Between GRV’S Ambition and the Dilemma Of Indigenization in Èkó Akéte

It was only last Sunday that I wrote in this column that Nigeria's problems are two, branched into six subsets. I cannot say that I am happy that one of them played out during the week (some of them, indeed, did). But that does not leave the matter unworthy of exploration here. The Yorùbá elders say ohun tó wà lẹ́yìn ọfà ju oje lọ—what is after the arrow is more than the slime flux. On the question of the language competence of a gubernatorial candidate in Nigeria's economic powerhouse, the game is simple: a card has to be played to keep the man's ambition at bay. In politics, unlike what GRV thinks, leprosy might be left uncured while ringworm is dealt with.

Of course, we are not talking about what we need to talk about if the only thing we talk about is whether a man who cannot speak Yorùbá very well can govern in a state where historical ownership has been a debate. The line of argument that because GRV cannot speak Yorùbá very well, he should not be the Governor of Lagos State is as acceptable as saying that if candidate A is not versed in the principles of their religion (beyond just identifying with it, and carrying an associative name), they cannot be elected into office.

But as I said earlier, ohun tó wà lẹ́yìn ọfà ju oje lọ. I should add another proverb: ọ̀rọ̀ yìí só síni lẹ́nu, ó buyọ̀ síi—this matter discharges fart in one's mouth and adds salt to it, which is a symbolic way of admitting that there is no clear-cut right side or wrong side, that it is a dilemma. To say that Gbadebo cannot contest in Lagos is to fall into the chasm of ethnic bigotry, that a person is not fully Yorùbá because one of their parents is not Yorùbá. And to say that he can govern Lagos is to enable the extractionist argument that Lagos is a no man's land (or a Beninese extension) only bordering Yorùbá states. It festers old ethnic rivalry that goes as far back as the 1950s

From accounts, in 1951, Dr Nnamdi Azikiwe was elected as a representative of Lagos in the Western Region but was schemed out of further political opportunity in the region by Chief Obafemi Awolowo's Action Group. By 1954, Zik had relocated his political base to Eastern Nigeria. One of the differences between Zik and GRV is that GRV has a Yorùbá father, which should suffice for his Yorubanness, but, as they say in internet lingo, agenda na orphan- it is adopted unchecked. Yet, that is the nature of Nigerian politics.

It is pretentious to say that it is bitter politics that sells the narrative of identity illegitimacy of GRV when Nigerian politics has always been like this. The -ism may be different at different times, the principle has essentially remained the same. Against Zik, it was that he was not from here. It is àtọ̀únrìnwá politics, the politics of the stranger, against ọmọ wa ni politics, the politics of our son. And to be clear, this would not be an issue for GRV if he spoke the language well. I know Hausa men and women, Tapa, and other non-Yorùbá who can speak the language fluently and hold conversations.

But, does language mastery equal leadership competence? No, and that is only a short answer. The longer version is that poor economy, bad schools, bad roads, and insecurity—which played out in the week with the abduction of PCMs on 66th Independence Day, in a manner already written about in this column—have no language. The major language required in leadership is competence, which is cultivated through skills and experiences. What experience does Gbadebo Rhodes-Vivour have? What are his unique skills? Those are the questions in an alternative political universe than the one he currently lives in. In this one, language competence overshadows, gives traction to the debate as something of sentimental value that follows people to the polls.

Of all forms of value, it is the sentimental value that seems most fuzzy. A person may say that some worn clothing item is of sentimental value to them because it is an inheritance from their grandparent, so your million-naira worth textile gift is not as valuable to them. And it is understandable that through that piece of clothing, they are vicariously trying to hold on to something that represents someone whom they love who is no more. Assuming and conceding that Lagos has something of sentimental value that GRV's ambition may annihilate, what could that be?

Let us wager that it is Yorùbá culture or Yorùbá language. The question then is, can a Governor undermine the language or culture of a state? No, they cannot. Not someone who has a maximum of 8 years in a cabinet that is most likely going to be dominated by Yorùbá speaking people. What GRV will undermine, however, is the political base that has governed Lagos since the beginning of Nigeria's Fourth Republic, which is an interesting crop of people in itself. Interesting because some of them were not Lagosians, but had that much political acceptance to be part of the leadership of Lagos. A prominent one is former Osun State Governor Rauf Aregbesola.

To address the elephant in the room: even the President of the Federal Republic of Nigeria is widely said to have come from Ìrágbìjí, a town in the neighborhood of the homeland of this author. In other words, it appears that Lagos is an economic and political place of belonging to the Yorùbá while Ilé-ifẹ̀ is a historical and cultural home. This author recalls a sham employment scheme in which an offer of claim of indigenship was made in Lagos. How much of that currently still happens in Lagos? At whose cost?

The thing with Lagos and the conversation about GRV is that it is a front for one of two things, or both, for many people. There are those who desperately desire to revisit ethnic differences as a method of retaining power, and there are those who want Lagos to be a pipeline for other places they care about. Which is to say that the more advanced conversation of postcolonial implications of an "English-only" Governor is not what unsettles, it is the chance that the losing side will have to concede its unspoken desire to the winners. The regular winners of Lagos know, however, not to lose, not the way they lost to Peter Obi in the 2023 presidential election in Lagos. And this is partly why the Lagos state gubernatorial election, out of the 28 to hold next year, attracts the most attention.

With Obi's victory in Lagos, a Yorùbá adage will do: ọmọ ọba tó ń jakàn kò níí jọba—the prince who eats crabs yields the throne. The throne yielding, sadly, is not for Peter Obi, it is for GRV. In my previous column, I said that it is much easier to find a Muslim or a Christian than to find a Nigerian, considering the political affinities that people are most likely to protect. I should expand that list by adding that it is also much easier to find an Igbo, Yorùbá, or Hausa than to find a Nigerian. Yorùbá owns Lagos, even GRV now agrees, but GRV is not Yorùbá, his opponents sell the agenda. Conversely, one of GRV's supporters asked, "If Yorùbá culture and language are so central to governing Lagos, why is it called Lagos or Èkó, the latter argued to have roots in the Benin language?"

Let us explore those two names. First is Lagos, which is a Portuguese word. For the record: there is a Lagos in some other countries of the world, including France and Portugal, among others. Some historical accounts point to the 15th century explorer Rui de Sequeira as the one who named the city Lagos, after the Lagos in his country, which is also a city sitting across an ocean. As for Eko, it is argued by some people that it originates from Bini. That argument is not ignorable because of the many striking similarities between the Yorùbá and Bini cultures, but it has the weakness of totalism: that Yorùbá has no word to which Èkó could be ascribed. Alternatively, there is oko—farm—a word present in the Àwórì dialect of the Yorùbá founders of Lagos, according to some accounts. Even more so, there are at least two other Èkó that I know: there is Èkó Eńdèé, and Èkó Àjàlá in Osun State, both villages and long-standing Yorùbá communities.

When GRV says that leprosy should not be left uncured while ringworm is dealt with, he was right, and props up to his Yorùbá teacher, even though there is a lot more work to do. It is a proverb well used. What he needs to also understand is that his opponents are treating him like a leper, and it is working again. It is a very unfortunate thing to be considered as such, for in Yorùbá culture the leper is not to be housed in human society, the leper gets sent to the bush to isolate. A kìí sọ fún ọmọdé kó má dẹ́tẹ̀ tó bá ti le dá inú igbó gbé—one does not forewarn a child against contracting leprosy if he can isolate in the forest—they say. The sooner he can comfortably sing ẹ má pè wá lálejò mọ́, àwa yín la nìlú—do not call us visitors, we own the city with you—the better for him.