In Defence Of My Children
A few of the infinitesimally minute number of reasonable people in Ibadan have said that Sanni Abacha must have been a holy man, judging from the experiences of Ikoro Iyineleda in the hands of the natives and the residents of Ibadan. I’m in all its entirety certain that, were I to die today, the people of Nigeria would instantly throng into the streets rejoicing — even as they thronged out rejoicing upon the death of Sanni Abacha, as though I had been an Idi Amin slaughtering his own people. Even the fact that I’m about to retire from my appointment with the Oyo State Post-Primary Schools Teaching Service Commission, and a woman was instantly running her mouth gleefully on a radio station — gloating over the fact that I might not be able to get another job for years, literally; calling me the “last” in Nigeria.
A prophet can never be recognised by his own nation. That Moses was ever accepted by Israel was by the power of The LORD. That Mohammed eventually was accepted by two of the clans of his nation is a miracle; and even he eventually had to wage war upon war upon his land, due to the persecution that he suffered in the hands of its natives.
He is still waging that war today.
And then again, even he was most probably given no more than a honorary membership by the two clans that accepted him during his own sojourn on earth — even as the obviously honorary membership that I’ve been given by both the Pyrates Confraternity and the Rosicrucian Order is that which has me even now, even today (after almost and more than ten years of membership) still live as though I were no more than a baby sucking his mother’s bosom, with not a single idea of what is going on in the world but that which he reads in books and newspapers.
Thus, the fortunate prophet that Mohammed is; a man that (just like the Biblical David) was accepted by his people.
That was not the fate of Jesus Christ. His own blood still is on the people of Israel, and on their children, and on their children’s children.
That is not the fate of Ikoro Iyineleda. All his people have been waiting for, for over two decades — ever since he was given his “E Too Late” certificate by the National Youth Service Corps — is the day they’ll be able to finally laugh over his death, and not merely over the life of his that they have in all its entirety destroyed.
And they keep on destroying it. To the extent where I’ve eventually had to submit my letter of resignation from a job that I’ve managed to hold in Ibadan for almost two decades, despite all the afflictions that I’ve suffered in the hands of that town — a resignation due to all the afflictions I have suffered in the hands of that town. And they keep on destroying it. To the extent where I eventually had to drop out of my Master of Business Administration programme at the University of Ibadan School of Business, due to the afflictions that I was suffering even at the University of Ibadan — a programme that I gained admission into with the highest grades in the post-graduate entrance examinations of that university in particular. And they keep on destroying it. To the extent where they’ve been able to get away with slaughtering most cruelly two dogs of mine, two cats of mine, and a human being that was to be a follower. And they keep on destroying it. To the extent where the words that keep on rising out of the loins of my labour, due to inspiration in The Hands of my Creator, now are marked down as doomed and destined for destruction.
Be it by the hands of colleagues (at least three of such colleagues, as of the last count), be it by the hands of siblings — that even brag of intending to do much worse; be it by the hands of parents — both father and mother, be it even by the hands of total strangers on the streets: all of them — with the access to my passwords that they’re all privy to, due to the nudity of my mind that they’re all privy to — all of them have now made their favourite pastime to be destroying the children of mine that are my words and my writings.
When they’re not deleting these children from the world wide web (original works of inspiration, that mostly do not have other copies apart from those on the web) they are burning them on the streets of Ibadan. And when they’re not burning them, they’re twisting and altering and perverting the words in ways that will have you realise why Mohammed would that his followers memorise each and every word of The Koran — rather than merely read copies that could have been perverted long since by The Adversary, even as The Bible has long since had its message corroded by thousands of years of twisting and altering in the name of revision upon revision.
And they keep on destroying the life of Ikoro Iyineleda, by the hands of his own nation. To the extent where all sorts of Judas Iscariots have been the consequences of most of the relationships he has had in life.
I will speak here of two of those Judas Iscariots, and I will rest my case — for today.
The respect and adoration that I once had for my father once had me burst into tears because I thought he was going to die of typhoid fever. I once had once again the urge to immediately begin The Holy War against mostly the people of Ibadan and its Yoruba tribe — all because I visited my father, whilst I was living then away from home; and I saw then the ruin that the cunning of Ibadan (and, I’ll have to say now, his folly) had turned his house into. And a certain friend has often commented over the training and upbringing that I’ve had in life — commented upon, and admired well; and attributed my being so well brought up to the man I’ve had as a father. Therefore, my father — for this and various other reasons — happens to be a man that should ordinarily have all my regard.
But not when he has turned out to be such a Judas Iscariot that deleting the children of mine that are my words and my writings happens to be just one of the means via which he has been of those that are destroying my life.
