Frankly, My Dear, He Doesn’t Give a Darm by Lawson Akhigbe

Ah, the latest episode in the long-running Nigerian political soap opera: As the Croissant Crumbles.

President Bola Ahmed Tinubu, currently prolonging his “working vacation” in the more civilised corners of Europe (London first, then Paris, where one trusts the baguettes are fresher and the power supply more reliable), has managed the Herculean feat of missing his wife’s 66th birthday. A heartfelt message was dispatched, of course, full of the usual poetic flourishes about roads chosen and hearts remaining at home, while the man himself remains firmly at home… in France. For a little while longer. Weekend return, they now say, after the original three weeks stretched like Nigerian patience at a petrol queue.

And the nation’s response? Precisely the one I so elegantly captured: quite frankly, my dear, I don’t give a darm.

Because while the First Couple’s domestic calendar adjustments make for excellent social media filler, the rest of us are still busy calculating how many more kilometres of “Renewed Hope” we can walk on empty stomachs, flickering lights, and the occasional rumour of governance. The President can celebrate his “truest friend and confidante” from the banks of the Seine; Nigerians, meanwhile, continue their long-distance relationship with basic electricity, security, and a naira that behaves like it too has taken extended leave.

One almost admires the efficiency. Why rush back for cake when the country has so thoughtfully learned to run itself on autopilot, WhatsApp directives, and the occasional independent panel to investigate the latest tragedy? Birthday or no birthday, the show must go on, preferably from a comfortable European postcode where the Wi-Fi is strong and the scrutiny is weak.

So yes. Miss the birthday. Extend the sojourn. Send the poetry. The rest of us have already filed the entire episode under “matters arising that do not, in fact, arise.” Frankly, my dears, the only thing more predictable than the extension is how little any of it changes the price of garri.

Carry on, Monsieur le Président. The baguettes await. Nigeria, as usual, will keep the home fires… well, flickering.