JAPA

Japa

Daniel lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about how life had turned upside down right before his eyes. He was trying to decide what to do when overthinking dragged him down memory lane. Ten years ago, everything had been easy. Twenty thousand naira then felt like a million today. He swore under his breath, cursing every politician and their uneducated foot soldiers who had plunged the country into this mess. Those foot soldiers were too dense to realize they were guarding their masters’ pots while destroying their own lives—and the lives of the coming generation. In fact, they were wrecking the very foundation of the nation and its democracy.

Daniel stood, crossed to his wine cabinet, and reached for a drink. Everything about his country left a sour taste in his throat and made him feel useless. But the cabinet was empty. He swore again, went to his safe, and checked how much cash he had left for something strong. When he opened it, his blood ran cold. Just one thousand naira.

“What the hell!” he exclaimed. “How did it come to this?” The money couldn’t even buy a decent meal. He pocketed the note, stepped outside, and called to his neighbor who sold provisions and other bits and bobs.

“Mama Chichi!”

“Mama Chichi!”

“Yes, Danny?”

“Please bring me a small—or medium—bottle of Odogwu Bitter.”

“That’ll be five hundred naira.”

“No problem. And bring five hundred change—I’ve got a thousand here.”

“Okay.”

Mama Chichi soon arrived with the bottle. Daniel took it inside, sat on his bed, and figured he’d go hungry afterward. No money for food. He decided to call his sister first; if she had something in her pot, he could use the remaining five hundred for transport. He pulled out his phone and dialed. She picked up on the second ring.

“Hello?”

“Good morning, sister.”

“Good morning, Dan. It’s Saturday and you’re calling this early—hope it’s not about food?”

Daniel swore silently. “Not really, sis. It’s been a while since we talked. Just checking you’re okay.”

“I’m fine, Dan. You?”

“Fine too. Er… no vex, but do you have anything in the pot?”

“I knew it. You and food, eh.”

“Sis, please—just tell me what’s in the pot.”

“Okay, egusi soup. But garri isn’t much.”

“No problem. I’m coming.” He ended the call.

Daniel cracked open the Odogwu Bitter and took a swig. It was the first time he’d drunk this much of the hyped stuff. He smacked his lips, nodded in satisfaction, and thought: This Cubana guy really went the extra mile to give consumers a great drink—one that makes you feel like a billionaire. He smacked his lips again, but his mind drifted back to politics. While Cubana delivered taste and value, politicians schemed, committed every evil to grab power, and, after winning—often with lives lost—refused to create jobs or provide basic amenities. No low-cost housing for low-income earners, no portable drinking water, no security worth mentioning, no sustainable agriculture for food security. All they did was make people poorer, keep youth unemployed and unproductive. Then they recruited the lucky ones as praise singers and social-media aides; the rest were pushed into cultism or ballot-box snatching come election time.

Daniel swallowed the last of the bitter liquid, tempted to buy another bottle. But the egusi soup called. He paused at the door, changed direction, and headed to the bathroom for a quick bath.

At his sister’s place, he savored every bite—and every nag. She complained about how expensive everything had become and how all he ever did was finish her food. He laughed, then grumbled that she’d deliberately given him only one piece of meat.

“Give me my food back if you’ll complain,” she snapped.

“Sorry, you take things too seriously.”

“Why not?” she shot back.

“No worry—I’ll send you something when I get home,” he promised.

She gave him an infuriating look, sighed, and stepped outside. While he ate, Daniel’s thoughts returned to the country—and Africa at large. How could Africans depend so much on churches while Europeans built factories and invented technology? He marveled at OpenAI’s new GPT-4, yet here the continent was erecting the biggest churches while drowning in poverty, underdevelopment, greed, and wickedness.

Imagine a country swimming in crude oil yet without a single refinery—selling raw product abroad, then buying refined fuel back from the same buyers. Daniel sighed and shook his head. Everything was simple, but greed and wickedness were rooted deep in the African man.

His phone rang.

“Hello?”

“My main man Danny-dodo! Good news—just dust your passport, man. This your guy Frankie.”

“Oboy, you’re asking me to dust passport, yet you’re calling from a strange number?”

“Calm down—I borrowed someone’s phone.”

“Okay, Frankie. What’s the heat?”

“I need to see you, like now.”

“Come to my sister’s place. You still remember No. 21 Crescent City, right?”

“Yeah, bro.”

“Hurry, man—there’s eba and soup.”

“On my way, now-now.”

Daniel hung up and started clearing space for his friend. He knew it would be good news; he and Frankie had been trying to leave the country for greener pastures for nearly three years. The thought left a sour taste—life was hard, and raising the kind of money they needed was no child’s play. They’d chased contract after contract, but without being “in the system,” it was nearly impossible.

Frankie arrived in minutes.

“Wow, so fast?”

“Chill, man—I was around the corner.”

Daniel raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“How’s the food? Help yourself. Now, what’s the heat?”

“Let me calm my stomach first—no hurry.”

“Give me a hint, bro.”

“Alright. Looks like we’ve got a contract.”

“Really? From who? How?”

“Told you I had a small connection. We’re to build a website for one of the big politicians in the governorship race.”

“Wow, that’s great. So those fools hanging around him can’t help?”

“You know how it is—they only praise him for small change.”

“How much is the deal?”

“My man, the guy is tight-fisted, but he’s offering ten million.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s amazing.”

“Yeah, it’s solid. We can run this. Better start doing the needful.”

“Sure, Frankie. When do we start?”

“I’ll have to take you to meet him. Just throw some jargon—he’ll get confused and let us handle it.”

The following Saturday morning, Frankie took Daniel to the politician’s house. Youths milled around the gate—some haggard, others high on cheap substances. Daniel and Frankie gave them a wide berth.

Daniel turned to Frankie. “Bro, you seeing what I mean? This is how politicians ruin lives.”

“I know,” Frankie muttered, eyes averted. “Mind your words, or we’ll be in trouble.”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“You got nothing to say about these youths?”

“What can I say? They sold their future for a loaf of bread. Used for thuggery, then dumped after elections. Same people end up harassing society for problems they didn’t create.”

“I’m telling you—this is exactly what I was talking about. Young men with potential turned into lost causes.”

As they whispered, two hefty-looking thugs blocked the gate.