs lost and dreams shattered have become
the defining testimony of your leadership.
It breaks so many hearts,
home and abroad. Those
who believed passionately in
you. Those who didn’t
believe but decided to give
you a chance. Those who
couldn’t bring themselves to
vote for you but still
celebrated the possibility of
change. Those who rolled
the dice and hoped for the
best.
You have taken the hopes and the dreams
and the faith that we invested in you, and
you have shattered them into many tiny
pieces.
Is this fair? Is this right? Is this why you ran?
Is this what those four attempts were about?
Is this the plan you had? Is this the vision you
shared? Is this what this was all about – just
being president?
It is easy for us to hide under the shadow of
your acting president, Yemi Osinbajo, who
makes it easy to prove citizens right, that we
made the proper choice to vote for change
and to upset the old system in 2015. It is
convenient to turn to him as justification for
our wisdom.
But the truth is that, for me, it isn’t. You are
the man with the mandate. You are the man
with the ultimate responsibility.
To be honest, there is no regret in voting for
you. Even if everything failed, even if your
acting president had been a failure, there
would be no regret in voting for you.
We had a choice between the devil and the
deep blue sea. As it turns out, we chose the
deep blue sea.
If that time came again, I would make no
other choice, even with everything I know
now. With everything I have, and everything
I believe and everything I hold dear, I am
passionate about the fact that, despite the
disappointment you have presented to us,
voting what you represented for president
was a crucial step in re-making Nigeria, in
the long term.
I just wish you had made it easier, with your
performance, with visionary leadership, with
actions and decisions, to justify that choice. I
wish we could point to the short term, as well
as the long term as the vindication of that
choice. I wish you had risen up to the
occasion, Mr. President.
Yes, you care for Nigeria. I know that. Or at
least I think I do. But that doesn’t matter. It’s
neither here nor there. Love is not just
something you say, love is something you do.
And there is no evidence, today, of your love.
We didn’t vote for you to try your best; we
didn’t vote for you to complain to no end, no.
We voted for you to make change happen.
And no matter what your remaining rabid
supporters, either blinded still by anger at
Dr. Jonathan, blinded by the comfort of
denial or blinded by proximity to power, say,
this is the truth: we are disappointed in you.
This is not the change we voted for.
Of course, there is still a year to make it
happen before the politicking fully kicks in,
but not today.
Instead, disappointment, shame, sadness –
that has become your legacy.
And it breaks my heart sir.
It breaks so many hearts, home and abroad.
Those who believed passionately in you.
Those who didn’t believe but decided to give
you a chance. Those who couldn’t bring
themselves to vote for you but still celebrated
the possibility of change. Those who rolled
the dice and hoped for the best.
Your performance, your failings, the
ineptitude, it has severely broken their
hearts. It has severely broken my heart.
I sincerely hope, in your quiet moments of
truth, that it breaks your heart too.
Chude Jideonwo is co-founder and managing
partner of RED.