Stalin's chicken - Our “At all At all, Na Him Bad Pass” Fate

Chingiz Aitmatov recounted a story in one of his articles written near the end of the failed Marxist movement in the Soviet Union. In 1935, Stalin invited his trusted senior advisers and some media henchmen to a meeting with the intent to make a point using the most evocative of methods. When everyone was gathered at the barnyard, he called for a live chicken and vigorously clenched it in one hand. On the other hand, he then began to pluck out the chicken’s feathers in handfuls. The poor bird squawked under the torment but Stalin kept at denuding the chicken until it convulsed with agony. Remarkably unperturbed by the feeling of disgust obvious on the faces of the people too afraid to express their unease to the dictator, he continued until the chicken was completely unfeathered.

He then put the bird down by a small heap of grain and stood up to finish the last act while the people curiously observed the chicken move towards the grain. As the chicken started to peck, Stalin put his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out another fistful of grain, putting it out in front of the wounded bird. To the utter surprise of the transfixed spectators, the chicken managed a weak-kneed stagger back to Stalin and started to peck the fresh grain right out of the hand that moments ago had inflicted unbearable pain on it. Stalin had made his point — loud and clear.

He turned to the people and said, “People are like this chicken. It doesn’t matter how much pain you inflict on them. The moment you offer them what they need, they will still follow you and turn to you for their survival.”

To me, this anecdote has another, slightly different meaning. It is not ‘despite’ the pain that Stalin inflicted on the poor bird, but ‘because of it’ that it followed him. This explains the working of weak minds — animals’ as well as humans’. Our minds become slaves to those we see as having total power to control us and to cause pain to us. We are quick to give up control of ourselves to those who have the power to rule us as long as they also have the power to feed us. The truth is, we are like Stalin’s chicken, pecking the grains out of our tormentor’s hand to barely survive, too afraid to raise our voices against our providers and oppressors, lest we are laid off. We had willingly given up our freedom in exchange for economic security. Our inner calling and our human purpose took the back seat because for us a more pressing issue was to put food on the table for our children. We did not control the land, nor the industry built atop the land, nor the labor who worked there. We were that labor, and we did not control ourselves. We did not control our time or our actions. The dream of finding our inner calling was lost forever. And we were so busy surviving that we forgot to live. -Majid Kazmi

  I have previously wondered if thunder could strike twice. I have had cause to ask this question several times that I have noticed eminent and seemingly brave adults in my locale miss out on chances to voice out against acts of oppression. I have constantly watched them accept the barest minimum in place of nothing. I have watched them grumble in pain at the state of the community while their mouths dribble in saliva for mere crumbs of a respite. I have seen them scared to demand a right less they lose relevance. I have heard them bask in euphoria for the little they were opportune to have. I have watched my society lose the ability to even think and stimulate their thoughts well enough to challenge sub-standards. I have marveled at the ease that the growing youths, who were the only hope left, have continuously fallen off the ladder of progressive thinking. I have listened to a majority who chastise me for having only a voice, who laugh when I eventually speak-saying “Am not on the ground”. I have begged for a difference in approach in terms of constructive reasoning among the few youths that have cared to listen, whom among themselves consider my rants easy since I lived abroad. I have tried so many times to put myself in their shoes, to know where the nail pinched-and each time, being me, I have chosen the worse truth. Bad is Bad.

We were now the chickens that were described by Chingiz.

They existed among us, too many privileged Stalin-like figures who continuously pushed that theory known to have worked forever.

The “At all At all, na him bad pass” has slowly eaten into the psych and fabrics of my youths. They have now been conditioned to accept whatever there was, that was an inch better than what was.

A friend of mine that lived in Nekede, a stone-throw away town of Owerri was always excited any week the rotational epileptic power supply favored her part of town“ It’s our turn today” she would say in joyful glee, flipping through her calendar to make a note for anticipated next time. Electricity in the town was a luxury. Most people had even forgotten what a steady power supply looked like. Those few hours of rotational power, each time, sent people on a rabid frenzy as they jumbled chores, ironing clothes, charging phones and tablets and even staying awake, taking in a full dose of television time, no one knew when that luxury would come around. Everyone had accepted that way of life.

