Dele Farotimi is a bastard.
Yes, and let me repeat it very clearly: Dele Farotimi is a bastard. Or how else would you label a man who picks up the gauntlet and screams to high heavens about the systemic rot in the system and the cannibalization of our people by the centurion ogres that control us, to the mass hysteria of the impoverished people, but yet ends up in a cold, dingy prison cell tonight, all alone, with nothing but lice as companions?
I can imagine Dele in a dingy prison cell tonight, refusing to eat and probably begging not to be assaulted or sodomized by hardened criminals.
He is the enemy of the state and a thorn in the flesh of the establishment.
He will not get the famous Bobrisky treatment. Not for him would there be an apartment opposite the prison, and not for him the luxury that the friends of the state, who temporarily fall out of grace, enjoy.
The only visitors he will get tonight would be his wife and immediate family, who will be sitting in their car, tormented by mosquitoes, but with food flasks, begging to be allowed to see him.
You will not see all the social media warriors who egg him on with foolish comments. You will not see the WhatsApp warriors or the beer-parlour activists who scream that Dele is speaking for us.
They have all gone to their dirty beds, with a morsel to eat, and are attempting to make love to their food-starved wives.
Nigeria is a country of cowards. 200 million yellow-livered denizens who have learned how to take sodomy in silence.
They have become adept at cowardly activism, hiding under the anonymity of social media to vent venom on the system and its leaders.
When people like Dele stand up, they hail him, push him, and make him a messiah.
But when it happens, as it has happened now, they scurry back to their squalor in silence and return to the shady, dark corners of social media to send 150 words on X about how the system is unjust.
The Lagos chapter of the NBA released a weak statement and has gone silent.
Afenifere also released a “make-he-no-be-like-say-I-no-talk” statement and has gone silent. The Obidients, his constituency, have refused to leave social media and accompany him to prison or even camp outside until he is released.
His millions of followers are watching the Premiership while he is in there, fending off baby oil vampires who see fresh meat.
Dele is a bastard, oh. Didn’t you know? I have known all this while.
Not only him, oh. Plenty of bastards—Rufai, Sowore, myself, Fela Kuti, and a few more—have taken this road alone.
My journey to Ekiti showed me very clearly the loneliness of the idealist.
No support from anywhere except the few who placed phone calls and the six who followed me to beg.
Dele spoke the truth. Nobody that has passed through the judicial system will read Dele’s book and say he was talking rubbish.
The whole value chain is gone, and we can better illustrate it with the various election cases and how the system has been embarrassing itself with pronouncements that will make Icheoku, the famous court clerk, wince in shame.
I have read very copiously portions of Dele’s book and must say that he wasn’t saying anything we didn’t already know.
His mistake, in my estimation, was naming names without being truly specific about their offenses.
When you call an agbalagba’s name and say, “He corrupted the Supreme Court,” then you are walking around the streets of San Francisco naked with baby oil all over your backside.
Wetin you dey find, you go see.
If he was bold enough to call out principalities and their shrines, then he should have told us how, with evidence like recorded tapes, documents, and proof of bribe-taking and giving.
At that point, the system would have offered him virgins from all over the country to satiate his hunger.
But being the bastard that he is, he decided to play to the gallery, enjoying the hailing of his fellow eunuchs, even as Pharaoh feasts on his charcoal skin.
Tonight, the high priests of avarice and desolation will meet in their coven and plan the next step.
They have refused him bail in an offense that is a little bit lower than me slapping my colleague for staring at my wife’s bum.
They will seek means of complicating his case so that he will suffer.
But they, like their predecessors, will forget that it’s not about Dele—remember, he is a bastard—but about the courage he embodies, the truth that empowers him, and the justification that comes with a clear conscience. And guess what? The bastard will eventually sleep sound in his dingy cell while Methuselahs toss and turn in bed as their folly torments them.
I’d rather be a bastard, even without the support of the cowardly faggots that throng social media, than be a Manchurian Methuselah chief priest whose last-minute legacy would be the bullying of Dele Farotimi, the people’s bastard.
I have spoken. You may come and try to beat me again.
Duke of Shomolu
