Everythingarm, charisma, and gutsy; everything spells terrific.
She has become the nightmare of the Grand Alliance of Bitter Enemies, aka GABE. The Gabeans sat in their dimly lit war room this very late evening, staring at the news headlines with the kind of horror usually reserved for ghost stories.
“Natasha Returns in Triumph! Masses Defy Curfew in Her Honour! Helicopter Landing Sparks Frenzy!”
Senator Oloshi, a veteran of political treachery and chief architect of Natasha’s misfortunes, threw his cap at the screen. “How!? How does she keep winning!?” How does she always beat our trap!?”
Their plot had been foolproof; block the roads, impose a curfew, strip her of her seat, and even fund a recall campaign, featuring paid wailers, pretending to be betrayed constituents. And yet, Natasha had floated above their schemes like an eagle over a chicken coop.
“We had her SUSPENDED! Her seat was gone! They held the vote, and I made sure the bribery money was well-distributed!” wailed Lady Halima, the self-proclaimed Queen of Political Chess Moves. However, compared to Natasha, it’s now proven she’s a confirmed rookie; Natasha is the grand master of the game.
“Yes, but you forgot one thing,” groaned Malam Lagbaja. slumping into his chair. “She’s too fine.”
A stunned silence followed.
“She’s what?” asked Yakubu Kilode, their designated outrage machine.
“Too fine! Too charismatic! Too damn beloved!” Lagbaja ranted, slapping the table. “We all look like damp potatoes next to her! How do you fight a woman who turns even government-enforced suffering into a runway moment?”
A deep, collective sigh of exasperation filled the room. They had tried everything; smearing Natasha’s name, digging up ancient tweets, fabricating scandals about her secretly being a robot created in a foreign lab, yet the people only loved her more. It was infuriating.
“And then the helicopter…” Oloshi’s voice cracked, his soul visibly breaking.
Yes, the helicopter; who could have imagined that ingenuity! The crown jewel in Natasha’s latest act of unintentional humiliation against them. When they blocked the roads to keep her from returning home, expecting her to wither away in exile, she simply descended from the sky. Wow!
They could not put egunje-loving security operatives on the air. So, Natasha flew above their heads and landed to the rapturous reception of long-starved constituents for whom she had become a fresh, cool breeze on an old sore.
It was like a scene from a Nollywood blockbuster. The dust rose, the wind blew dramatically, and there she was, smiling, radiant, waving like a victorious general returning from battle.
Meanwhile, the people? Oh, the people defied the curfew.
They surged into the streets, some barefoot, some still in pajamas, grandmothers carrying their grandchildren on their slipper breasts, and men in sokoto rushed to witness the miracle. It was a festival, a coronation, a middle finger to the entire establishment. Even the city officials sent to disperse the crowd ended up taking selfies with her instead.
The entire stretch of the land was flooded, not with rain, but with a sea of people, chanting, dancing, and waving banners that read: “Our Queen Has Returned!” “Natasha: The Lioness of Kogi!” “The Lioness who devoured the lion and his cubs”. It was less of a political rally and more of a rockstar’s world tour, except the star wasn’t just fighting for encores but for democracy itself.
“Our plan was airtight,” Lady Halima muttered, rubbing her temples. “Airtight! How did it fail?”
“She breathed on it,” Olodo replied, defeated.
Lagbaja, who had sworn never to acknowledge defeat, banged his fists on the table. “We need a new strategy! We must ruin her!”
“Oh, give it a rest,” Oloshi snapped, irritated. “What are we going to do, accuse her of healing the sick and turning water into wine?!”
The meeting ended in frustrated silence, punctuated only by the distant sounds of Natasha’s supporters still celebrating outside.
As the politicians slunk back into their shadows, a new, terrible realisation dawned on them: They weren’t fighting a politician. They were fighting a phenomenon; a movement. And they were losing.
Then Alhaji Tuwo cleared his throat. There was pin-drop silence. Whenever Tuwo cleared his throat like that; you would be sure of a wise counsel.
“Let the innocent woman be,” he said calmly like a Gamaliel to the Pharisees.
“What!” everyone chorused in shock.
“You heard me,” he said again, more calmly, as he threw gworo into his mouth and crunched it with his dark brown-stained teeth. “Don’t you people reason? We are fueling her upsurge. The more we fight her, the more we keep losing and the more she soars. The people are with her. Because she has touched their lives more than any of us has done. The gods are also fighting on her side; moreover, she is truly innocent.
“I will not sacrifice my political future to continue fighting the cause of any lust-crazed man. I will also no longer support a government that cannot give the people what they need. That is the secret of the pretty woman.”
He stood up and adjusted his agbada.
“What do you mean?” Ode asked, regaining his composure.
“I am going home to my wife, and to restrategise on how to serve my people and win their trust like Natasha. If you have any sense, join me; leave this woman alone before the gods of the land bend your necks,” Tuwo replied.
He sauntered out of the room, all eyes on him, bewildered.
As Tuwo stepped out, the great spectacle outside continued in frenzy.
Natasha climbed the stage, her clenched fist lifted in victory. She looked at the crowd, a mixture of old and young, men and women, the hopeful and the determined. And then, in her signature style, she took the microphone and smiled, then she laughed in triumph. Waoh, her teeth dazzled, flashing hope on a forlorn people.
“They tried to stop me.”
“They tried to recall me.”
“They even tried to erase me.”
“But my people have spoken. And in a democracy, the people’s voice is FINAL!”
Her voice was so measured and melodious like a singing nightingale.
The crowd erupted. Drums rolled. Fireworks lit the sky.
Somewhere in the distant rock city, a faint sob was heard; possibly from a grieving anonymous Senator, watching in despair, realising that, try as they might, the people’s love for Natasha was unwavering.
He was probably weeping for the billions of stolen money wasted in their futile bid, not just to block her homecoming but also to recall the Amazon of the Tenth Senate.
Alas, dis Naija sef! The criminal forgers who should have been in jail are yet setting up another scam, vowing to recall the recall process. This is Nigeria… where you can fabricate anything, snatch anything, run with anything; and nobody would ask you anything.
However, the Lioness of Kogi Politics; the Amazon of the Tenth Senate is a paradox. Her beauty brings out the ugliness in a powerful man. The fierceness of men is easily frozen in the cool sparkles of her well-set dentures. Whoever is afraid of Natasha has every cause to be.
In the enchanted murky politics of Nigeria, which was reserved for the crooked few with traditional claims to power, a new kind of magician has emerged. And unlike the usual practitioners of political sorcery, who relied on intimidation, manipulation, empty promises, and the occasional bag of rice, Natasha wielded something truly terrifying: Competence.
The mere sight of her standing tall in her hometown sent shockwaves through the corridors of power. Some political godfathers and twisters clutched their agbadas in horror, while others hastily booked appointments with their village oracles for consultations.
But Natasha was not done bewildering them.
Oh no. The Senate. That sacred theatre where naps are taken more seriously than legislative duties had expected her to fizzle out under the weight of treachery and baseless accusations. Instead, she flourished. Every attempt to humble her only made her rise higher, and even her critics had begun wondering if an ancient prophecy secretly powered her.
The remedy? Let the innocent lady be; she is the nemesis and obituary of so many great men. Lugard House awaits her if she desires. That is why they are mortally afraid of her.
However, the truth is, no man can say a thing and it comes to pass when the Lord has not commanded it.