In the market of thunder where rumours wear agbada,
And politics drinks palm wine from a cracked calabash,
A quarrel rose like Harmattan dust
Between two drummers of the old APC caravan.
One beat his chest with the fury of River Niger:
“I fought the wars!
I crossed the bridges!
I carried the general upon my shoulders
Like masquerade carriers at new yam festivals!”
The other smiled the smile of a man
Who knows where every skeleton in the coalition sleeps.
He adjusted his cap,
And silence itself stood at attention.
For years the town criers had sung it openly:
That before the old general reached Aso Rock,
He wandered the wilderness of failed elections
Like Moses without a map,
Defeated in ballot jungles,
Haunted by the ghosts of previous campaigns.
Then came the great merger—
Strange prophets from strange temples,
Progressives sharing one mortar,
Tin roofs stitched into one umbrella,
And from the smoke of strategy
Rose the roaring slogan of Change.
Now Amaechi, captain of campaign trains,
Master of locomotives and television declarations,
Has unsheathed his tongue at last:
“No, no!
It was I who forged the crown!
I who fought the battle!
I who made Buhari president!”
Ha!
At that very moment,
I, humble student of forbidden magic,
Descended into Daura at midnight
With a lantern soaked in diesel and prophecy.
Because the argument had become too loud.
So I sought the grave of political memory,
Where historians snore beside abandoned manifestoes,
And I began the ritual of resurrection.
I summoned the spirits of old ballot papers,
Poured libation upon expired PVCs,
And chanted the sacred incantation:
“Emi lokan…
Emi lokan…
Emi lokan…”
Suddenly the earth coughed.
From beneath the sand arose Buhari
Not flesh, not spirit,
But a mystical apparition wrapped in campaign posters,
Carrying a broom taller than inflation itself.
His voice cracked like an old radio in Katsina:
“Who disturbs my retirement?”
I trembled.
Even the moon removed her wrapper in fear.
Then I asked:
“O General returned from the corridors of history,
Tell Nigeria plainly:
Who truly made you president?”
The winds stopped.
Generators went silent across the republic.
Even politicians paused midway through defection.
And Buhari lifted one finger slowly toward Bourdillon.
“Amaechi fought,” he said,
“And yes, he blew the whistle of campaign trains.
But the man who gathered the broken horses,
Who stitched the wounded alliance together,
Who convinced the North to dance with the South,
Who turned defeat into coalition—
That man was Tinubu.”
Kai!
Immediately thunder clapped like Senate tables.
Goats fled from nearby compounds.
Analysts fainted into newspaper headlines.
Amaechi adjusted his microphone.
The microphone adjusted itself back.
And Buhari’s ghost continued:
“You may drive the campaign bus,
But another man may own the road.
You may beat the war drum,
But another man may own the warriors.”
Then the spirit vanished
Into a cloud of old promises and railway contracts.
And there I stood alone,
Beside the grave of Nigerian irony,
Holding my lantern of necromancy,
While Abuja slept with one eye open.
So let the historians argue in television studios.
Let loyalists wrestle on podiums till 2027 grows grey.
The truth, like pepper soup,
Cannot hide its aroma forever.
For in the strange republic of endless declarations,
Where yesterday’s allies become tomorrow’s documentaries,
One fact still dances stubbornly
Like Fuji music at a village wedding:
Many men fought the battle—
But the crown reached Buhari’s head
Through the long political mathematics
Of Bola Ahmed Tinubu.
And even the resurrected ghost agreed.
Before returning politely to the grave.
Genre: Poetry, Joseph Atainyang
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