Tom, Tam and Jerry

YEARS back, my children practically initiated me into the Tom and Jerry, global cult following. Regardless of fortune being shelled out to the Uranophobic Multichoice monthly, the kiddies’ stuff almost became a family staple until I found a way round dumping, the forced consumption of the usual wacky relational between the mischief-prone, but smart and sensible rat, and the belligerent, little sense-all brawn, cat. Now, everyone is over Tom and Jerry. Our recent attachment is UFC, the bloody art, and our adopted hero is Isreal Adesanya, the brand new middleweight champion of the world. The StyleBender of the Broken Tribes himself, a young Nigerian with a heart of lion, devouring two champs; Kelvin Gastellum and Robert Whittaker within months, and his family, particularly internet-sensation Dad and Mom, stole our hearts, with their proudly Naija ways. Adesanya fights out of New Zealand, his base from his mixed martial days, but he has refused to let the awe and allure of a better and developed society, swallow up his Nigerianess. As the X-Gen will say, his parents slay, the Nigerian way, particularly during the last Sunday dethronement of Whittaker at his Melbourne backyard. Dad was resplendent in his ‘to-match’ Yoruba outfit, pumping his now-famous victory fist. Instead of the usual Western obscenities of celebrating such an occasion, Mum was captured on her knees, furiously praising God. Do emulative come better?

The 30-year-old, undefeated, undisputed Champ brought tears to eyes when he dobale (prostrated) before the watching world, to present the linear title, snatched from the cocky (Adesanya himself is mouthy, witty and demonstrates chilling confidence) Kelvin, to his parents, as well as the main title, prised from Robert. He further “killed” it, speaking Yoruba on live TV on call to his cousin. Can Nigeria have a better plenipotentiary at the moment when our global image shares verisimilitude with our national and police flags in an average back-water police station; dirty, scraggy, bedraggled and a tragedy to sight and sense? Can the Yoruba nation have a better cultural icon at the moment when the race is racing against being completely razed and erased by both internal and external forces? Has Sunday Dare, the Youth and Sports minister, made any efforts to reach Adesanya, just to congratulate him? Is it because the accolades aren’t coming from football or other sports of estacodes? Has Iba Gani Adams reached out to the new self-inspired face of the Yoruba cultural revival, he has been preaching since his Oodua Peoples Congress (OPC) days? Would any so-called Yoruba Day anywhere right now around the world, have the same devastating effect of a photo-ops, featuring Aare Ona Kakanfo and Adesanya alongside his proudly-Yoruba parents, in far-away New Zealand and beamed to the entire world? What about the Iba being present at Adesanya’s next fight, maybe alongside the youthful Ooni of Ife, using his international star-power, to promote the revival agenda? I won’t blame the Iba himself, if he hadn’t twitched a muscle on this yawning, begging opportunity. He has a supposed Iba-In-Council. It shouldn’t be about the beads and decorated caps alone. The elegance of the fragmented sub-offices (if any) should be beyond waiting on the Iba’s ribaldry, to fill the stratosphere with meaningless memes. It should be about responsibilities, pure and simple.

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I, however, have a problem with the Nigerian government, either through Abike Dabiri’s Diaspora inanities, Sunday Dare’s corruption-riddled ministry or even Femi Adesina or Garba Shehu’s statement, identifying with Adesanya’s success. There is this belief that gold rusts, once Naija government gets involved. Ask AJ. With the benefit of hindsight, that Dabiri’s team shouldn’t have been at the New York ringside. But my Father in heaven has a purpose for everything. Anthony Joshua, will rise again, by His grace.

Sport is pointedly illustrative of the national question on patriotism, for which long-drawn emotive arguments have been made for and against. Considering there has always been little to inspire in our public life management, sportsmen and women, who stay with us, or leave, depict the painful choices we all have to make at one point or the other, in answering the patriotism question. When home-grown stars desert the nation, many are wont to promote the o jepo, jeyo wa (Nigeria groomed him/her) argument and gripe endlessly. However, with the end-time leaders of now, many deserters can conveniently counter, “who naija help” and would be justified absolutely, because when you dispassionately listen to the stories of those who hang on to the disoriented Green/White/Green, you will realise that it is a case of what Yoruba will describe as just throwing away whatever is given; talent et al, but I must add, that is when the disposition of those running our public life, is mainly factored.

For sure, the average Nigerian worships his heroes, though the home-prophets may not be getting due adulation. But when you are Tokunbo, either oyinbo pepper or nigga, all you need is the right talent to deliver and seen as friendly, to have a reserved shrine. Your daily libation becomes double if you are in games, with religious support, back home.

Yes, nation Nigeria doesn’t deserve Chelsea duo of Nigeria descent; Fikayo Tomori (Tom) and Tamilore “Tammy” Abraham. We didn’t make them, so why the arched mouths at the palm tree foot? Our administrators could even mess them up if they chose us over England. But something tells me their decision to dump naija, where real heroes’ figures are in deficit, is not far-sighted. Yes, they, especially Tam, could become England legends, but will they live long in the hearts of the Brexit nation? Yes, our worst, unfortunately, have remained for too long, the emblem of our country, but you may not have a more appreciative people elsewhere. Even Efe Sodje, arguably the worst Tokunbo to choose us, still retains some reverence here. That is who we are, as a people.