JÀLÈ JÀIYÉ: The National Curriculum
_By Dele Giwa (Ghost Edition) Penned by Oloroogun Sola Ajisafe,
Haba, you this people!
I have been away for 40 years.
I left in 1986 through a parcel. They said it was addressed to me.
I have returned in 2026 and the address is still the same, Nigeria, abi Naija Una dey call am?
Nothing has changed. Only the packaging.
In 1986, the rascal stole with a pen and a gun.
In 2026, the rascal steals with a PowerPoint and a press release.
In 1986, we asked “Who sent the letter bomb?”
In 2026, we ask “Who approved the executive fiat?”
Nobody will answer. The file is missing.
I read a poem last week. A good poem. “Jàlè Jàiyé” by Babafemi Ojudu
The writer named the soldier, the General, the civil servant, the lecturer, the student, the king, the politician.
He forgot one person, the man holding the pen that is writing down the names.
That man is me. That man is you. That man is the journalist.
We have become the PR department of thieves.
The Governor steals a road.
Tomorrow the headline will read: “Strategic Re-alignment for National Development”.
The Senator steals a hospital.
Tomorrow the TV will say, “Government remains committed to healthcare”.
The yahoo boy steals from a widow in Texas.
Tomorrow Instagram will say: “Omo Ologo is blessed”. “It is systematic reparation”
Everyone must jàiyé. Everyone must enjoy.
Even the truth must enjoy. So we kill it and bury it with a brown envelope, abi white ni?
In my time, they seized newspapers.
Today, they don’t need to. The editor has already seized himself.
In my time, they detained journalists.
Today, they invite them for “exclusive interview” and pay them transport.
Progress, they call it.
For logistics ni ke!
40 years ago I wrote: _”We no longer ask ‘Is it right?’ We now ask ‘Is it my turn?’”_
Today I see that the turn has gone round.
The soldier’s turn.
The General’s turn. The civil servant’s turn.
The lecturer’s turn. The student’s turn. The journalist’s turn.
The judges turn
The lawyers turn
The Pastor’s turn
The Poli-tri-cian turn.
Soon it will be the unborn child’s turn.
To pay the debt.
We are auctioning the Republic piece by piece.
We sold the hospital and flew abroad to treat malaria.
We sold the school and sent our children to Canada.
We sold the road and bought helicopters.
We sold the light and bought generators. Now we are buying solar.
We sold the security and hired boys with guns to protect us from ourselves.
We sold the oil, the refinery, the pipelines, but we say we don’t want subsidy removal
We sold the dollar and killed the naira, yet we say, Naija is hard
We shout “Tunubu” is wicked like Wike?
And after selling everything, we gather for celebration.
We wear agbada. We wear crowns. We clap.
We say “God has done it”.
God did not do it. We did it. To ourselves.
The tragedy is not that thieves live among us.
The tragedy is that we have made theft our culture.
We don’t call it stealing again. We call it “hustle”.
We don’t call it bribe again. We call it “appreciation”.
We don’t call it lie again. We call it “narrative”.
One day, there will be nothing left to steal.
On that day, we will sit at the banquet table,
dressed in gold, drinking champagne,
and realize we have eaten the seed,
sold the farm,
and mortgaged the future. Nothing go remain. Everything sold.
Then we will ask,
“Who did this to us?”
And the answer will be looking back at us from the mirror.
Some will say, it’s Awolowo, others Zik and Sardauna.
One even said, it’s Tinubu the Jagaban
Until then, everyone must jàiyé.
Everyone must enjoy.
Even me. Even from the grave. I see say, Una still dey steal, abi?
Ok, Kontinuuuuu!!!
Diaris god oooooo!!!
_Dele Giwa_
_Parallax Snaps_
_Abuja, October 2026_
_40 years later_
