Osundare’s poem Justice Kekere-Ekun should read 

At the moment, the judiciary hasn’t been able to be the last bastion of the common man, rather it has been the voice of the oppressors. It’s time for a new era, an era where we can truly be proud of our judiciary

My Lord Honourable Justice Kudirat Kekere-Ekun, I congratulate you on your assumption of office as Chief Justice of Nigeria, a position many of your colleagues never attained because they had to retire before it was their turn.

You deserve the position given your pedigree. And it is because of this pedigree of yours that I am looking forward to judicial reforms under your leadership.

I sincerely believe that for you to do the right reforms, you need the help of Professor Niyi Osundare, a leading African poet, dramatist, linguist, and literary critic who was born on March 12, 1947 in Ikere-Ekiti, and has received many  international laurels.

Before you wonder what pieces of advice you need from a poet and teacher, I will quickly point your attention to Professor Osundare’s poem titled “My Lord, Tell Me Where To Keep Your Bribe”. I know  you may not have time to interpret the poem so I will interpret it in this letter.

In the satirical monologue from  a bribe-giver to a corrupt judge, he seeks guidance on where to conceal a hefty bribe, revealing the systematic corruption plaguing the judiciary. The bribe giver sarcastically suggests hiding the money in the judge’s chambers, mansion, or even septic tank, noting that wealth can mask even the worst offenses. The speaker also proposes distributing the bribe among the judge’s paramours or using the names of servants for fraudulent accounts.

The poem expands beyond personal satire into a broader critique of the Nigerian legal system, describing how judges, once seen as protectors of justice, have become tools of the wealthy and corrupt. Bribes are no longer a scandalous secret but a routine, with criminals securing favorable rulings through bribery.

In the poem, election tribunals, once places of recourse, are depicted as goldmines where victory is assured for fraudulent politicians. This is instructive given the fact that tribunals are soon to start sitting, first in Edo State and later in Ondo State.

Osundare’s scathing indictment of the legal system is vivid, with images of dozing judges, bags of cash hidden under kitchen sinks, and the courtroom itself described as collapsing under the weight of corruption. He reflects on the broader decay of society, where impunity thrives, and even religious piety becomes a hypocritical act.

The poem shows that in our country, justice is for sale, and the nation’s “Temple of Justice” is but a façade, crumbling under the termite-like greed that eats away at its foundations.

The poem concludes with a grim vision of a Nigeria decaying under corruption, likening the country to a rotting corpse preyed on by those who should defend it.

My Lord, this scathing indictment of our legal system and our society where money and power trump ethics, I sincerely believe, holds the key to your legacy because of its reflection of the despair of our nation where greed has overtaken morality.

At your inauguration, you promised: “We will make sure that people have more confidence in the judiciary, and I believe that it is not a one-man’s job. We all have to be on board because we all see the areas that are in need of improvement. I believe that there will be maximum cooperation because we all want to see a better judiciary.”

These are hefty promises and we will hold you accountable to them.

My final take: In the last few years, the judiciary has been under trial. Two of your predecessors could not even conclude their terms and squabbles in the judiciary have been public knowledge. At the moment, the judiciary hasn’t been able to be the last bastion of the common man, rather, it has been the voice of the oppressors. It’s time for a new era, an era where we can truly be proud of our judiciary.

 

 

Malians, Marlians and slavery

One reigned so many moons ago. The other reigned until a year and some months ago. Their names: Malians and Marlians. 

The first was a group of Islamic converts always passing through a town called Osogun on their way to their many an expedition. 

The second was the madness a multitude was afflicted by. A sizeable number of students, teachers, artisans and more prided themselves as Marlians, fans of music star Naira Marley (a London returnee who preached all sorts of morally-bankrupt ideas). His music was reigning so there was a reason for the cult followership. The death of Mohbad erased whatever was left of the Marlian affliction. Now, no one except Naira Marley himself publicly identifies as a Marlian, a timed idea whose promoters acted as though would outlive them. 

I have only brought these other Marlians to this discourse because they have a name similar to the trouble makers in Biyi Bandele’s historical novel, ‘Yoruba Boy Running’. 

In this posthumously published work, these Malians are usually in their thousands. Osogun, at the time, is under the leadership of a king whose romance with Portuguese liquor is legendary. He is most times too drunk to administer the town, too drunk to walk unaided, too drunk palace eunuchs have to carry him without his feet touching the ground, too drunk he is in no position to tell his left from his right on the day a seer comes visiting to deliver a message of an impending doom, too drunk to be useful even to himself. Long story short: he is useless.

Ajayi, the one his mother calls Father because of his resemblance to her father, is one of the boys growing up in Osogun at the time this alcoholic is on the throne. Before the seer’s visit, Ajayi’s sleeps have been disturbed by dreams, dreams about Osanyin, an important Yoruba god, but the more Ajayi dreams, the more confused he is about what the god is trying to reveal to him, and his mother and sister aren’t able to help to make sense of the situation. He is, however, convinced that things are about to fall apart, that doom is imminent. 

The Malians’ prolong presence in Osogun at the time his dreams intensify worries him and makes him wonder if they have anything to do with his feelings. These Malians buy and sell slaves, but they have always avoided taking slaves from Osogun. The town is only a transit point for them. Is this about to change? This question troubles Ajayi and helps drive the plot in ‘Yoruba Boy Running’, Biyi Bandele’s historical novel, which re-imagines the life and times of a great son of Yorubaland, Bishop Samuel Ajayi Crowther, famed for, among other things, translating the Bible to Yoruba. 

In ‘Yoruba Boy Running’, we see men proclaiming God’s greatness yet beheading fellow men, we see men playing God, we see men eager to sell their conscience to gain the whole world, we see sons of the soil betraying the land of their birth and we see men simply being men, flawed and fallible. 

The book also shows us love, betrayal, disloyalty, fanaticism, greed and how with the right support, what appears insurmountable becomes easy.

The novel raises posers, one of them about the gods and their inability to stop the slave traders. 

This novel does more than just re-imagining Ajayi’s life as a boy in Osogun and as an adult away from home and back home, it also re-interprets Dandeson’s life. Dandeson was Bishop Samuel Ajayi Crowther’s son. 

Also, the novel titilates us about the Yoruba and their gods and several parts of their culture and tradition. It serves us so much from the deep well of wisdom of these interesting and forward-looking folks. It also shows us and reminds us of the slave trade angle less talked or written about. We have heard and read more about men who used Christianity to pillage Africa. Bandele’s Ajayi story shows us men screaming “Allahu Akbar” while perpetuating evil. 

This novel, with an opening scene that is lyrical, dramatic and humour-laced, shows us how Ajayi graduates from running for his dear life to running towards a fantastic life as a teacher, linguist, author, preacher, and more.