In the beginning, there was confusion. Then came policy. And from policy emerged two sacred pillars of national survival; Indomie and Rice.

Thus was born the Republic of Edible Promises.


Every election season in Nigeria begins not with manifestos, but with menu planning. The politicians do not ask, “What do the people need?” They ask, “How many cartons?”

And the people, wise in the arithmetic of survival, respond accordingly.

“Is it one carton per vote,” they ask, “or are we negotiating wholesale democracy this year?”


Indomie, the fast-food deity of urgency, is for the youth. It cooks in two minutes, just like campaign promises. No need for long-term thinking. No need for infrastructure. Just boil water, if there is electricity. If not, improvise. The nation has always been excellent at improvisation.

Rice, on the other hand, is for the elders. It carries prestige, is ceremonial and whispers stability while quietly inflating in price. A bag of rice is not just food, it is a policy document in woven nylon.

Together, they form the twin engines of electoral logistics.


In this system, governance is seasonal. Roads may collapse, hospitals may fade into memory, and education may become a rumour, but Indomie and Rice will arrive, right on schedule, escorted by sirens and moral speeches.

The politician stands before the people and declares: “My brothers and sisters, I have come to empower you.”

Behind him, aides unload cartons.

Empowerment, in this context, is measured in seasoning sachets.


And the people, practical as ever, understand the arrangement. They know that after the election, the politician will disappear into the fortified temples of Abuja, where rice is no longer distributed, it is consumed.

So they collect their share. They smile. They vote.

Not because they believe.

But because, in a land where tomorrow is perpetually under construction, today must be eaten.


Years pass.

The children grow up on Indomie manifestos and rice-based ideologies. They inherit a nation where budgets are abstract, but food distribution is precise. Where GDP is debated, but noodles are delivered.

And when their time comes, they too will gather at the polling units, asking the only question that has ever truly mattered:

“Hope is good, but what are we eating today?”


Thus continues the cycle.

A country where destiny is not written in constitutions or carved into institutions, but packed neatly in cartons and sealed in 5kg bags.

A republic nourished, sustained, and ultimately defined by its most reliable policy instruments:; Indomie and Rice.

“In a country where counting requires a tribunal, arithmetic has long surrendered to politics; and numbers, like truth, must first pass through negotiation before they are allowed to exist.” — Ukatta Oganvo (1871–1974)


The Republic of Perpetual Counting.

In most countries, a census is a quiet affair. Enumerators knock on doors, people grumble mildly, numbers are tallied, and life goes on. But in Nigeria, counting is not merely arithmetic, it is a full-contact sport, complete with referees, appeals courts, and, of course, a Census Tribunal.

Yes, a Census Tribunal.

Because in Nigeria, when you count people, the people count back.

The exercise begins innocently enough. Government announces a census. Citizens are urged to “be counted.” Religious leaders pray over the figures in advance. Politicians clear their schedules. Entire regions brace themselves, not for accuracy, but for negotiation.

Enumerators are dispatched with clipboards and hope. But hope, like fuel subsidy, quickly evaporates.

In one village, the population mysteriously doubles overnight. In another, entire communities develop a sudden aversion to being seen, as if invisibility might attract federal allocation elsewhere. Babies are born in bulk. Ancestors briefly return. Even the goats begin to look suspiciously like potential voters.

By the time the numbers return to Abuja, they are less statistics and more political statements.

And then, inevitably, the outrage.

“How can they say we are 3 million? We are at least 7 million, excluding those in diaspora and those spiritually present!”

“This is marginalisation by spreadsheet!”

“Our people have been undercounted since 1914!”

The census, which began as a headcount, has now become a head-on collision.

Enter the Census Tribunal.

A solemn body of learned individuals tasked with resolving the unresolvable; how many Nigerians are Nigerian enough to be counted, and where.

The Tribunal sits like a court of divine arithmetic. Lawyers arrive armed not with evidence, but with emotion, historical grievances, and occasionally, satellite imagery interpreted through ethnic lenses.

One lawyer argues:
“My Lord, our people were counted during the rainy season. Naturally, many had migrated to higher ground. This is a constitutional injustice.”

Another counters:
“My Lord, their figures include unborn children projected over the next ten years. This is premeditated inflation.”

Expert witnesses are called.

A demographer explains population growth rates.

A traditional ruler insists that his people “multiply by destiny, not by biology.”

A politician submits a list of names so long it includes individuals yet to be conceived, on the grounds of “anticipated loyalty.”

The judges listen patiently, occasionally adjusting their glasses, perhaps wondering when counting became metaphysical.

Outside the courtroom, the nation waits.

Not for truth, truth is a luxury, but for advantage.

Because in Nigeria, population is not just about people. It is about power. It is about revenue allocation, legislative seats, and the subtle art of being too many to ignore.

