Once upon a time in the fabled Republic of Naija where the sun rises not in the east but from the wallets of politicians, there existed a curious tradition among the ruling elite: they loved to die abroad. Yes, you read that right. Death, for them, was not a tragic end but a ceremonial export. Not for them the ordinary Nigerian coffin wood, lovingly crafted by a local carpenter in Aba or Zaria. No, theirs must be polished mahogany from Harrods, embalmed with imported silence from Harley Street.
On a quiet, perfumed Sunday in London, the sanctified city of Nigerian presidential mortality, General Muhammadu Buhari. took his final presidential nap. There were no sirens, no fuel queues, no ASUU strikes, no kidnapped schoolgirls screaming in the distance. It was peaceful. It was foreign. It was sweet. Just as Umaru Yaradua, the gentle Katsina lamb, had done 15 years before him in another corner of the Queen’s own territory. History doesn’t repeat in Naija, it mocks.
In Naija, leaders do not die like mortals. They ascend, through Heathrow.
THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO ST. ABROAD.
Lo and behold, it was decreed from the Book of Elite Misgovernance, Chapter 419, Verse 20:
“Thou shalt not build good hospitals in thy own land, for where thy treasure is, there shall thy medical history be also.”
And so they built hospitals only for ribbon-cutting ceremonies, mortuaries for the commoners, and health budgets for their pockets. When their heads ached, they flew to Frankfurt. When their knees buckled, they chartered jets to Dubai. When their hearts failed, they sought angioplasty in Atlanta. And when death, like a patient creditor, knocked, ah, they ensured it would be in Switzerland, not Sokoto.
Their dying breaths must taste of imported air.
Meanwhile, in Mushin…
A man died in the corridor of a government hospital after six hours of wheezing and begging for oxygen. His wife screamed, but the nurses had gone on strike. There was no doctor; he was in Canada. The electricity had gone off mid-surgery. The generator had no diesel, marketers were hoarding it for subsidy protests.
But rejoice, citizen! Your president died with dignity, abroad.
Foreign Dust is Holier
You see, foreign soil is sacred. It welcomes Nigerian leaders like returning gods, not with protests but with proper diagnosis. Their failing kidneys are serenaded by machines that hum lullabies, machines they never bought for their own nation. The nurses smile. The beds are soft. The lights never blink. Death, under such comfort, wears a tuxedo and speaks Queen’s English:
“Excuse me, Your Excellency, might I escort you gently into the beyond?”
They nod. They pass. Gently. Abroad.
ALLEGORY OF THE COCONUT TREE
In Naija grows a strange coconut tree. The fruit is plump, but the water within is bitter. The leaders are the fruits, lofty and polished. But crack them open and all you get is imported disdain and local rot. They ascend from grassroots campaigns only to transplant themselves into foreign hospitals the moment the crown of power gives them migraines.
They whisper to their aides: “No Nigerian doctor must touch my sacred body. Fly me out!”And like obedient bats of bureaucracy, they flap wings and money and fly.
SATIRICAL SERMON AT THE CEMETERY At the state burial, a 21-gun salute echoes into the air thick with hypocrisy. The national flag is lowered not out of sorrow but guilt. Speeches are read by men who too have lined up their Swiss deathbeds. A priest prays in Latin. A minister weeps in dollars.
No one asks why our leaders never die in Abuja. Or Kano. Or Uyo. Or Ilorin. Or Enugu. They only die where the Wi-Fi is strong, the beds are warm, and the nurses don’t strike.
Because death, dear reader, is sweeter abroad.
Epilogue: FOR THE LIVING
You, poor citizen, must die in queues, in potholes, in blackout theaters, in unmarked graves. Your death is local and unsponsored. You are buried in banana leaves and remembered in hashtags.
But take heart. Maybe if you vote for the right person, someday, just maybe… you too will die abroad.
Or, miracle of miracles,we might build a hospital.
But until then, let us raise a toast of paracetamol in sachet water and sing with reverent sarcasm:
“To our Excellencies who lived at home and died abroad, Rest in Peace… and in Pounds.”
Sam Eno, wrote in from Abuja FCT.