“At all, at all, na him bad pass ‘ Sylvia had said, “ it is better once a week than nothing”

It was quite interesting a thing, how transformers made it into every politician's talking point. It is not strange at all when they commission and “mount 500kva” transformers for mounting sake-to fulfill an electoral promise. It is not strange knowing that their decisions did not have considerations for expansion nor future improvements. They only did that to assuage immediate political feelings and yearnings of our people. I know so because the majority of power failures in my locale was due to over-loading. A village with no industries, no heavy-duty factories, not even a miniature version of power-consuming plants save for light bulbs, televisions, refrigerators and betting shop computers was constantly laden with epileptic power. If it were not transformers, then it was “a three-wire” problem. Each politician that came along hoodwinked my youths, promising them more hours of power.

Last Christmas, my cousins were happier that power was steady at night. Each of them basking in the “At all at all, na him bad pass”.

I just read a publication that would be worth looking into by these youths that spill out of electrical faculties, year in year out. I read an article that would tickle our minds, if only to attempt a solution, one that might rid us of these Stalin of our time. “Today, transformers are installed in stiff steel tanks. The risk of explosions can be reduced if the industry changes to “soft” housings that absorb energy in the same way as modern car bodies,” … the writing had said- We were chickens, would not make sense anyways.

Another friend of mine who forwarded a video message to me about the re-integration of the water-works in Owerri told me “Even if it is for one day” that he would be happy. He had reminded me that the taps in Owerri had run dry for over ten years and it would be nothing less than a miracle to get the rusty pipes up and running. He told me to pay attention towards the tail end of the clip, to the part where water had gushed from once-moribund filtration tanks to the silt beds. I had tried to engage him on successive budgetary allocations, that would have rubbished his excitement, “At all, at all, na him bad pass” -he had said

My brother, you won’t understand, you are not on the ground.

None of my youths on the ground had an alternative view on why water redistribution was a problem, none had challenged the present state.

I had perused some intelligent water technology journal that shone light on remote monitoring of pressure at any point within potable water distribution systems as crucial to ensuring access to safe, clean drinking water. We were chickens, this will not make any sense anyway.

I have continuously prayed for thunder to strike twice. Orodo eminent sons in the corridors of power had dropped the ball once, they had sworn to rectify the ills of yesterday, they have promised to do better in their dealings with our people. They had even sworn that this time around, it will be only business. My prayers were selfish because I knew that Orodo might not be able to grace the corridors of power, double as strong as we had it now and fours years prior- at least not in the nearest future.

I had painstakingly observed the below standard, poor engineering feat of a road that ran from the Orlu new road Y junction to the Nkwo-Orodo market, a road that was a child’s play in terms of construction. This little stretch of road would have served a premature construction company’s first-time foray into road building, they could have used this road for target practice, they did not have any terrestrial issues nor undulating topography to deal with. It was textbook execution.

The big signpost at Eke-Ubaha said it all, it was a federal government project, executed by the ministry of works, and facilitated by one of our sons, a high ranking son. I was in transient shock when I saw this road, I had heard while still in America that this stretch of abandoned road had been remembered by the government of the day, courtesy of an illustrious son only to return home to jubilation by even my cousins and family, who had sworn that the graded road was good enough for them. “Had previous people done like this, we won’t have a problem” my cousin Obinna had said. “You need to see what this road looks like in the rainy season” he had continued, making excuses for a substandard job, accepting whatever that was offered-a Stalin's chicken.

All my complaints had fallen on deaf ears, the road was not built to last, it was not designed to be so. Whoever attracted this road had acted a Stalin, knowing fully well that our people had no choice but to accept whatever crumbs were offered them, knowing that the youths would not rise to question, made it even worse. Their happiness being from the fact that their newly acquired motorbikes and automobiles would run slightly smoother that Christmas.

-and they did. They ran on smoother graded roads, exceeded speed limits on their triumph motorbikes that Christmas and a season later, the road was back in greater ruins like it was never touched.

Relegated to the “At all, At all, na him bad pass” fate.

