A fictional representation of Leadership Crisis in Nigeria

1. A mud House

Ekoyata rested his back lightly on a brown jeep. For the moment, the sport utility vehicle enthusiast wasn't thinking about the Chevrolet or its expensive alloy spoke wheels. He shoved one hand down the deep pocket of his Caftan. He was stone still except for the heavy sigh that he felt sometimes. It was coming out of his nostrils like wind in a storm as the clay walls in front of his eyes puzzled him. The house was a Print Artist type bungalow.

They told me that this house is our family house, he wondered blankly at the house. Then, he turned his head to his side to look at the two people with him.

'Thank you, sir,' he said to the man of the two people. The man was the one who had led him to the house.

The man was standing very close to him. A big mango tree spread its shed over them. And dry crispy leaves filled the compound. Not that they were hiding in the shed from the sun. No, they weren't. There was harmattan and cold. The weather had obscured the sun. But the bodies of the people simply hungered for shelter as they were yet to find the occupant of the small house to take them inside.

'I didn't do anything for you,' the man said to Ekoyata. 'Why did you thank me?'

Immediately after saying that, the man started a welcome formalities.

Halfheartedly, Ekoyata was watching him and responding to the welcome ceremony and the praises which as he saw them, were clearly customary. The man had told him that he was a farmer and a native of the town. Ekoyata turned his head and began looking down at the little boy holding tightly to the farmer's hand. And the boy looked to be his son though he was never introduced by the farmer.
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