The Wickedest Man in Nigeria By Jason Abaga

          

Since I was a little lad pulling little girls’ braids in Sunday School and making them cry, I’ve always wanted one thing, and one thing only: to be the wickedest man in Nigeria.

Other children wanted to be doctors and pilots and teachers. Not I. I wanted to burn things down and deface posters. I wanted people to curse and revile me as I passed by. I wanted them to spit at the mention of my name.

It has always been my purpose to be wicked, as I’ve said. So as soon as I was done with school and finished my NYSC, I set about looking for the most nefarious things and person to be. This was not easy, I assure you. All around me, the competition was stiff. There were more wicked people than I had imagined, all living in one country.

I realized that in order to set myself out as truly wicked, truly mind horrifyingly ghastly, I would have to excel above my peers in a manner never before seen.

I immediately set about my plan.

At the bank where I worked, I spread evil rumours behind my colleagues’ backs, pitting one against the other. I played with the accounting figures to insure they never balanced. I insulted the customers and refused to attend to them.

I waited my punishment.

It came in the form of a promotion. I was made the branch manager and asked to teach the other branches in the area my “customer service skills and marketing techniques.”

Dissatisfied, I spurned that job and sought work in the public sector. Here is a place, I felt, where my talents would be more appreciated.

As a civil servant, I made it my duty to do nothing. I would show up for work only on pay day. I misplaced files and ruined careers. I accomplished nothing, and when that became boring, I destroyed the work other people were trying to accomplish. I would laugh each evening to myself over a job well done, or not well done, as the case might be.

Two years into my prodigal adventure, I heard the Director wanted to see me.

I strolled into his office head held high, awaiting him to curse and revile me. Instead he got to his feet, and shook my hand: “How would you,” he asked, “like to be department head?”

Disappointed, but not defeated, I accepted and quickly rose up the ranks.
I outdid myself. I fabricate documents. I stole from the poor and gave to the rich, and then stole from the rich till they were poor.

I moved the pensions of about 60,000 citizens into my foreign accounts. I defrauded and cheated. I bribed policemen left, right and center. I was rude to old women and did not pay my taxes. I did all these so that my name would be reviled.

It must have worked, because one day, I got a message: “The commissioner of police is here to see you.”

I rubbed my hands with glee in anticipation of the headlines. I could see it- my name plastered everywhere: Evil Genius Caught By Police, the Headlines would read. Or Raving Madman Is Worst Man In The World.
When he stepped into my office, I stood up.

“Make it quick,” I asked, putting my hands in front of me to be cuffed.

“Good sir”, he said, “The people of this state have asked me to ask you to run for Senate.”

I fell to my seat stunned.

Any other diabolical mind would have despaired and giving up. Not me. I stayed firm in my efforts. I was rude in the Senate. I caused fights whenever possible. I threatened opposing senators and then sent thugs to ruffle them up.
I bribed and racketeered like no man had racketeered before. I wasted taxpayers money on lavish lifestyle.

I philandered amongst the women.

But despite my efforts, all I got was recommendation after recommendation. Appointment after appointments.

Driven to the last desperate edge, I tried my hand at one last gamble.
I loaded my car with explosives, drove to the City Center and took out that entire section of the town.

They came for me as I expected.
But by goodness, the results are worse than I feared!
They are calling my act one of heroism.
They’re applauding my “careful reconstruction and developmental efforts in the city.”

They want me to run for President.

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