Punocracy

A government press briefing room. The national flag stands behind a long table draped in green and white. A large banner reads: “MINISTRY OF STATISTICS AND NATIONAL DATA: IN GOD WE TRUST. ALL OTHER FACTS REQUIRE APPROVAL.” Journalists sit facing the podium while ministry officials shuffle papers and adjust microphones. Announcer: Gentlemen of the press, I welcome you to the first press conference of the new era in the Ministry of Statistics and National Data.

I’ve always been a strong, straight man. As a toddler, I barely cried. I loved breast milk. I took it exclusively until I was three. My favourite colour has always been blue—navy blue. I preferred football to cartoons. I hated cartoons. By 15, I could hold live chickens, start the generator on the first try, and wash my dad’s car all by myself. My uncle said I was already more of a man than many grown-ups. My friends called me “King Kong.” Life was good. Then puberty hit. And hormones kicked in.

You be nepo, we be lapo We no fit do like you o Because your leg long pass pole If we do like you, we fit die! If we chop once a day, Na privilege If you do the same thing, Na intermittent fasting If you be learner wey slow, Na slow you slow If to say na we, we be olodo If you fuck up, Second chance plenty like water If we fuck up, O ti tan If you break your papa’s property, Na because say you get anger issue If to say na we, That one sef na issue Wey them go solve with ẹgba tírín.

By: Tomilola Adejumo Everyone remembers the moment the world stops being soft. Not in the romanticised way that foreign films like to portray it, but in the specific, oddly quiet way it happens to Nigerian children. The moment you realise that your parents are not divine. That they do not know everything, and in some cases, might not even know very much. That life will not hand you explanations.

In the first chapter of this blueprint for eternal relevance, we established that the road to immortality in the Renamed Republic is not paved with good intentions, working infrastructure, or a functioning economy. No, it is paved with signboards. To name is to live forever. And to rename? Well, that is to resurrect yourself in multiple forms while still breathing. If you missed Part 1, pause and catch up here: How to be immortal without dying: Satirical gazette for the renamed republic.

By: Mustapha Lawal Dearest gentle readers, In case you wake up tomorrow and your street name, local market, bridge, or personal WhatsApp group has been renamed Bola Ahmed Tinubu Avenue, worry not, you’re just living in the fastest-renaming republic on this side of the equator. Since May 2023, Nigeria has been undergoing a peaceful but determined transformation from a nation of laws to a nation of landmarks.

By: Mustapha Lawal Ah, Nigeria! The land where the sun rises with promises and sets with excuses. Two years ago, we welcomed His Excellency, President Bobo the Bold, into the sacred chambers of Aso Rock. A man of vision, they said. A builder who has built the best state amongst its contemporaries. A man of action, they proclaimed. And indeed, action we have seen, though perhaps not the kind we anticipated. From the onset, President Bobo embarked on a mission to redefine our plight. Subsidies? Gone.

By: Mark Loper The Neanderthal stepped out of his cave. It was a good cave. No, it was a beautiful cave. It was a beautiful cave, deep with many rooms. It was the best of all caves. The Neanderthal looked at the blue sky. He did not know what blue was. But he would ask someone, maybe a Cro-Magnon, who knew more about blue. Then he would ignore what he was told and say what he wanted about blue. Because even though he knew his brain was smaller than that of a Cro-Magnon, he would never admit this.

By: Mustapha Lawal Once upon a time, history had the decency to age before being rewritten. Back then, to qualify for posthumous sainthood, you had to wait. First came the coups, then the commissions, followed by a painfully long pause while academics debated your legacy over stale coffee. If you were lucky and had the right moustache, you got a statue. If not, maybe a dusty street sign in your village. But that was before the internet.