Stomach Restructuring
Photo: Nengi Nelson, Unsplash
Good people of Ondo State, that was what he called them when he got to the podium at the crowded Akure Dome for his first post-election address. They kept interrupting his dramatic speech with their claps and cheers like he was the second coming of their lord and saviour.
Flags and handkerchiefs of various colours went up, the smiles were full of teeth, and the speaker was enjoying himself. The audience saw a man who would cast aside his agbada, roll his trousers up, and become the people’s chief servant as he had called himself during his month-long campaign. They thought his mind readable because they had taken his promises too seriously, until he got to that part about the flabs on some stomachs. Some heard him the first time, a few didn’t. Would His Excellency please repeat himself?
He had prepared for resistance, but he was determined to speak on, as if his choices for the people should be accepted like cold water offered to a thirsty person on a hot afternoon. A hush descended on the crowd, straining to hear him better.
“Good citizens of this Ondo State: that flab on your stomach has to go! A flab on your stomach says you are lazy. It says you’ve been eating too much. It says you are fat. If you are not pregnant, your stomach must be flat. This administration is shedding the weight of corruption that has kept our beloved state among the poorest in Nigeria.”
He waited for applause but seemed not to care when none came. The campaign was over. Sleek talk and sweet words had lost their necessity. Tight mouths, wide eyes, lifted eyebrows, faces taut with concentration stared back at him. He didn’t care. He was the democratically elected governor of Ondo State.
“By noon on the 1st of April, no resident of this state would be seen with a flabby stomach,” he continued. “Go to the gym, fast, eat grass, drink salt water, have your tummy tucked surgically. But whatever you do, make sure you get your stomach to something close to a six-pack.”
What is he saying? What the hell is stomach restructuring? Believe me, this guy is losing it. Is this a Joke? It can never work! We voted for the jerk. Why is he now acting like a dictator? It is my body, for God’s sake. He can’t tell me how to keep my body.
It was an interesting time in a state that was a unique blend of rural traditions and urban development. It was during the days of Twitter memes and TikTok videos. It was fashionable to talk about human rights, freedom, democracy, and other twenty-first-century buzzwords. There were slogans that could make one think shit wouldn’t stink because the one who got it in the toilet is one of the nubile women on the cover of the glossy fashion magazines.
But the governor was not alone on the matter. Chief Biodun Kayode had the support of the gaunt-faced, hungry-looking NPC leadership, who had hitherto been in the opposition for fifty years. They wanted change; they wanted to fight corruption; they wanted dignity for the green passport; their official creed was, “It will not be business as usual.”
The flab issue divided the state into residents with flat stomachs—who would not be bothered by law enforcement agents—and residents with flabby stomachs, who would need the thick, sky-blue gym registration card before accessing any state facility. Many law enforcement officers, too, could pass for pregnant women. The state police commissioner, a tall, muscular officer, made a video leading a group of obese officers in a jogging session at the state sports complex.
For three days, angry, flabby-stomached men and women defied the blazing afternoon sun and gathered near the metal gate of the governor’s office with placards, tree branches, and sticks. They clenched fists above their heads. They danced. They chanted:
You don’t own us!
Stomach restructuring nonsense
Hands off our rights!
We didn’t vote for this.
Chief Biodun Kayode could not enter his office. He had to work from home for the three days. His televised threats didn’t work because the already divided police had been outnumbered by protesters who would not move until the state got the message. So the governor, too, hardened his heart. He vowed to deal with the disgruntled individuals hired by his political opponents to make the state ungovernable.
No tension! We are winning was the popular thinking among the protesters. Vox populi, vox dei. Nothing is impossible if we stand united. The fool needs to be reminded that this is a democracy. Ijobatiwantiwaleleyi!
The fool must have repented. That was how it seemed a few days after the protests. The gyms were empty again; people ate cakes, egg buns, chocolates, sweets, fufu, ice cream. What are malls for if we can’t eat what we like?
“I’m not saying people shouldn’t eat what they like,” His Excellency said in an interview in his office. “Don’t misquote me. I said the protruding stomachs must go.”