None of the youths that passed said construction company while on the beat raised an eyebrow, none of them queried the quality of the project. None of them that studied civil engineering lent a better option- even if it were only on paper. We were chickens. It didn’t matter anyway.

My anger was, when again would one of us grace the corridors, so close as to attract this government largess. Everything we do matters — whether it’s making promises during elections — even after we’ve already achieved the success we sought. Everything is a chance to do and be our best. Only self-absorbed assholes think they are too good a Stalin. Wherever we are, whatever we’re doing and wherever we are going, we owe it to ourselves, to our art, to the world to do it well. That’s our primary duty and obligation. When action is our priority, vanity falls away.

It played out in my community, Ubaha-Orodo yet again.

Ubahaeze primary school had been in ruins for a few years, both in infrastructure and meaningful “student-hood”. Before these ruins, a steady decadence was in place. All the touted millennial developmental goals (if any of that made sense) were bereft. This school had singly churned out over a thousand self-reliant persons from Orodo, however it lacked what it lacked in infrastructure, a counterpart apathy and poverty of a strong alumni who have, over the years have hidden under the yearnings and growls of the community, begging in unison with the rest of us for the government of the day to remember this once relevant school. I have known this school forever. The best part of this school was that it was the venue for the yearly Christmas soccer competition. It was the only time that a communal effort by interested soccer fanatics pulled resources to add value to said school by cutting grasses up to the edge of the “corner-kick” and marking the field with white paints, paying extra attention towards the “penalty box”.

Asides from the frenzy about this soccer bout, Ubaha primary school had become a relic, students that still attended school did so for a ritual purpose- nothing more to do.

Luck had smiled on us, one of my cousins, Nnamdi had just graced the corridors of the local government and cried out to whoever cared to hear. He told me “Nwunne, they would do it this time”.

True to his words, a brand new two classroom block with an outcrop toilet was delivered to replace the fallen and dilapidated one, facilitated by the same son that oversaw the failed road project.

I have a thing with thunder striking twice, I applaud his magnanimity in purpose and pray that this time, his oversight would encourage the fulfillment of the bold letters that I had fished out on the walls of the classroom.

SDGs… It read. Sustainable developmental goals, it meant. Education -SDG 4 and access to water-SDG 6 which was primarily what this project was meant to deliver. I do know what these goals are, I also know that there exists a robust department overseeing its implementation in the seat of power. The terms of delivery of these goals are clear and defined. This is not a matter of sentiments, the world bodies have come together, with member countries like ours, agreeing to pursue these goals that will alleviate humans and humanity.

The delivery of a classroom block does not complete the cycle of this goal. There are key indicators that must also be in place for us to enjoy the dividends accrued as humans. There must be inclusive and equitable quality education and promotion of lifelong learning opportunities for all. There must be the employment of credible teachers, provision of lesson plans, the introduction of new technologies and skill demands. These kids must be equipped at least to compete with nearest peers in any part of the world.

The addition of the outcrop toilet hence looped in component 6 of these goals and must ensure for completion, sustainable management of water and sanitation of toilet. The aim of the project would be defeated if this important component is not attended to.

Long past his humble beginnings, President Andrew Johnson would speak proudly of his career as a tailor before he entered politics. “My garments never ripped or gave way,” he would say. On the campaign trail, a heckler once tried to embarrass him by shouting about his working-class credentials. Johnson replied without breaking stride: “That does not disconcert me in the least; for when I used to be a tailor I had the reputation of being a good one, and making close fits, always punctual with my customers, and always did good work.”

I would be urging the numerous youths who are on the ground, whom my voice reach as broken, who for some reason have accepted these crumbs for long, who have resigned to fate, to take up the mantle to ensure that they were not short-changed again. They should read up, research on alternative reasoning that will challenge the norm, take a stand borne out of strong knowledge of a situation, fearless and firm in conviction, knowing, at all times they had a voice-however voiceless.

They should stand up and demand a good job — whatever it is — and demand it be done well.

At all, At all na him bad pass - not anymore

Uchenna Iwualla M.D

It Matters Period