The whole world focused on Nigeria last week. It started with the sudden realisation— as if woken from a deep slumber— that the over two hundred girls abducted had not been traced, let alone rescued, and ended with the World’s Economic Forum where the potentials of Nigeria— and Africa were highlighted.

There are killings in the land, everywhere you turn. There are bombers claiming lives and property and they are not limited to the North East alone. There are kidnappers claiming lives and property and they are not limited to the South East alone.

As catch phrases go, this is as good as many. And those who have been attracted—or entrapped—in the past by alluring phrases like ‘Land of the flowing sun’, The paradise of the East’, ‘An exotic blend of Western and Eastern civilisation’ to mention a few, only to find that what was offered and purchased was not what was delivered will hesitate to buy into it. (Nobody to my knowledge has been able to melt the sun to see its liquid form.)

Tomorrow is Easter Sunday. The churches, synagogues and other places of worship will be full. Many of those in the congregation tomorrow go to church only twice a year— the other day being Christmas. Many will make it a family outing and an opportunity for the kids to show off their new Easter dresses.

It is likely there might be some ego massaging and chest thumping by those who believe they have ‘grown’ the economy; especially those in the kitchen cabinet who will grasp at any straw that shows the economy is on track.

Around noon on Thursday, March 6, the main building of Nigeria’s premier club, the Ikoyi Club 1938, was without electricity. It was the first time I would notice that in the almost four decades that I have been a member of this elite club.

The dust is yet to settle on the suspension of the CBN Governor Mallam Lamido Sanusi. Until it does, one will never know just how wise the Presidency was in the unprecedented suspension of a CBN Governor three months before his tenure was due.

The first time I visited the hinterland of any Niger-Delta region was for a funeral. It was over 30 years ago, but that visit has been etched in my memory since then. Dusk, and a light shower, were darkening the skies as we got to Warri.

The foreign heads of government and dignitaries who came for the country’s centenary celebrations had hardly settled down in their posh hotel rooms and comfortable quest houses when the news that the dreaded Boko Haram terrorists had struck again filtered in.

Punch Newspapers will roll out the drums tonight to mark 30 years of the passing away of its founding Chairman, Chief James Olubunmi Aboderin— known to many as Olu Aboderin and to some of us as Chairman. This is how it should be for without his vision and courage, there would not have been Punch; a paper that has influenced lives and the nation in immeasurable ways. Punch has become a worthwhile legacy.

I had an interesting two-hour meeting with an elder statesman recently; a man who has been in the corridors of power and influence in Nigeria for almost half a century, who knows— and is known—by past and present rulers, who is respected by political and business brokers in the country.

I once had a property I wanted to put up for sale. One of the big Pentecostal churches showed interest and sent its representatives. They looked around, and after satisfying themselves, scheduled a meeting with me.

I get uncomfortable, peeved even, when I hear the sweeping statement that the Presidency has achieved nothing in what? Six years? It is a statement that is shallow at best and, stretched further, uncharitable. Even Lucky Igbinedion, as incompetent as he was, achieved ‘something’ in Edo State.

I confess to looking away in embarrassment and disgust the first time I saw adult men kiss and fondle on TV. It was in a UK based soap opera. Today, years after my first encounter, I still feel uncomfortable— squeamish even— when I see two grown men tongue kiss. I suppose these things need getting used to because I don’t feel that squeamish about lesbians kissing and fondling on TV since I had seen the female version of same sex relationship at least a decade before the male version.

The remains of Sesan Ogunro, my friend and brother, was laid to rest last Friday. He would have been 62 on May 1. It is ironic that a man who took such a good care of his body— he neither drank nor smoked, took living bitters periodically to detox, exercised almost everyday, and took his medical check ups seriously— never lived to celebrate his 62nd birthday. That is a reflection of the short and brutish life in Nigeria.