A lot happened after the three-day protest. First, it was rumoured that the state had signed an 80 billion naira deal with a foreign firm for defence purposes, but no one was sure. The blogs got busy. The fury spilled onto Twitter. TV stations brought in eloquent analysts who speculated, adumbrated, and said nothing that the audience didn’t already know.
Just when people thought their fury had been effective, a convoy of seven yellow tractor-trailers stopped near the gate of the governor’s office, where protesters had gathered earlier. That was when it should have been clear that the NPC meant business with the stomach infrastructure thing.
A crowd gathered two days after the trailers arrived for another protest. They were not expecting fifty thousand law enforcement robots made of steel. Those robots could set a hundred people on fire and watch them burn; they had a blinding spray that stung the eyes like pepper. They were fast, they were swift, and they behaved exactly how they were programmed.
Governor Biodun Kayode—with his legs on a footstool and a cup of juice on another stool beside him—smiled at the efficiency of his new acquisition when he saw their impact on TV during the evening news.
Some protesters changed their minds after they took it all in. Some insisted that they would fight for their rights until the end. Where are our lawmakers, for God’s sake! Where are our elected representatives?
Pa Fakunle, the toothless octogenarian witch doctor of Akure, who, during the pre-election months, had been called an old fool for warning the electorate to be wary of the charming deception of Biodun Kayode, was pleased to be in the news again.
The old man is wise. He could have something up his sleeve. If we had listened to him from the start, we wouldn’t be in this shit now.
The walk to the old man’s hut was televised. Cameras mounted on a helicopter and drones flying above the crowd like birds got the visuals to the world. If you had been standing on the hills near Oba Ile, you would have seen the crowd advancing like a procession of ants.
Pa Fakunle opened the door of his hut slowly. He took a few careful steps towards the leaders of the delegation and smiled for the cameras.
He cleared his throat. “You didn’t just wake up one morning to find out that the man who waved eagerly, who shook your hands, who showed his teeth during his campaign tour, suddenly has a problem with your stomachs.”
“If that is how you see it, I wonder when you will ever learn.” Pa Fakunle stared at the short, rotund man, who appeared to be the leader among the leaders.
“There are some things you will never know about Chief Biodun Kayode; even if your words leave people nodding like agamas. Even if your crafty explanation of his failures leaves people with headaches—as they try to comprehend your wahala—like the words of that Nobel-winning Yoruba professor of English with all-white hair.”
“You could be on CNN, educating the ignorant with your ignorance and looking impressive while at it. The international community would like someone like you with your conclusions similar to their simplistic approach to the peculiar complexities of this place.
Pa Fakunle continued, “After all, you went to Harvard. You’ve miraculously acquired an American accent, and you were born here.
Pa Fakunle fixed his eyes on one of the cameras and continued, “You would fit in with those curious observers who analyse issues to death. You want to know the genesis of the term stomach restructuring, amused by this union of words that wouldn’t have been alive in London or New York.
“I am not denying the dictatorial tendencies of this government; I am not saying the governor is using his number six. Your fake accent and flowery language do not mean you are wrong.
“I just want you all to calm down, to give this thing some time. Okay? I know I am an old man who has never seen the inside of an aeroplane, while your father was classmates with that former American president with a name that rhymes with Osama, but please, trust me on this one.
“Sir,” the leader of the delegation said, wiping sweat from his forehead, “my father never attended the same school as Obama.”
“I am not talking about you. I am talking about those who try too hard to solve every problem with confrontation. All I’m saying is: be calm, be law-abiding. See how things unfold in a few months. Okay?”
That was all the old man said before he turned and walked away. He didn’t turn back when they barked questions at him.
“Is that all, sir? We should just sit and watch and do nothing?”
They didn’t like it, but that was what they did.
On the 1st of April, six months after the media frenzy of the protest and its aftermath, the governor and his delegation came back from the council of states meeting in Abuja, the nation’s capital, like pupae turned adult butterflies. Their faces, once gaunt and scruffy, now had glowing skin and rosy cheeks. Their agbadas were newer and bigger.
Even His Excellency, the governor of Ondo State, Chief Biodun Kayode, kept his hands on his stomach like a fat frog.
Featured Image: Nengi Nelson