I don’t want to dwell too much on the pain I have suffered in life, despite being his first son, despite his being a university professor with long years of service in all of government, politics, and the academia. But that he could descend to such depths as to be such a part of The Adversary that the words that are a greater part of the few things that has me have a reason for living, today — after all the extent to which my life has been destroyed both by the people of Ibadan in particular, and those of Nigeria (and beyond!) in general — that he could sink to such depths as to delete of these words, he can never be forgiven by me.
He is a Judas Iscariot to me today, that can never have me grace his burial for any reason whatsoever — despite my being his first son — a Judas Iscariot that can only have me heave a sigh of relief when he is thereby gone.
That is number one. I will speak here now of a second Judas Iscariot.
I have only two reasons for having worked for the membership that I can boast of today of the Pyrates Confraternity, despite all the other reasons I may have given during my initiation into the group. One, the fact that the Pyrates Confraternity is the first Nigerian fraternity — and I’ve always been attracted to those that are first in whatever sphere whatsoever. Two, Wole Soyinka.
Wole Soyinka, for decades, had always been a role model of mine. I do not keep a full crown of hair today because it is so easy to take care of an Afro. I keep it because Wole Soyinka does not keep a low hair-cut. And all the tales of his daring exploits as an unrepentant non-conservative, that I have come across ever since my youth, have made me grow up to admire him so much that I kept on applying again and again to the Pyrates Confraternity until I was finally accepted by the fraternity in the year 2013. All because I wanted to be like Wole Soyinka.
That was almost ten years ago. Over the years, however, the reluctance of the Pyrates to take a non-conformist stand and accept the fact that I am truly being afflicted by a public that needs to be waged war upon — even as Mohammed eventually had to wage a Holy Jihad — has had me make all sorts of negative statements concerning the fraternity on the world wide web, amongst others. The last of such statements was made on WhatsApp yesterday, with the following message — amongst others — sent to a friend,
“Speaking again of the PC, their name depicts them as a confraternity, yet they keep on trying to give the general public the impression that they’re an NGO. Is that not contradictory? I admire Wole Soyinka a lot, but I think it’s a bit hypocritical of his organisation.”
“I always believe Soyinka gave me a fake membership of his fraternity. And I always say the same thing also of Idiodi. Because I don’t see how I could have been a member of such a group for almost and over ten years and I cannot war. It’s a disgrace to the male gender.”
I do not want to ever call Wole Soyinka a Judas Iscariot. I do not ever want to say, “I did not ever want to call Wole Soyinka a Judas Iscariot.” I have always felt grateful to him — and to Kenneth Idiodi — for having given me the comparatively little I know of the world apart from that which I come across in books and the world wide web. And he has always been one of my favourite role models. But, if it is true that he also has decided to join in the afflictions by the hands of Nigeria — by deleting of the work that I have on the world wide web, obviously due to the WhatsApp messages that I have referred to above — then I can never forgive him.
I have sworn never to have children of flesh and blood — not only due to the trust I have not in Woman, a most unfaithful gender of the most gadding about; not only due to the utmost folly that I believe that of Woman — and not only I, but Job, and Solomon, and The Buddha also; but due simply to the intense hatred I have for the woman’s gender in general, and for my mother in particular.
And therefore, the children of words that I place on the world wide web — and that I have scattered all over my room; on paper, on my laptop, in flash drives — are the only means with which I can say I brought forth sons into the world. And anyone that knows the value of children — of sons! — will know what wickedness it is to have destroyed of my work. Even The Destroyer knows, thus the destruction with which he strives to in all its entirety wipe out my name.
If it is true that Professor Wole Soyinka ever deleted of any of my words and my writings, I will never forgive him. Repeat!
Nigeria has destroyed my life to the extent where it will be easier for a camel to step through the eye of a needle than for a Nigerian — most especially a Yoruba — to enter The Pride of Machismo Renaissance. In fact, it is almost in all its entirety impossible for a Yoruba man to enter The Queendom of Heaven. Yet, even that destruction I could one day forgive.
I can never forgive the destruction of my words and my writings.
And it has my mind set today on a war that neither the Pyrates nor the Rosicrucian Order has thus far furnished me with. I wait for neither of the two to furnish me with the war. Rather, I wait on my Creator.
I would not even be alive today were it not for my Creator.
Nigeria keeps on gloating over the wretchedness that is my life today. I laugh at their gloating. Because they all cannot know what it is to be what I know I am to my Creator, or what it is to have the salvation that I keep on working out with all due fear and trembling. However, even all the gloating and the ridicule and the derision, I could one day forgive.
The destruction of my words and my writings, I can never forgive. Not even if it is by the hands of anyone. Repeat!
- Ikoro Iyineleda; 17th of March, 2021.