Finally, the Tribunal delivers its judgment.

A compromise.

Numbers are adjusted, not necessarily to reflect reality, but to maintain peace. Some states gain millions. Others lose a few imaginary citizens. Everyone leaves dissatisfied, which, in Nigeria, is the closest thing to fairness.

The official figures are announced.

They are accepted in the way one accepts a poorly told joke; with polite silence and quiet disbelief.

Life moves on.

Until the next census.

Until the next counting of bodies, and recounting of grievances.

Until the next reminder that in Nigeria, even numbers have tribes.

And somewhere, in a quiet office, a statistician sighs.

Because in a country where counting requires a tribunal, arithmetic has long surrendered to politics; and numbers, like truth, must first pass through negotiation before they are allowed to exist.

The Salvation Legacy.

They said he began early, twelve years old, already disrupting the local market. While others were apprenticed to carpenters and compliance, he had moved into intangible services; hope distribution, moral restructuring, and the audacious promise of eternal returns. No startup capital, no formal office, just a roaming consultancy with twelve underqualified associates and a business model that refused to scale conventionally, yet somehow did.

For twenty-one years, he operated in what analysts today would call a “hostile regulatory environment.” His messaging was, to say the least, problematic. It threatened incumbents. It destabilised established revenue streams, particularly those tied to ritual, hierarchy, and carefully priced access to the divine. Naturally, stakeholders convened. Concerns were raised. Committees formed. Eventually, one of his own middle managers, his CFO, an insider with full system access, facilitated a hostile audit.

The emperor, representing the ultimate compliance authority, found him in breach of something suitably grave; treason, they called it. A convenient label. Execution followed. Case closed. Market restored.
Or so they thought.

Because what happened next has puzzled economists, theologians, and brand strategists for centuries.

The founder exited, but the enterprise exploded.

No headquarters, yet global presence. No marketing budget, yet unmatched brand recognition. No product revisions, yet unwavering customer loyalty. Two millennia on, his “clients” number in the billions. They gather weekly, some daily, subscribing to his original pitch deck, still remarkably intact despite countless reinterpretations, franchising efforts, and, occasionally, hostile takeovers by those claiming exclusive licensing rights.

Twice a year, operations pause globally. Entire economies slow down to commemorate his market entry and his… unusual exit event. Governments that would never tolerate such disruption in any other sector quietly adjust fiscal calendars around him.

Most fascinating, however, is the affiliate network.

Some of his “representatives” have built empires, cathedrals of capital, leveraging his name with remarkable profitability. Private jets have been acquired. Offshore accounts sanctified. Entire industries have emerged around merchandising salvation. And yet, if one examines the founder’s original operating principles, one suspects he would struggle to pass onboarding in his own organisation today.

Still, the clients remain. Loyal. Devoted. Sometimes confused, often divided, but enduring.

And the founder?

Executed as a traitor. Revered as a Saviour.

A man who lost his life… and accidentally cornered the largest market share in human history.

Emilokan, or The Republic of Personal Turn

In a land that proudly called itself a republic, where power, at least in textbooks and Independence Day speeches, belonged to the people, there emerged a doctrine so profound, so revolutionary, that it rendered constitutions ornamental and elections ceremonial.

It was called Emilokan, “It is my turn.”

Not “our turn.” Not “the people’s will.” Not even the modest “let the best candidate win.” No, this was a doctrine of rotational destiny, a divine timetable in which governance was less about competence and more about queue management. History, it seemed, was no longer written by the people, but scheduled like a barber’s appointment.

Election day came. The people, with all the enthusiasm of citizens still clinging to the fiction of choice, filed out to vote. Ballots were cast. Hopes were invested. Inked thumbs were raised like tiny flags of sovereignty.

Then came the announcement.

The umpire, robed in the sanctity of neutrality, stepped forward. In the stillness of national anticipation, he cleared his throat and, like a courteous burglar, gently rearranged reality.

“The people have spoken,” he said.

A pause.
“And they said… Yes.”
“But we said No,” murmured the bewildered crowd.

“Yes,” replied the umpire, smiling with administrative confidence. “But you see, your ‘No’ was not aligned with the pre-approved ‘Yes.’ And in a well-functioning democracy, alignment is everything.”

And just like that, the will of the people was corrected for accuracy.

In the days that followed, analysts flooded the airwaves to explain the deeper meaning of the event. Some spoke of “technical glitches,” others of “mathematical miracles,” and a few brave souls whispered of “institutional romance”, that curious relationship where the referee falls hopelessly in love with one of the players.

Meanwhile, the doctrine of Emilokan stood tall, unbothered by dissent. After all, what is democracy if not the orderly confirmation of whose turn it already was?

And so the republic endured, resilient, adaptable, and deeply imaginative.

For in this land, elections were not about choosing leaders. They were about discovering who had already chosen themselves.