There is a country called Nairaland. It appears on maps drawn with generous imagination and studied with careful denial. In that country, bombs go off with the regularity of sunrise, and the people, long accustomed to the smell of burning, now debate its fragrance. Some call it roasted hope. Others, ambition gone wrong. They disagree on everything except this: bombs never stop going off. At the centre of this slow-burning arrangement sits Nero, ruler of Nairaland. He is a man of fine tastes and finer excuses, a connoisseur of appearances. When bombs first went off, it was said that he wondered aloud whether the blast scene might be adjusted to improve the evening view from the balcony of the presidential palace. A ruler must have standards. Even catastrophe, to Nero, must present itself with elegance.
Nero is not a cruel man, at least not in the way cruel men are remembered in old books. He does not shout. He does not pound tables. He smiles. He travels. He waves. His cruelty, if it must be called that, is of the gentlest kind, almost invisible. It is the cruelty of absence. While suicide bombers and terrorists set off bombs in markets and public spaces, claiming lives, Nero boards planes with the serenity of a man convinced that governance is about flight. In Nairaland, the people have learned to read flight schedules as if they were sacred texts. When Nero travels, hope is said to travel with him. He is off on states visits to have handshakes with Presidents, monitor progress in distant lands, learn how other nations manage bomb attacks, and to attend summits where men in dark suits agree that something must be done, though never by anyone present. Back home, bombs continue their patient works. Streets once alive with argument now host silence. Shops are perpetually locked. Mothers live in fear. Fathers live by the promise, e go beta. The children, wise too early, have mastered the art of asking fewer questions.
There is, in Nairaland, a class of interpreters, commentators, analysts, loyalists, depending on the day and the payment schedule. Their duty is to explain Nero to the people. When he travels, they say he is gone to attract investment. When he smiles, they say he is calming markets. When he returns, they say the return itself is proof of commitment. It is a delicate profession, the art of turning absence into presence and silence into policy.
One evening, as bombs spread to the edges of the presidential palace, a delegation of citizens requested an audience. They came with petitions and a modest expectation that rulers ought to rule. Nero received them warmly. He listened with the attention of a man who has perfected the art of hearing without absorbing.
“My people”, he said, “your concerns are noted. The situation is under control”.
A teacher among them, whose school had been closed for weeks, cleared his throat. “Your Excellency”, he said, “it is the bomb blast that appears to be in control”.
Nero smiled, a smile that suggested both patience and departure. “You must understand”, he replied, “that governance is a complex matter. There are processes. There are committees. There are consultations. We cannot rush these things”.
They left with the heavy relief of those who have been heard and ignored in equal measure. Meanwhile, Nero’s journeys grew more ambitious. He visited lands where the streets were stubbornly calm and the lights refused to go out. He admired their order. He praised their systems. He posed for photographs with leaders who spoke in careful sentences and signed documents that promised cooperation in areas too vague to measure. Each trip was declared a success. Success, in Nairaland, requires no proof.
Back home, the interpreters worked without rest. They published columns that shimmered with confidence. They appeared on screens to assure the public that all was well, or would be well, or had been well in ways not immediately visible. They spoke of long-term plans, short-term sacrifices, and medium-term expectations. Bombs, uninvited to these discussions, continued its quiet argument with the land. It must be said that Nero had his defenders. There are always those who find comfort in belief. They argued that he was misunderstood, that his journeys were necessary, that his calm was evidence of strategy. They asked for patience, a resource Nairaland possesses in abundance, often because it has little else to spend.
There were also those who laughed. In Nairaland, laughter is not joy. It is a method of survival. They told stories of Nero’s travels, of the suits he packed, of speeches delivered to statehouses that applauded with enthusiasm.
Then, one day, something changed. Nero returned from a particularly successful journey to find the bomb blast at the gates of the presidential palace. It did not knock. Bombs have no respect for protocols. For a moment, he stood still, as though considering whether this, too, might be managed with a statement. The interpreters gathered quickly. They spoke in urgent tones. The blast was exaggerated, they said. A task force was proposed. A summit was recommended. Calm was advised.
Nero listened. He nodded. He adjusted his cufflinks.
Then, in a rare moment of candour, he asked, “What, exactly, set off the bomb?
The room fell silent. It was the kind of silence that carries truth but refuses to spend it. At last, an old adviser, one who had seen enough to risk honesty, spoke.
“Everything, sir, Your Excellency”, he said. “Someone that makes a country more than a name”.
Nero walked to the window. He looked out at the destruction that passed for a scenery. For the first time, perhaps, he saw not spectacle, but warning. In the days that followed, there were announcements. Committees were formed with impressive titles. Meetings were held with determined faces. Plans were unveiled with careful optimism. The people watched, as they always do, with a mixture of hope and memory. The bombs did not attend these meetings. They did not read the announcements. They did not wait. They continued their patient conversations with the land.
And Nero? He prepared for another journey. There were invitations to honour, partnerships to explore, photographs to take. A ruler must not be idle. Movement, after all, is a sign of purpose. As his plane rose above Nairaland, more bombs arranged themselves into patterns that could almost be mistaken for designs. From that height, everything looks manageable. The smoke softens. Urgency dissolves into haze. Down below, the people carried on, as they always have. They have learned to live with bombs, to step around them, and to curse the bombers. They have learned, above all, that a country is more than its ruler, even when the ruler forgets he is less than the country. This is the parable of Nero of Nairaland. It is not a story about one man alone. It is a story about the ease with which power mistakes motion for action, and distance for wisdom. It is a story about endurance mistaken for consent. And somewhere, where bombs settle into memory, the question lingers. Not about Nero, for rulers come and go with the seasons, but about the fire.
Who will put out the fire, and at what cost, when there is nothing left to save?
